Page 8 of The Dead Don’t Scream
“Very subtle.”
Corn rustles behind me. I take the dark path. The fog thickens until I can barely see my feet. The music from the entrance fades, replaced by the whisper of dead leaves and my own unsteady breathing. A twig snaps. I spin. Nothing.
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
Silence answers. I continue backward, watching the empty path. My back strikes something solid. Not a wall. A body. A gloved hand covers my mouth before I can scream. A powerful arm circles my waist and pulls me against a hard chest. Leather, cedar, and cold night surround me. The Reaper’s skull appears beside my face.
“Caught you.”
His voice is low and controlled. I twist within his hold. His arm tightens just enough to remind me that I won’t escape unless he permits it. Every sensible thought inside my head disappears. I bite his glove. The Reaper becomes completely still.
“Well,” he murmurs. “Little Rabbit.”
He removes his hand from my mouth. I draw in a sharp breath.
“You were expecting someone else?”
“I was expecting you to run.”
“I did.”
“You lasted eighty-three seconds.”
“You counted?”
“I enjoyed every one.”
His masked face turns toward the ribbons around my wrist.
“Color, Sloane?”
The use of my name cuts cleanly through the fantasy. This isn’t an anonymous stranger taking something I haven’t offered. This is Rhys confirming that I still want everything I requested.
“Green.”
“Safe word?”
“Graveyard.”
“Nonverbal signal?”
“One tap to check in. Two to continue. Three to stop.”
“Good girl.”
Two words. That’s all it takes to send heat rushing between my thighs. Rhys feels the shiver that moves through me.
“You like that.”
“No.”
His fingers spread over my stomach.
“Don’t lie to a man wearing a skull. It’s disrespectful.”
I fight a smile.
“I thought the Reaper would be scarier.”
