Chapter 2 Payment

Raven's POV

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then I laughed, although I hadn't meant to. It came out short and nervous because what he had just said made no sense. Men like him didn't walk into houses like ours and make threats like that. This had to be a joke. Maybe one of my father's friends had arranged it, or perhaps someone thought it would be funny to scare the new nurse on her graduation night.

But nobody else laughed.

I looked around the room. Tessa stood near the cake with both hands covering her mouth. Lena had gone pale, while the men in suits stared at the floor as though they wished it would open up and swallow them. Not one of them would look at me.

That was when my stomach turned cold.

"Dad," I said. "What is he talking about?"

My father didn't answer. He was staring at Reaper, his lips moving without making a sound.

"Dad," I said again.

Finally, he turned toward me. I waited for him to explain that it was all a mistake. I waited for him to step in front of me, just as he had when I was a little girl and a dog barked at me in the park. I waited for him to order this man out of his house.

Instead, he lowered his eyes to the floor.

I stared at him, struggling to breathe. My own father, the man who had never allowed anyone to hurt me, couldn't even look at me.

"No," I whispered. "No, this isn't happening."

I turned and ran.

I didn't stop to think about what I was doing. My body simply moved as I pushed past Tessa and hurried toward the kitchen, heading for the back door that led into the garden. If I could get outside, I could reach the road and call the police. I had to do something.

I reached the kitchen and had just placed my hand on the door handle when a man stepped in front of me.

He was huge, with a shaved head and a gray beard, and he wore the same black leather vest as the other bikers. He didn't grab me or even attempt to touch me. He simply stood there, blocking the door, and looked down at me as though I were a child.

"Move," I demanded.

He didn't move.

"Please," I begged, my voice breaking. "Please, just let me go."

"Can't do that, sweetheart," he replied quietly. "Sorry."

I heard heavy boots approaching behind me, and I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The entire kitchen seemed to fall silent.

I turned anyway.

Reaper stood in the doorway, and up close, he was even bigger than I had realized. His eyes were dark gray, and I couldn't see a single emotion in them. There was no anger, no pity, nothing at all.

"You can walk out," he told me, "or I can carry you out. Your choice."

His voice was disturbingly calm, as though he were simply asking whether I wanted sugar in my coffee.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I told him.

"Then I'll carry you," he replied.

"You can't do this!" My voice was getting louder, but I couldn't stop it. "There are a hundred people in this house. Someone will call the police. You can't just take a person."

He studied me for a long moment before answering.

"Look around," he said. "Is anyone calling the police?"

I looked past him into the living room. People stood frozen where they were, and although some had their phones in their hands, none of them were using them. One of my father's business partners, a man who had given me a gift card every Christmas since I was ten, turned his back on me and walked out onto the patio.

Nobody was going to help me.

Anger rushed through me and pushed the fear aside. Before I could think about what I was doing, I raised my hand and slapped Reaper across the face as hard as I could.

The sound echoed through the quiet kitchen.

Someone gasped, and the huge man guarding the door sucked in a breath. My palm stung, and I waited for Reaper to hit me back. I was certain he would. After all, I had just slapped a man who could make an entire room full of wealthy men too frightened to speak.

But he didn't hit me. He didn't even touch his face. He slowly turned his head back toward me, and when our eyes met again, his expression remained completely blank.

"Are you done?" he asked.

My hand was trembling. I wanted to slap him again, but something about his voice stopped me.

"That's the only one you get," he warned.

Then he bent down, pressed his shoulder against my stomach, and lifted me off the floor as though I weighed nothing.

"Put me down!" I screamed, pounding his back with my fists and kicking my legs. Nothing worked. His arm was locked firmly across the backs of my thighs, and he didn't even slow down.

He carried me through the living room, past everyone who had been celebrating with me only minutes earlier. We passed the cake with my name on it, the gold banner Lena had chosen, and Tessa, who was now crying and calling my name over and over.

"Tessa!" I shouted. "Call someone! Please!"

One of the bikers stepped in front of her, and she fell silent.

Then I saw my father.

He was standing exactly where I had left him, near the study door. His face was gray, and his arms hung uselessly at his sides. Reaper walked straight past him with me over his shoulder, close enough that I could have reached out and touched my father.

"Dad!" I screamed. "Dad, please! Do something!"

He didn't move or say a single word.

I kept looking at him until the front door closed between us.

The night air was hot against my skin. The driveway was filled with motorcycles, their black surfaces shining beneath the garden lights. Men stood beside them, smoking and waiting. When they spotted Reaper, they immediately put out their cigarettes and climbed onto their bikes without being told.

He lowered me to the ground beside the biggest motorcycle. My legs almost gave way, and I grabbed the seat to keep myself standing.

"Get on," he ordered.

"No," I said.

He held out a helmet, but I made no attempt to take it.

"I'm not getting on that thing," I told him. "I don't even know who you are. I don't know what my father did. Whatever it is, I'll fix it. I have money in my account. Not much, but I can get more. Just tell me what he owes you."

For the first time, something changed in his expression. It wasn't a smile, though. Whatever it was looked far colder.

"You can't pay what he owes," he replied.

"How do you know? You haven't even told me what it is," I argued.

"Get on the bike, Raven."

It was the first time he had spoken my name, and I hated the way it sounded coming from him, as though he had known it for a long time.

"How do you know my name?" I demanded.

He didn't answer. He simply continued holding out the helmet.

I looked back at the house. Every window was brightly lit, and I could see people standing inside, watching us through the glass. Yet not one of them came outside. Not my stepmother, not my father's friends, and certainly not my father.

I finally took the helmet.

My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't fasten the strap. Reaper pushed my fingers aside and secured it himself, his movements quick and rough. He didn't say anything before climbing onto the motorcycle and waiting for me.

I climbed on behind him, unsure where to put my hands. Instead of touching him, I held on to the edge of the seat.

"Hold on to me or you'll fall off," he warned.

"I'd rather fall off," I snapped.

He started the engine, and the noise was so loud that I could feel the vibration in my chest. The motorcycle suddenly shot forward, forcing me to grab his waist without thinking. As much as I hated him, I really didn't want to die on my father's driveway.

All around us, the other engines roared to life. We rode through the front gates, one motorcycle after another, before joining the road.

I didn't look back because I couldn't bring myself to.

We rode for what felt like hours. The city lights gradually disappeared behind us, and the road became darker and emptier. I had no idea where he was taking me, how long we would continue riding, or what would happen once we reached our destination.

My phone was still in the pocket of my dress, and I could feel it pressing against my leg. Every few minutes, I considered reaching for it, but I was too frightened to release my grip on Reaper.

Then my phone buzzed.

I held my breath as I slowly removed one hand from his waist and reached into my pocket. I pulled out my phone and tilted the screen toward myself, keeping it low enough that he wouldn't notice.

It was a text message from my father.

For one brief moment, hope rushed through me. He was coming to rescue me. Perhaps he had called someone or already had a plan. He was going to fix this, just as he had always fixed everything.

I opened the message.

Do what he says. I'm sorry.