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Chapter 1
The catacombs stretched endlessly before Reaper, a labyrinth of damp stone and restless dead. His boots thudded against the uneven floor, the echo swallowed by the dark. He was hunting food—something to quiet the gnawing in his gut—when a scream sliced through the silence. Screams weren’t rare down here; they were the soundtrack of despair. But this one was different—high, female, drenched in terror.
Reaper’s lip curled beneath his helmet. He was a violent bastard, no denying it, but he lived by a code etched into his bones. Never harm a woman. The thought of ignoring her tugged at him, promising regret. With a low curse, he pivoted toward the sound, his pace quickening, the black-and-red battlesuit whispering against the shadows.
As he closed in, he melted into the gloom, assessing the scene. Two grimy male elves pinned a thrashing female to the ground, her kicks fierce but futile. A third loomed over her, tugging at her pants with eager, filthy hands. Even from the shadows, Reaper caught the glint of her blue eyes—wide, pleading, drowning in fear. Something hot and sharp twisted in his chest.
He stepped forward, silent as death, positioning himself behind the one at her feet. Clearing his throat, he let his voice roll out—casual, but laced with menace. “Leave the girl and run. Or I’ll gut you all for wasting my time.”
The elf jolted, spinning with a knife raised, bravado fading fast as he registered the skull-and-dagger emblem on Reaper’s chest. The battlesuit was unmistakable—a nightmare carved in black and crimson. The blade clattered to the stone as the elf’s hands shot up, trembling. “W-we don’t have a problem, Mr. Reaper. Take her. My gift to you,” he stammered, voice cracking.
At the name, the other two froze, releasing the girl. She scrambled back, slamming against the wall, knees drawn tight to her chest, staring at him—her unlikely savior. Reaper didn’t hesitate. A long, black war blade materialized in his grip, and with a flick of his wrist—too fast to track—he severed the leader’s head. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling to a stop at her feet, eyes blank and staring.
He turned to the others, voice cold as the grave. “You know my rules. Cross me again, and you’re next.”
Their faces twisted—fear warring with hatred—but they nodded, slow and deliberate, before bolting like rats from a sinking ship. Reaper stepped forward, kicking the head aside with a casual nudge of his boot. He extended a gloved hand to the girl. “I’m Reaper. Let’s get you out of here.”
She hesitated, eyes flickering between his hand and the shadows where her attackers had fled. Fear of them outweighed fear of him. She took it, letting him haul her up. The battlesuit hid his race, his face, everything but his size—towering, unyielding, a fortress of violence. She didn’t speak, just followed as he turned and led her deeper into the maze.
Chapter 2
Rena trailed her rescuer in silence, arms wrapped tight around herself. Thirty minutes of winding tunnels, and her nerves screamed louder with every step. He’d said only “Follow me” before stalking off, never glancing back to see if she kept pace. The catacombs blurred together—gray stone, grinning skulls, air thick with rot. She’d tried speaking, tossing out questions like breadcrumbs, but he ignored them, his stride relentless.
Fear gnawed at her. Where was he taking her? Alone with him, she felt the weight of his presence—a predator cloaked in armor. But the alternative—lost in this crypt, surrounded by the dead—was worse. Reaper stopped abruptly at a crumbling staircase, and Rena, lost in her thoughts, crashed into him. His massive frame didn’t flinch; she rubbed her bruised arm, wincing at the hardness of his suit.
He pointed up the stairs, voice flat, stripped of warmth. “This takes you to the city. You can find your way from there.”
Before she could respond, he turned to leave. Panic flared. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. “Wait—”
A blade flashed, stopping a whisper from her throat. She froze, breath caught, the cold edge hovering like a guillotine. Reaper yanked his arm free, lowering the weapon. “I don’t like being touched. Go. Before it’s too late.”
Her voice trembled but held. “I just wanted to say thank you. For saving me. I’m Rena.”
He said nothing, just turned and vanished into the dark. This time, she let him go. She climbed the stairs alone, pushing through a small wooden door into an alley she knew—two blocks from home. Her pulse spiked. How had he known where she lived? She didn’t dwell on it, sprinting toward safety, not stopping until her apartment door clicked locked behind her.
Reaper lingered in the catacombs until Rena’s footsteps faded. Then he followed, keeping to the shadows, a ghost in her wake. He didn’t know why—instinct, maybe, or something deeper—but he needed her safe. She was striking: long, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes that cut through the gloom, beauty unshaken by torn clothes and terror. It had been years since anyone stirred him. Too risky, too fleeting. Yet here he was, trailing her like a fool.
A smile tugged at his lips beneath the helmet. One night with her might be worth the trouble. Elves on the street parted around him, their eyes darting to the battlesuit, fear keeping them at bay. Daylight wasn’t his time—he thrived unseen—but her path demanded it. Once her door shut, he slipped into a sidestreet, drawn to a dive bar he knew too well.
The place was a hole—greasy bar, a few stools, three rickety tables. Reaper claimed the corner, back to the wall, eyes on the day-drinkers nursing their poison. The barkeep, an old elf with a stained apron, shuffled over, setting down a bottle of gut-rot and a glass. He kept his distance. “Been a while. Never during the day.”
Reaper poured, helmet parting just enough to reveal a scarred jaw as he downed the shot in one swallow. “I was nearby. Needed a drink. Problem?”
The elf’s laugh was dry. “Trouble follows you, Reaper. Don’t kill anyone in my bar, and we’re fine.”
“No promises,” he said, pouring another. “But I’m here to drink. That’s all.”
The elf retreated, unconvinced but silent. Reaper leaned back, the burn of liquor a faint echo of the fire Rena had sparked.
Chapter 3
Rena sank against her apartment door, the lock’s click a fragile shield against the chaos still clawing at her mind. The attack. The screams. Him. Reaper. Questions burned through her—why had he saved her? Who hid beneath that skull-etched armor? She sucked in a shaky breath, forcing her pulse to slow, and stumbled to the shower. Hot water sluiced over her, washing away the catacombs’ grime but not the memory of those blue eyes locked on hers, terrified yet defiant.
Dressed in soft leggings and a tunic, she curled up in bed, the day’s adrenaline bleeding into resolve. Tomorrow, she’d find him. He deserved more than a whispered “thank you.” She might be a royal runaway, estranged from her father the king, but she still had resources—wealth, influence. Whatever Reaper wanted, she could give.
The palace wasn’t her home anymore—she’d fled its gilded cage in a fit of rebellion, trading silk for this modest apartment. Normally, her guards shadowed her every step, but today she’d slipped their leash, craving freedom. That choice had nearly cost her everything. Now, their muffled voices filtered through the hall, a reminder of her lapse. She wouldn’t ditch them again. Sleep claimed her, heavy with purpose.
Across the street, Reaper lingered in an alley’s shadows, a week since he’d pulled her from hell. He didn’t know why he kept circling back—some itch he couldn’t scratch. Night after night, he’d drifted past, always cloaked in darkness, watching her windows. Unseen. Unknown to him, Rena had ventured into the catacombs twice since, guards in tow, hunting him. She’d rather her father hear of her recklessness than face those tunnels alone again.
She passed her window now, a silhouette against the glass, and a prickle crawled up his spine—someone watching. Her. He froze as she peered out, seeing nothing but feeling everything. Then she cursed—sharp, muffled—and bolted out the door, coat in hand, off to dance with a friend. Two hulking elves trailed her, not even pretending to blend in. Reaper’s lips twitched. Guards, maybe. Trouble, definitely. He crossed the street, stalking them like a predator on the hunt.
A scuffle behind her—Rena spun to see her guards sprawled on the pavement, Reaper striding forward, all lethal grace. Horror surged, and she charged him, voice cracking. “What the hell are you doing attacking my guards?”
He tilted his head, surprise flickering beneath the helmet. “I thought they were tailing you. Keeping you safe.”
“Well, now I can’t go dancing.” She jabbed a finger at the unconscious pair. “Pick them up. Bring them back to my place.”
She stormed past, not sparing him a glance. Reaper stood rooted, stunned. No one barked orders at him—no one with a pulse, anyway. The woman had fire. He sighed, grabbed the guards by their jackets, and dragged them after her, dropping them in her hallway like discarded baggage. She stood there, arms crossed, fury carving her features.
“Come inside. I’ll make coffee.”
Wary, he followed her into the apartment—a clash of worlds. The neighborhood screamed middle-class, but inside, silver and gold gleamed: ornate furniture, a kitchen table with golden legs and a silver abstract top. She brewed coffee, setting two cups down and sliding into a chair. He took his, staying upright, back pressed to the wall.
“You can sit,” she said, brushing hair from her face.
“Nothing personal. I don’t know you well enough to relax when your guards might storm in.”
She smiled, soft but sharp. “They won’t touch you. They’re not allowed in without my say.”
“No offense, princess, but hallway guards won’t hear a tracker slip through your window. You’d be dead before you could scream.”
“Why do you care about my safety?”
Her blue eyes pierced him, clear as a blade. He hesitated, then let the truth slip. “I don’t know.”
She arched a brow, unconvinced, but pressed on. “Take off your helmet. Let me see you.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Confusion edged her voice.
“You don’t know who I am?” He leaned forward, voice low. “This suit—the skull, the dagger—marks me as one of the most wanted bastards on this planet. There’s a bounty for my face alone.”
Fear flickered in her gaze, quickly masked. She was good at that. “Then it makes no sense—saving me in the catacombs, or tonight. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Rena. Middle-class elf, judging by the street. But this place”—he nodded at the opulence—“doesn’t add up.”
She paused, weighing her next move. Rumors painted Reaper a monster—slaughterer of innocents, hater of royals. Yet he’d protected her twice. Lies had driven her from the palace; she wouldn’t start this, whatever it was, with more. “I’m Princess Rena of Elder House, daughter to the king.”
His helmet’s scanner hummed, confirming it. He didn’t flinch. “Then why live here?”
“Drama at the castle—lies, backstabbing. I was done with it.”
“You think you had it rough?” A bitter edge crept into his tone. “Try the dregs under your father’s boot—living in the catacombs because royal guards kill for sport.”
She couldn’t argue. The corruption was real, and defiance meant a blade or poison. Cowards, all of them. “I’ve trusted you with my secret. Sit. You’re safe here.”
He took the chair opposite her, facing the door, blaster resting under the table. They talked—mostly her, his replies clipped, one-word grunts. A knock shattered the quiet. She darted to the door, ushering in her father. Reaper vanished, leaving no trace, as she turned to face the king.
“Hello, Father. What can I do for you?”
“What can you do?” he echoed, incredulous. “Explain why your guards say you were attacked tonight.”
She forced a smile. “A misunderstanding. Someone saw them following me, thought they meant harm. Just protecting me.”
“Who?”
“No idea.” Not entirely a lie—she didn’t know his face.
“I don’t like this. You’re coming home. Tonight.” His king’s tone brooked no argument as he swept out, leaving guards to pack her things.
Hours later, she paced her palace apartment, freedom stripped away. Anger simmered—at her father, at Reaper. If he hadn’t hit her guards, she’d still be free. A breeze chilled her skin. The window—closed moments ago—gaped open. Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling a scream. A soft voice cut through her panic. “Don’t scream. It’s me. Wanted to talk—left without a goodbye.”
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