Claimed by the reaper

Chapter 6

A week passed, then another, the rhythm of clubhouse life slowly and cautiously becoming something like routine rather than a temporary stopover Wren kept insisting, with diminishing conviction, was only until her car got fixed.

Her car had, in fact, been fixed nearly ten days ago. She hadn't mentioned that particular detail to anyone, and nobody, least of all Reaper, had brought it up either.

She spent her mornings photographing the town properly now, no longer simply passing through but genuinely documenting Cedar Hollow with the careful, patient attention she'd once reserved for assignments that actually paid. The old grain silo at the edge of town, the weathered storefronts along Main Street, Sabrina laughing over breakfast at the diner where she worked, unposed and radiant in a way that made for the kind of photograph Wren hadn't taken in years.

"You have a good eye," Reaper observed one afternoon, finding her on the clubhouse porch reviewing the morning's shots, genuine admiration in his voice rather than idle politeness. "These are considerably better than anything I've seen from the photographers the local paper usually hires."

"It's easier when I'm not running from something while I take them," Wren admitted, surprised by her own honesty. "I spent the last three years photographing things I didn't actually care about, mostly. Stock images, corporate headshots, anything that paid enough to keep Marcus from asking too many questions about my finances. I forgot what it felt like, doing this because I wanted to."

Something in his expression shifted, quiet and attentive in the way she was slowly learning meant he was filing away every detail she offered, careful and deliberate.

"What did you want to photograph? Before all of that."

"Honestly? People, mostly. Real moments, not posed ones."

She scrolled to a photograph of Sabrina, unguarded and laughing.

"This, actually. Exactly this kind of thing."

"You're good at it," he said simply, settling beside her on the porch steps, close enough that she was increasingly, uncomfortably aware of exactly how much space he occupied, how completely her attention seemed to reorganize itself around his presence whenever he was nearby. "You should keep doing it. Whatever happens next, with Marcus, with the investigation, I don't think you should let any of it take this away from you again."

Something in the simple, genuine encouragement settled warm and unfamiliar in her chest, old caution slowly and carefully giving way to something she hadn't let herself feel in longer than she could properly remember.

The moment nearly became something else entirely. She felt it building, the charged, careful distance between them narrowing by careful degrees, his attention settling on her mouth just briefly enough that she felt her own breath catch in response, before Tank's voice cut through the porch's quiet tension, urgent enough that Reaper was on his feet immediately, old instinct overriding whatever had been building between them.

"We've got a problem," Tank said, phone in hand, expression tight. "Someone's been asking around town. Diner, gas station, the motel on Route 9. Showing a photograph, asking if anyone's seen a woman matching the description. Dark hair, green eyes, driving a car with out of state plates."

Wren felt ice spread through her chest, old fear returning with sudden, visceral force.

"Marcus."

"We don't know that for certain," Reaper said, though his own expression had gone carefully controlled in the way she now recognized meant genuine, focused alarm. "Could be anyone. A PI he hired, an associate, someone else entirely."

"It's him," Wren said, certainty settling cold and absolute despite Reaper's careful attempt at reassurance. "I know exactly how he operates. He wouldn't come looking himself, not at first. He'd send someone else to confirm I'm actually here before he shows up personally. That's exactly his pattern."

Reaper crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his, grounding her with the same steady, deliberate calm he'd offered that first rain soaked night.

"Wren. Look at me. Whoever's asking questions in town, they haven't found you yet. This clubhouse is not on anyone's list of places to casually stumble into. You're safe here."

"For now," she said, old fear sharpening her voice. "But if it's Marcus, he won't stop until he finds me. That's not paranoia, Reaper. That's three years of learning exactly how relentless he actually is."

"Then we make certain he doesn't find you," Reaper said, voice hardening with quiet, absolute resolve. "Tank, I want eyes on every entrance to this property, starting now. Sabrina, when you're at the diner, watch for anyone matching a description Wren can give us. Nobody talks about her presence here to strangers, not casually, not accidentally."

"You don't have to do all this," Wren said, old guilt surfacing despite her fear. "This isn't your problem, Reaper. You didn't sign up for whatever Marcus decides to bring to your doorstep."

"I signed up for exactly this the moment I told Denise to get you coffee that first night," Reaper said, meeting her eyes with unwavering, absolute certainty. "I told you then, and I'm telling you now, you're mine to protect. That includes whatever comes looking for you, Wren. Marcus included."

That night, once the immediate flurry of security preparations had settled into watchful, careful vigilance, Wren found herself unable to sleep, old fear keeping her awake long after the clubhouse had quieted around her.

A soft knock interrupted her restless thoughts. Reaper, when she opened the door, looked as sleepless as she felt, something raw and unguarded in his expression that she hadn't seen from him before.

"I couldn't sleep either," he admitted, before she could ask. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm frightened," she said honestly, old careful composure finally cracking under the weight of the day's revelations. "I thought I'd finally escaped him. I thought Cedar Hollow was far enough away."

"You did escape him," Reaper said firmly, stepping closer, close enough that she could feel the steady warmth radiating from him despite the late hour. "Whatever he's doing now, sending people to ask questions, that's not the same as finding you. And even if he does eventually track you here, Wren, he'll find an entire club standing between him and you. He has no idea what he's actually walking into."

Something in his steady, absolute certainty finally, fully settled the frantic edge of her fear, old exhaustion catching up with her all at once.

"Stay," she said quietly, surprising herself with the request. "Just stay, for tonight. I don't want to be alone with this."

He studied her for a long moment, something careful and deliberate in his consideration, clearly weighing exactly how much restraint the moment actually required.

"I'll stay," he said finally, voice low. "Nothing has to happen tonight, Wren, except you getting some actual rest. I'm not going anywhere, regardless of what you need that to look like."

She nodded, exhausted gratitude settling warm despite the day's fear, and let him fold himself carefully onto the narrow bed beside her. Nothing more than steady, protective presence, his arm settling loosely around her while she finally, gradually let exhaustion claim her, safer in that single, careful moment than she'd felt in over three years.

Outside, somewhere beyond the clubhouse's careful, watchful perimeter, the danger she'd spent three years running from continued its slow, deliberate search, closer now than either of them fully understood, patient in exactly the way Wren had always known Marcus could be, when something he considered his had slipped, however briefly, beyond his control.