Reaper

by K. L. Savage

  COPYRIGHT© 2020 REAPER BY KL SAVAGE

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. REAPER is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  ISBN: 978-1-952500-00-8

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL: 2020906026

  PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY

  COVER MODEL:SONNY HENTY

  COVER DESIGN: KARI MARCH DESIGNS

  Editing and Formatting by MASQUE OF THE RED PEN

  FIRST EDITION PRINT 2020

  Created with Vellum

  To Wander and Andrey

  Wander, I have so much to say, but the words aren't enough. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and my cover speaks volumes.

  Andrey, your friendship and words of encouragement mean the world to me. You always go the extra mile for me, and it is something that never goes unnoticed. I swear you have superpowers.

  Thank you both.

  Contents

  1. Sarah

  2. Reaper

  3. Sarah

  4. Reaper

  5. Sarah

  6. Reaper

  7. Sarah

  8. Reaper

  9. Sarah

  10. Reaper

  11. Sarah

  12. Reaper

  13. Reaper

  14. Sarah

  15. Reaper

  16. Sarah

  17. Reaper

  18. Sarah

  19. Reaper

  20. Sarah

  21. Reaper

  22. Sarah

  23. Reaper

  24. Reaper

  25. Sarah

  Epilogue

  Want the latest updates from K.L. Savage?

  Acknowledgments

  Meet K.L. Savage

  Also by K.L. Savage

  1

  Sarah

  Six months after being rescued

  Nothing is worse than wanting something you can’t have. Mentally, I can. Emotionally? Eh, that’s a dangerous line to tiptoe, but I’m dancing on it. Physically? No way in hell. It really sucks being seventeen and head over heels for the president of the Ruthless Kings. Reaper is everything I ever envisioned a man to be. Reaper, or Jesse, as I like to call him sometimes, which drives him crazy. I love to drive him crazy. The tic he gets in his jaw when he gets frustrated with me gets me all hot and bothered.

  He is intelligent, brave, and kind. My most favorite thing about him? He is strong, and not because he is built with muscles and lean without fat, but strong in his mind, in his heart, in his soul. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and no one even knows.

  I do, though.

  I see it.

  I want to help him carry it all.

  But I can’t. I’m not eighteen yet, and he kicked me out of his room a few nights ago when I tried to make my move.

  It was so embarrassing. Everyone watched me run to my room with tears running down my face, and my brother gave me a firm talking to. No one understands. I see the want in Reaper’s eyes, the hard set of his lips as he looks at me as if he hates that he wants me. It’s as if it hurts him to look at me.

  And that only makes me want him more.

  Every time he hops on his bike and leaves, my heart yearns, and the voice in the back of my head tells me he is going to go have sex with another woman because he can’t have sex with me. The thought of him with someone else makes me want to take one of my brother’s grenades and blow the bitch up.

  I’ve thought about it.

  I’ve thought about following him to see where he goes, whose pussy he is dipping into. I envision shoving him off her, fisting the grenade in her whorish cunt, pulling the clip, and watching the bitch explode.

  Is it violent? Sure, but that’s how he makes me feel. No one else is allowed to have him, and it takes all I have to hold myself back and not tell him point blank who he belongs to, but I don’t. I sit back in the shadows and watch him.

  Because if I do anything else, he calls me a kid in front of everyone.

  I am young, but I’ve seen dark things that no one at any age should see. I might be young in age, but I’m old in spirit. I’m older than my years, and I hate that Reaper doesn’t see it. He only sees the little girl who was beaten to a pulp, laying on the ground in front of his club. I’m wondering if that is all I’ll ever be to him.

  That damn voice in the back of my head told me to move on, to forget about him, to find a man my age.

  Yuck.

  Boys my age are boring and soft. I want nothing to fucking do with them. They know nothing about life. Their main worry is getting to school and losing their virginity. They don’t know the ways of the world. And their boyish looks do nothing for me.

  No one compares to Reaper.

  He towers with his massive height, and the hard edges of his face hypnotize me. His cheekbones, jaw, and nose are chiseled, and his flesh is tinted from the sun, making his eyes a bit paler because of the sunglasses he wears while riding his bike. On top of all that, he has thick hair that I want to tug and run my fingers through while I kiss his full lips.

  His hair almost matches his eyes, and when those brown irises are set on me, my body trembles with excitement and just a pinch of fear. He is menacing.

  And I want to be the woman that he comes home to take all that frustration out on.

  He isn’t violent. I don’t have to worry about that. He is very careful with me, but I know the rage simmering behind those massive hands. And I know he and I can be good together, in and out of the bed, if he would give me the chance. That’s all I want.

  A chance.

  “Hey, Sarah. Hellooo.” My brother snaps his fingers in front of me, ruining my daydream of Reaper. Jenkins always finds a way to interrupt my thought process.

  “What?” I snap and flip over in bed to give him my back. I’m not in the mood for visitors. I actually never am. The only person I ever want to see is Reaper.

  “Come on. It’s time to go to school.”

  “I don’t want to go.” He throws the covers off me, and the cold air hits my legs making me freeze. “Jenkins!”

  “Whatever. Get the fuck up because we are leaving in five minutes. I let you sleep too long.”

  I groan as I get up. I really didn’t plan on going to school today. A lot of the guys are going on a run, and Reaper is here alone with Poodle and Skirt. That means that the run that everyone else went on is dangerous, and they don’t need Poodle and Skirt since they don’t have murderous qualities about them.

  Yet.

  It’s only a matter of time, but I think Poodle will break first because everyone gives him such a hard time about his dog.

  Reaper being alone here means that I have another chance at talking to him and trying to win him over, so when I do turn eighteen, he won’t question being with me; he’ll just do it. We have a large age gap between us. He is in his prime at the ripe age of thirty-eight. Thirty-nine soon.

  That’s what makes him better than all the other boys my age. He has lived, truly lived. Reaper has experienced the ups and downs that life freely gives. I know he a
nd I are meant to be together. We are cut from the same cloth.

  Someone just waited to cut said cloth for a long time before making me.

  I roll out of bed and smirk when an idea forms. I throw my hair up in a messy bun and rummage through my drawers. Drawers. A dresser. Something I’ve never had before, and Reaper filled it to the max. He took me shopping and bought me anything I wanted.

  And I am going to wear what he bought me. He is oblivious to what he got me all those months ago because everything was in a pile at checkout. I giggle when I pull out the black sheer off-the-shoulder shirt. Then I grab my black tank top and a pair of skinny jeans. That’s when I notice my brother in the corner with his arms crossed, eyes shut, waiting for me.

  “Can you go? I’m about to change.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Jenkins!” I shout, and he nearly falls over, opening his eyes as he balances on one leg.

  “What? What’s wrong?” He scrubs his face.

  “Did you fall asleep standing up?”

  “No. I was resting my eyes. I’ll be in the kitchen waiting for you.”

  Ah, the response a grandpa gives. Nice.

  He shuts the door behind him, and I make quick work of my outfit. I throw my sleep shorts in the hamper along with my Ruthless Kings shirt. It’s Reaper’s. I wear it nearly every night. It makes me feel close to him.

  I give myself one look over in the mirror and grin. A spray of perfume, deodorant, a few swipes of mascara, and then the final touch—cherry lip gloss. I know this will drive him mad because anytime I wear something that shows skin, Reaper gets this mad twinkle in his eye, and it really riles me up.

  I grab my backpack off the floor and swing it over my shoulder and then take my helmet in hand. Ever since Jenkins got our father’s bike when he turned eighteen, he drives it everywhere, even school and that means I ride on the back. Reaper wouldn’t let me ride until I had a helmet, though, and of course it’s bright neon purple. It clashes with the bike, and Jenkins can’t stand it.

  Reaper got me the helmet, so that means he has to care, right?

  With a deep breath and butterflies in my stomach, I open the door and head out. Reaper is right there at the kitchen table, a plain white mug in his monstrous palm. It makes the fragile cup look so small, and then I imagine his hands roaming down my body, making me feel just as fragile and small, and goose bumps travel to a place that Reaper refuses to go.

  His onyx eyes harden when he looks at me while he sips his coffee. “You aren’t wearing that. Go change.”

  “Why? It complies with school regulations. Plus, we will be late if we don’t leave now,” I say with a shrug of my bare shoulder. His eyes drop to it for a split second, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips before he hides them with the coffee mug again, schooling his face.

  Am I imagining things?

  “Don’t care. Go change.” His eyes never leave the inside of his cup.

  “No,” I say.

  A sharp inhale of breath from my right makes me look at Jenkins, and he is shaking his head, hiding a grin under his hand.

  “Sarah, get your ass back in your room and fucking change, right now!” Reaper’s voice slowly starts to rise, and my body reacts to him in a way that I can’t help. My young nipples bead with the authority in his voice.

  I grab an apple from the middle of the table and throw it in the air, catching it so it doesn’t land on the floor. “Hmm, let me think about it.” I take a bite of the apple, and a bit of the juice dribbles down my lip. I wipe it off and suck my finger into my mouth, and Reaper's eyes never leave my lips.

  At least, I think that is where his eyes are.

  “No. I like this outfit. Ready, Jenkins?” I ask in a happy, chirpy voice. Poodle leans against the doorway and gives me a thumbs-up, telling me to stick to my guns.

  “I swear to god I’ll fucking burn that outfit when you aren’t looking if you don’t change,” Reaper threatens.

  “Then light it up, Jesse, because I’m going to fucking rock this outfit today. And if you burn it, I’ll buy another.” I lean down and give him a kiss on the cheek. Lowering my voice so no one can hear, I swallow my bits of apple and whisper into his hear, “I look forward to it, Daddy.”

  A low growl rumbles his strong chest, and his fingers dig into his thighs until they’re white from the pressure.

  Mission accomplished.

  I straighten and smile at Jenkins. “Ready, bro?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, kid. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  I make sure to sway my hips a bit as I leave, hoping Reaper’s eyes are on me. Reaper doesn’t have a conscience, until it comes to me. My father was his best friend, his club brother. He’s sworn an oath not to touch me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give him a show.

  He better get ready because on the night of my eighteenth birthday?

  The show is over.

  2

  Reaper

  It’s prom season.

  I hate prom.

  Everything about it. I didn’t even go to my prom. I mean, I fucked my date for prom, but then I dropped her off at the school and rode off into the sunset by myself and came back to the club because no fucking way was I dancing in a damn stuffy suit and drinking punch that had no alcohol in it.

  The reason why I hate it now has changed.

  Sarah fucking Richards. The little maniac that came into my life like a damn tornado, completely messing up everything I thought I knew I wanted. She was trouble. A hot, off-limits, seventeen-years-old pile of damn trouble.

  And she tempts me with it.

  Like right now.

  Prom is in three months, and she just has to go shopping for it. Her words. And, of course, none of her little girly friends can go. I’m not stupid. A woman like Sarah doesn’t have chicks for friends. She has dudes. Sarah is rough around the edges, blunt, and when she wants something, she trudges headfirst and takes it.

  Snatches it.

  I have been in the snarls of her hands and let me say, Sarah has a firm grip. The relationship between us is strange at best. Her efforts of getting in my pants, yes, my pants, has failed.

  For one reason only.

  She’s seventeen for another four months, and I swear I’m about to go out of my mind. I haven’t even touched my cock since she came to live with us because anytime I do, my mind wanders to her, and I can’t jack off to someone underage. I fucking won’t. So I don’t. I ignore my raging erections in the morning and at night, and any time I need them to deflate in a matter of seconds, I hang out with the cut-sluts.

  I don’t want any of them anymore. They don’t drive me crazy and, apparently, I like crazy.

  It’s weird.

  But I won’t lie and say I’m not counting down the days.

  And then I’ll back out because I know that’s the right thing to do. She’s off-limits. Off-limits. Off-fucking-limits for so many reasons.

  I’ve concluded I’m never going to have sex again because she is the only woman in my mind, and it’s a problem.

  “If I’m going, you two fuckers are coming with me.” I point to my VP and Sergeant at Arms and then point to Boomer. “You too, kid. Don’t you dare think you’re getting out of this. If I’m going down, all of you are going down with me.”

  “But I’m busy,” Tool pouts and stomps his foot. It looks ridiculous. He is an overgrown toddler. “I have ten oil changes, a radiator to replace, and a hundred tires to rotate that day.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo. Hand it off to Poodle or Skirt,” I say, tucking my wallet in my back pocket. I look toward Sarah’s bedroom and see the light on under the door. Her feet behind it causes shadows as she moves around, and I want to know what she is doing. What is she planning? Is she excited for prom? Who is her date?

  I growl at the thought of a boy dancing with her at prom. I can dance.

  When she’s eighteen.

  “Poodle barely knows how to put gas in his tank—”

  “I resent that! I figur
ed it out!” he hollered from the main room.

  Tool rolled his eyes. “And Skirt, every time he bends over, I see the red hair on his ass, and it blinds me for like five hours.”

  “Aye, my arse is great to look at! Hair and all. Women love it,” he grumbles as he grabs the apple pie from the fridge and stabs it with a fork, eating it right from the pan.

  Tool lifts his lip in disgust. “Anyway, I don’t want to leave my shop in their hands.”

  “Then I’ll have Slingshot pull the slack,” I say, kicking up my boots and laying them on the table as I lean back in the chair. I bend over and lick my thumb when I see some dirt on the front and rub it off. I may or may not have polished my boots for the trip to the mall, so Sarah isn’t embarrassed to be around a bunch of filthy bikers.

  But mostly because they look nicer. Yeah, that’s the main reason.

  “I’ll do it!” he yells from the bathroom and then groans. “Sorry. I had leftover tacos for breakfast.”

  “Dude, TMI.” Tool cringes, and Skirt continues to eat the pie like a fat kid at camp not bothered by gross things.

  “Shut up, Slingshot.” I raise my voice so he can hear me through the bathroom door. “Tool, Bullseye. You’re coming. End of story.”

  “Fine, but I’m taking my flask.”

  “Me too,” Bullseye finally speaks.

  “I’ll go,” Tongue says out of nowhere.

  “Shit!” Tool jumps.