Page 73 of Reaper’s Wrath

I shouldn’t feel the excitement that courses through my veins as I prepare for dinner in the city. That is to say, I shouldn’t feel this way for the reasons I do. It would be perfectly reasonable to be hopeful for a chance of escape. I could understand that. But as I admire my form-fitting red dress in the mirror, the anticipation bubbling under my skin is entirely owed to my curiosity about what Elio might do or say when he sees me.

This is the first time since he took me that I’ve worn makeup or put any effort into my appearance. With a fair complexion, thanks to my mother’s Northern Italian heritage, a little bit of makeup goes a long way. Will he like what he sees? How will it feel to accompany him to dinner?

Now that my mind is at ease about the search-and-rescue team, I feel more able to explore the strange new connection developing between Elio and me. I still worry about my dad. That will never go away, whether I’m apart from him voluntarily or otherwise.

Tonight, I get to enjoy a night out in the city I adore with new friends and a man who makes me feel more alive than I knew was possible. These are not the thoughts of a woman under duress from being kidnapped. Even though I can’t go home, I’m not a captive, either. Not really.

I feel safe with Elio.

Maybe that makes me crazy. Maybe my crazy is a perfect complement to his crazy. He makes up a past we never had, and I willingly adopt the fantasy—two peas in a cracked pod.

It’s enough to make me wonder if there’s a chance for us. Perhaps a sliver of hope that Elio might consider reconciling with his family and staying here in the city. The more I learn about him, the more certain I am that he’s not so different from his brother as he might like to think. What I wouldn’t give to help mend whatever rift tore them apart.

In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy a night out because tomorrow is never guaranteed, and tonight, I feel like a queen. My bright crimson dress is short, with long, flowy gossamer sleeves that cuff my wrists. My hair is parted in the middle and tamed into smooth waves flowing down my back. Matching red heels make my legs look longer than they are. I’ll probably freeze to death, but the look is worth it. I haven’t felt this beautiful in years, if ever.

When I open the double doors, Elio sits in the bedroom in a charcoal suit, scrolling on his phone. His gaze lifts, and his lips part in awe as his hungry stare takes a languorous stroll down my body.

He slowly rises to his feet. “I didn’t think it was possible to see anything more breathtaking than a summer sunset after a storm,” he murmurs almost to himself. “You have proven me wrong.” Finally, his hazel eyes lock with mine. Emotions as varied as his multihued irises compete for dominance, the clash intensifying his stare.

Pleasure warms my cheeks. “I’m happy you think so.” My gaze drops momentarily to my feet. “You look pretty amazing yourself.”

Elio closes the distance between us with a few lazy strides. “Is that right?”

I nod and peer up at him.

“Even with my scar on full display?” His head tilts a fraction in playful challenge.

I’m not sure what comes over me, but for the first time, my fingers lift to trace along the ragged reminder of all he’s survived. The skin is bumpy yet soft. Warm. It’s a part of him the same as his ears or fingers. The same way my scars are a part of me.

“You wouldn’t be you without it, so yes. You’re handsome, especially with your scar on display.”

Elio unleashes a growl as his hands cup my face and pull me in for a ravenous kiss.

His touch sets me atop a pedestal and sings my praises.

Each swipe of his tongue is an ode.

Every shaky breath a prayer.

He makes me feel cherished without even trying.

“We need to go, or we’ll never leave this room,” he rasps against my lips, forehead resting momentarily against mine as he grapples for control.

I say nothing because I think I might be equally happy either way. So long as he’s with me, the world feels right. I don’t know how I’ve formed this attachment so quickly, but I can’t deny it’s there.

An hour later, we join Sofia and her husband, Nico, in the back room of an Italian restaurant. Elio had an enclosed boat retrieve us so that we wouldn’t freeze on the way over, which was incredibly thoughtful. I can feel all ten toes, and my hair is still styled rather than doing its best impression of a bird’s nest.

Elio is at my side at all times, a comforting hand either at my back or touching my hand. He keeps us tethered to one another in a way that supports rather than restricts. And when we take our seats, he pulls out my chair and pours us each a glass of wine from the open bottle on the table before seating himself next to me.

“Yes, help yourselves,” Nico encourages. “In the interest of privacy, I thought it would be best to keep service limited and requested bottles for us to self-serve.”

Privacy … secrecy … whatever you want to label it—that’s also the reason we entered through the back door. The guys aren’t taking security for granted.

I have no idea what the main restaurant looks like, but the back room is decorated with dark wood paneling and the walls above adorned with a variety of framed artwork. Gold light sconces cast a soft glow throughout the room, centered around a single round table set for six.

Someone ensured the room was decorated with floral arrangements spotlighting soft pink roses and lush greenery, pink streamers overhead, and a cluster of pink-and-white balloons in each corner. It’s a birthday celebration fit for a princess.

Judging by the brilliant grin on Evie’s face, she’s utterly delighted. “Thank you so much for making this happen, everyone. And Sof, are you behind the decorations? These flowers are gorgeous!”