by Cecy Robson
“Ryker?” I ask. “Tell me what else the Ankou does.”
Ryker looks over his shoulder, his features a mixture of strength and sadness. “He comforts those in mourning.”
The elevator dings and the doors part. He steps out, pausing if uncertain if I’ll follow. I force myself forward, still stunned and not fast enough.
Ryker’s arm whips out, preventing the doors from ramming me. I step past him and into the foyer, my gaze cemented with his.
“Olivia,” he rasps. “The Ankou also aids with revenge. Trust in me and Cathasach will pay for every life he stole from you.”
That voice carries more potent energy and fury in its rumble than a thousand storms. It’s captivating. There’s no escape from it or him. I should fight. Instead everything about Ryker engulfs me, and I just let it happen.
Ryker isn’t a man.
Or beast.
Or anything so simply defined.
He represents the ultimate end. And he’s exactly who I need.
His ice blue eyes are chains of silver, binding me to him. Or maybe I’m holding him. Neither of us move. Neither of us turn away.
I realize I’m in trouble. A pixie playing with red hot Death.
“Mr. Scott, your limo is waiting.” It’s not enough for Ralph the security guard to yell across the foyer. He waves like a tween at a One Direction reunion, big smile and all.
I wait for him to throw his panties next until I realize how fixated Ryker remains. “Trust me,” he murmurs.
“I will,” I promise.
Ralph jogs up to us, out of breath from the distance he cleared from the main doors to the elevators. “Is everything all right, sir? Do you need help carrying your briefcase?”
“No. Perhaps you should offer Olivia assistance with her purse.”
Ralph wrenches my purse from my grasp. Ryker eases away from me like it pains him. “We should go, there’s much to do.”
Ryker doesn’t move until I do. The limo driver hops out and hurries to open the door. Ralph beats him to it. I pause before entering, my voice surprisingly steady considering the near breakdown I almost had and my exchange with Ryker.
Something happened between me and Ryker, although I’m not certain what it is. My hand rests on the door frame as I address the driver. “Mr. Santonelli needs to be in court by eight thirty every morning for an important case. Make sure you’re here by eight and please call upstairs the moment you arrive.”
“Sure thing, Olivia.” He winks at me. “Wouldn’t want to make the big boss mad.”
Ryker’s steely exterior “encourages” the driver to return to his seat. I don’t even get a chance to thank him. I slip inside and shimmy to the far side. Ryker doesn’t close in, giving me ample space.
I fold my hands on my lap, speaking only when we reach the next block. “You came to me the other night, didn’t you? You were there, in my room with me when I cried.”
Ryker stares out the window as we roll to a stop. A homeless woman shuffles by, pushing her shopping cart. “A part of me was with you,” he admits. “As I mentioned, I hear and sense thoughts at times. Most are muddled at best.”
“Except mine.”
The woman pauses as she reaches the window. She can’t see in, but she tilts her head as if she can.
Traffic opens up and the limo accelerates ahead. I turn to watch the woman, who can’t seem to look away. “Your thoughts tend to be clearer,” Ryker agrees. “They’re especially more pronounced when your emotions reach their peak. In the hours that followed the attack at the Glen, your feelings shoved your thoughts to the surface. I felt everything, your pain, your sorrow, your guilt. Except it wasn’t until you gave in to your exhaustion that I was able to reach you.”
The woman with her shopping cart is barely visible now. But I know she’s there and watching. I turn away, not only because I think I understand why she’s so captivated, but because of what Ryker tells me. “You helped me mourn,” I guess.
He rests his elbow against the window ledge and cups his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes.”
My eyes want to well with tears, but I don’t let them. “And you helped soothe me.”
He nods.
“Did you touch me? I felt a strong hand . . .”
He turns his attention to where the rows of buildings on Hudson Street pass in a blur. “Not in the physical sense. My power primarily invades the mind to help those struggling with loss. The touch you sensed was likely your mind’s interpretation of comfort.”
I felt his heavy palm and his long fingers press against me, just as they had when we entered the firm. I should have recognized his caress, warm, hard, and capturing me with a small part of himself. Still, I believe him. My pixie nature makes me naturally affectionate. Dahlia and I constantly held hands and hugged like little girls. These actions were strange to some. To us, it felt natural, like a bond all sisters should share. So, of course, that night I sought the contact of another to soothe me. I just didn’t realize it was Ryker.
I scoot closer to him, examining the way his broad shoulders and build appear to take up so much room. A thought occurs to me, one that makes me gasp with sudden understanding.
“You help Marco grieve, don’t you?” I ask. “That’s why he relaxes around you. You soothe the daily agony he endures from losing his wife.”
Ryker waits to answer. He seems hesitant to betray Marco. “Mr. Santonelli hurts a great deal,” he admits. “When I met him, all his thoughts revolved around joining her.”
My lips part. “He was suicidal.” I thought he was which is why I practically coddle him.
“Very much so,” he agrees. “Now, he wishes for cancer or an ailment he can’t possibly heal from. Aside from you, I sense his thoughts the most. There are times the man begs for death.”
“Except when he’s with you,” I presume.
“Or you,” Ryker clarifies. He lowers his hand at the sight of my small smile. “You’ve been good for him, Olivia. You help him focus on his responsibilities, and you’re a reminder that he still has a purpose.”
I slide along the seat, shortening what remains of the space between us, our legs almost touching. “This is why he feels so close to you, and why he calls you ‘son.’”
“I understand him,” he responds. He watches my knee hit his leg when the driver careens over a pothole. “I know what it feels like to be alone.”
My hand clutches my chest, the drop in his casual tone making me sad. Ryker’s duties as the Ankou demand a great deal from him and give nothing in return.
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm. He raises an eyebrow, staring at my hand as it rests against him. I should pull away. I don’t, feeling that need for touch kick in and offer a gentle squeeze instead.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For helping me, and Marco.”
Bill’s warning to keep my distance chastises me the entire drive. I wonder if he somehow warned Ryker, too. If so, we both ignore him, holding our positions until the limo angles up to a curve.
“We’re here,” he murmurs.
I grin. “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got, o’ bringer of doom.”
Although his jaw clenches at the insult, the subtle twitch in his lips give away his amusement. What can I say? I’m damn hilarious.
Ryker lowers his head, avoiding direct eye contact with me when the driver opens the door. I spin a little, taking in the small row homes across the street and the large brick building behind me.
“Are we in the Heights?” Jersey City’s Heights to be exact. “You’re not far from the office.”
“Yes,” he replies, keeping close to me.
We walk toward a large converted warehouse, six stories tall with freshly laid brick. Ryker leads me beneath a curved archway that opens to a partially hidden old-world garden. Wrought iron chairs and tables are spread around the perimeter to give a park-like setting while large clay pots of overflowing impatiens offer bursts of color. I peek into the large fountain at the c
enter where small carp flutter and splash.
“This was originally a housing complex for the wealthy,” Ryker explains before I can hit him with my many questions. “Following the Great Depression, it was converted into a cannery.” He points to the side. “A two-story office composed mostly of sheet rock and rusty metal took up this area. The owners tore it down and expanded the garden.” He motions to the left. “This side was the original building constructed in the late eighteen-hundreds. The right was added about two years ago to wrap around and enclose the area.”
“It’s beautiful.” My heels tap against the rust-colored concrete, stained to give it a classic bucolic feel. I pause and sweep my shoe over it. The texture holds a rough grain, likely capable of withstanding even the toughest winters. “How long have you lived here?”
“Almost three years. The left side needed extensive renovation to the original woodwork and ceilings, but the owners knew if they took the time, it would attract the right buyers.”
We walk across the courtyard and to another archway draped with a curtain of small leaf ivy. He pauses, allowing the workers carrying buckets of paint to pass before leading me into the beautiful Italian tiled foyer.
Blue and yellow floral patterns greet our feet and create a pathway to an antique steel elevator with the crisscrossing gates. Ryker unhooks one side and we stepped inside.
“This is nice,” I say. “Classy.”
He smirks. “I like what they’ve done,” he agrees.
“I mean you. Talking.” I grin. “I never knew you could spit out so many words at one time, counselor.”
One side of his mouth curves upward, not quite a smile, but I’m gaining ground. With luck, I’ll see a few teeth by the end of the week.
He leans back on his heels. “Perhaps I would have said more if you hadn’t ripped my head off every time I glanced in your direction.”
My cheeks warm. “I don’t know what you mean.” I frown at his growing smirk. “But you probably deserved it anyway.”
The elevator crawls upward, squeaking to a halt when we reach the top floor. He yanks the gates open and waits for me to pass him. A large steel door rests a few steps away, reinforced with square sheets of copper, bronze, and brown metal, adding a touch of artistry to what could have otherwise been a boring door. He mutters something before unlocking it and slides the door to the side.
My eyes tear from the amount of sunshine pooling into the room and setting the honey wood floors ablaze. Ryker doesn’t own an apartment on the sixth floor. He owns the whole damn floor.
“Come in,” he says.
My vision begins to adjust to the brightness after what must be several not-so-sexy blinking moments on my part. I’m glad, this sight is worth seeing.
Leaves of different shapes and sizes were carefully etched into the soaring white tiered ceiling, forming a swirling pattern of foliage. “The owners weren’t aware of the workmanship until they removed the fabricated ceiling,” Ryker explains.
I wrench my head to take it in the majesty. “Do all the floors have. . . this?” I ask.
“The ceiling on the floor below sprawls upward of eighteen feet. But it isn’t as detailed.”
“You poor sap,” I say, thoughtfully, scoring me another smirk.
“I’ll recover given the price was far less.”
“You bought the floor below?” I ask. The wall of windows before me already provides a million-dollar view of the Hudson River. Ryker probably shelled out a lot more than that for each floor.
“The firm pays me well,” Ryker adds, his tone intensifying in severity. “And I need the space.”
His tone suggests I should shut my mouth. The flicker of shame dulling his features makes me press. I drop my giant pink purse on the floor and inch closer. “Why?”
He tightens his jaw. “For privacy.”
My instincts warn I’ve pushed enough. I don’t heed them. I can’t. If we’re going to trust each other, we have to know each other. “What do you need privacy for?”
His hands curl into tight fists. “You don’t want to know.”
“Probably not,” I agree. I wait, watching Ryker’s intensity sharpen into a blade that viciously stabs the air in front of me.
After what feels like an eternity, I press a little more. “Just tell me,” I say, quietly.
His face meets mine in true “Prince of the Dead, I pick my teeth with a scythe mode.” I hold my ground, trying to quiet the terrified side of me informing me I’m seconds from losing my breakfast, shrieking, and possibly bleeding.
“For when I eat, Olivia,” he replies. “I need privacy, so no one hears me devouring souls.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Ryker stares at me like I flashed my pathetic boobage. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Well, no.” I think about it. “Is it painful?”
“Do you really want to know?” he hisses, advancing closer. “Do you want to know how it feels to consume a living spirit?”
The regret and shame coating his words like tar keep me in place. Death can’t live, not really. But he can be tortured. “I want to know more about you.” I take his hand and squeeze it. “We need to trust each other, right?”
Bill warned me against lowering my guard and opening my heart. I heard him loud and clear. Except here I go, drawing closer and touching Ryker. I suppose if I can lure Death, maybe Death can lure me just as strongly.
My chest constricts with each passing heartbeat. For a moment, I feel that same pure and wretched fear that has haunted me for so long. It doesn’t last although part of me assumes it should.
Ryker’s broad shoulders tense like a panther before he pounces on his meal. I don’t like being afraid. Fear is a creature easily fed and riled. I breathe in and out and squeeze tighter. This same hand I hold, warm and powerful, raised me from the floor when fear left me too crippled to act. And this same rough voice pledged to keep me safe.
Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe my actions will lead to my ultimate end. If so, I’m the fool who’s not letting go.
Ryker’s impermeable force tames as my hand disappears in his grip. His voice, conversely, lowers and remains prickly. “I don’t want to discuss what I am any further.”
I manage a small smile. “Okay.”
A knee to the nuts would have earned me the same reaction.
“Okay?” he asks, perplexity smoothing the hard lines of his features.
My smile widens. Bewilderment doesn’t quite suit Captain Awesomeness. Rage? Sure. Aggression? Absolutely. But confusion? Nope. This male is very sure of himself and his actions. At least when it pertains to everything but me.
I release him and sashay into the kitchen, smoothing my hand along the sand and white quartz counter in the state-of-the art chrome kitchen. “What’s for lunch?”
“What?”
The cabinets are darker than the floor, giving the kitchen its own turn in the spotlight while managing to blend in with the extra-large loft. My brow puckers when I peek into his empty fridge. “You said you were going to feed me.”
“I just told you I feast on souls,” he fires back.
I open the freezer. It’s clean and sadly just as empty. “Oh, I heard you.”
“This is all you have to say?”
“You’re the one who says he doesn’t want to talk about it.” I shut the fridge and find him standing beside me. “Did you change your mind? If so, I’m all ears.”
“No.” He watches me carefully. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“Says the guy who munches on souls like Cheerios.” And well, doesn’t that earn me the glower of Death?” I try not to grin. Okay, King of the Dead aside Ryker is . . . different. I shrug, attempting to shake off my growing interest. “Where’s your food? I know you nibble on more than just people.”
“I don’t frighten you.” It’s not really a question.
“Oh, sure you do,” I answered truthfully.
“It doesn
’t seem that way.”
I hold out a hand. “Trust me, I’ve almost peed myself at least twice.” I pause. “That was probably TMI, wasn’t it?”
He reaches out to touch me, pulling back before his fingers can brush my arm. I angle my chin and try to gauge his reaction. His attempt to caress me isn’t a belligerent move by any means. I sense his discretion and hesitation when he reached out, just as easily as I sense the growing strain between us.
He edges away, bothered by his response. I don’t like the distance between us, though it’s only a few feet, just like I don’t like the escalating tension.
“Would you prefer I shake in my cute shoes, Mr. Scott?” I ask.
He opens his mouth to say something and closes it again, muttering what sounds like Irish swears.
I lean against the counter. Oh. It’s cool. “Look, there’s probably a lot about you that’ll eventually earn me a trip to the nuthouse.”
“Perhaps,” he growls.
I place my hand firmly on my hip. “Did you just growl at me?” He doesn’t answer. I sigh. “Ryker don’t be so cranky. If you don’t want to talk about yourself, that’s fine, for now. Eventually though you will because you have to.”
“And why is that?”
My temper relaxes. “Because there’s no one else to tell.”
He regards me for a long time. “That doesn’t mean I’ll be forthcoming with my condition.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “But no worries.” I move forward and tip my head up, so he has to look at me “I hev veys ov makin’ you tawk.”
The Grim Reaper apparently isn’t a fan of my humor. I guess I’ll have to try harder. “What’s your problem?” Or not.
He straightens. “My problem?”
I shove my nose into his. Well, not really. He does tower over me and all. “You saved my petite yet firm ass, you rise up to defend me, you demonstrate kindness and compassion, yet you’re all pissy that I’m not cowering in terror.”
“It’s not that I want you to fear me. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Then what is it?”
He grinds his teeth. “I expect you to be afraid.”
“Why?” I shrug. “I mean, besides the obvious.”