Reaper: Dirty Sinners: A Mafia MC Romance

Ugh. Stupid question. It doesn’t matter! This man means to make me pay for the embarrassment I put him through in front of his buddies. And like hell I’m going to just let it happen.

An odd combination of adrenaline and pissed-off woman has me reaching for book after book and launching into the dead-beats face. Lips peel back and if a man could look like a beast this one seems more rabid by the second.

He stalks closer and the gap between us shrinks all too fast.

Shit.

“What the hell do you want? Reaper finds you here and he’ll kill you. The pepper spray will feel like water compared to what he will do.”

“Not before I kill you, bitch!”

I grab the ends of my skirt and launch forward just as he lunges. I am not fast enough. I learn quickly I should have gone for full carpeting instead of only in the back room.

Using my clothes against me, Douche Face jerks back and I land painfully on the hardwood flooring.

“Ugh,” I grunt and roll.

From my position on the floor, I grab a particularly thick epic fantasy from the bottom shelf and chuck it with all the know-how left over from my short-lived stint as a pitcher for my grade school team.

Thunk.

Ouch.

I form a new love for fantasy and grab for another, this time aiming low. Each five-hundred-page tome lands with a solid thunk. In return, I get a grunt, but the bastard is not slowing down.

“I have my back ways into this piece-of-shit town. I was up all night waitin’ for the right time. Those slutty Sinner bitches’re gone and now you’re all mine.”

Warm air from the vents sweeps across my bare skin when he shoves my skirt over my legs.

Kicking and screaming, I land the heavy tread of my boot in his nutsack. By luck more than skill.

“Ooff,” he grunts, falling forward clutching his family jewels. Maybe if I’m lucky he’ll never reproduce.

I scramble to my knees and swing my best batting game. I’m not much of a sports person anymore but for once I’m grateful for paying attention to my coach’s instructions.

Dick Face bounces off the wall—with what I guess is a new round of adrenaline jacking his veins—and lurches for me.

I’m not fast enough. I’m on the floor with his body on top of mine. Flat lips peel back to show cigarette-stained teeth to match the stench rolling off him.

This is it. He’s going to rape me and murder me. In the middle of my dream bookstore.

Suddenly his heavy body is off mine and I can breathe again.

It all happens in slow motion. Shelves fall, glass breaks and I scramble to my knees and then my feet just in time to see Reaper throw Dick Face over my prized Edgar Allen Poe collection. My front window doesn’t stand a chance.

Glass shatters flying everywhere and the fog of the late afternoon pours into the Dead Tree Asylum running my pretty gothic display.

Blood drips from the jagged edges of my front window but Dick Face must not be cut too bad because I’ve never seen a man pound pavement so freakishly fast.

I come up behind Reaper and he whirls on me, picks me up like a doll, and crushes my smaller frame to his chest. Warm, strong, and safe. Those three sensations hit me all at once and I want to freeze time. With me in his arms, the night air around us, and his heartbeat in my ear.

“Did he hurt you? Fucking asshole. Did he hurt you? Answer me, Belle, baby.”

So much for wishful thinking. I sigh heavily and let reality take over.

He sits me down and starts checking me for I don’t know what? Broken bones? Bruises? Smeared lipstick?

When his hands stop long enough for me to focus on words and not how all those rough calluses feel on my cool skin I say, “He just ruined my mascara, that’s all. But my store.”

He looks around, shaking his head. “Who cares about the store? All I care about is you. Your fingers are trembling.”

“I care!” Books litter the floor, their spines cracked for some. My heart constricts. I’ve always seen the escape I get from reading as an extension of myself. Seeing the ruined books scattered around makes me want to cry. And then stab someone.

I turn to the front. And the front window is pretty much non-existent.

But I’m not. It could always be worse, right?

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” I say firmly. I don’t know if I am reassuring him or myself but I feel marginally better getting them out of me like an affirmation.

He links our fingers and pulls me into his arms. Strong hands rub everywhere and you know what? I don’t mind the moment of pause so I can catch my breath.

But then I pull away. I can’t have Reaper fighting all my fights. “I think the boot and book beating he took will keep him away for a while. I should have had my camera turned on. I would have seen him coming if I had.”

He looks at me a little wide-eyed like he never thought I could take care of myself.

“You shouldn’t have to fight. That is what I am for.”

As unladylike as it is, I snort. “I grew up around assholes my whole life. He was just one of many.”

I physically see Reaper’s shoulders stiffen and the scowl he’s worn for the last fifteen minutes deepens until he looks like he’s ready to drop bodies. “I’ll want to know more about that at some point.”

Rehashing my past? No thanks. Instead I say, “Sure. Over coffee and pie sometime.” I’m feeling a little smart-mouthed looking around at seeing my asylum tattered and violated. Screw trying to find calm and silver linings.

I head behind the front counter and pull out a phone book, the burn of his hard glare pinned between my shoulder blades.

“What are you doing?”

My brows pull down in confusion considering he is half the reason this place is trashed. “Calling a window repair man. If they are still open.” I gesture toward the front window and the dark skies. “That rain will ruin everything not already either soaking wet or laying in ruin on my floor.”

“No need.” Reaper pulls his phone out and presses it to his ear. “Get the enforcers to the Dead Tree Asylum and bring some boards for the front window. Arabelle is in trouble.”

He hangs up, turns to me, and gruffly demands, “You’re coming with me.”