I end up spending the rest of the day working from that wooden bench. I send out various emails and manage to set up a few meetings with potential investors, which I immediately forward onto Hunter. In total, I've had eighteen missed calls from Michael and twenty-four from Reaper; all of which I've ignored. Reaper even resorts to text, but soon stops when I tell him—in the bluntest way possible—to fuck off.

"Hello?"

I answer the phone to Imogen.

"You're alive, then?"

"Would I answer my phone if I wasn't?" I respond, smirking.

She sighs. "Reaper is worried."

"Reaper can suck my dick."

"Babe—I'm being serious..."

"So am I," I argue. "He stabbed my business associate!"

"He... what?"

I should've known he wouldn't relay that part to her.

"Where?

"In the hand."

"I meant where did he commit the offence?" she elaborates, sounding somewhat amused.

"At The Ritz."

Imogen bursts out laughing, which doesn't exactly help my mood.

"It's not funny!"

"It is a little bit," she protests, still laughing.

"You've been hanging around with mafia men too much," I scorn.

A small child kicks a ball up ahead, and I focus on the purple object flying through the air. It lands a few feet in front of me with a dull thud, skidding to a halt by my feet. I bend at the waist to retrieve the ball and throw it back, receiving a heartfelt "thanks" from the child's father.

"Eva?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you go home now? You're not safe wherever you are."

"Yeah, I'll head back now," I reply, admitting defeat.

In retrospect, running away from my bodyguard and positioning myself in an open space isn't the smartest of ideas I've had. But Reaper needs to realise that even I have my limits.

"Thank you."

My apartment isn't far, so I decide to walk it rather than inconveniencing Richie. I never make full use of the summer months in London and often take where I live for granted. Each street has its own form of entertainment, live music spilling out from the various pubs scattered around. Flowers are in full bloom and release the prettiest of scents as I walk past. The setting sun creates a soft filter, but I still admire their vibrant colours. Reds, yellows, and oranges all blend to make a kaleidoscope of beauty. I pay extra special attention to the row of purple tulips outside my home. One has its head turned to me, as though bowing at my very existence. I run my fingertips over the soft petals and inhale, preparing myself for whatever bullshit awaits me back at the apartment.

"I don't know," offers Richie, voice strained. "It's been at least six hours..."

I rest my hand on his forearm, gently alerting him of my presence.

"Never mind. She's here." His eyebrows shoot up, lips deep in a frown. "Let the boss know."

He hangs up and immediately pulls me to his chest, professionalism be damned.

"Richie..."

"You're in big trouble, young lady."

I press my nose into his solid chest, enjoying the slight sting.

"Where's Reaper?"

"Out looking for you."

I gaze up at him, not entirely sure what to expect.

"I needed to be alone," I explain, still enjoying the warmth of his chest.

"That's a luxury you don't have right now, Eva," he informs, sounding hurt. "People are trying to kill you."

"But—"

"No buts, princess. You fucked up."

Richie may be the only person I know willing to call me out on my bullshit. Most wouldn't dare attempt it, given my surname. But Richie has always looked beyond that. He's always given it to me straight.

"Is he angry?" I ask.

Richie's gaze mellows, hands gripping my shoulders. "He's scared, Eva."

Somehow, that's worse.

"Call him."

I'm moments away from reaching for my phone when my front door bursts open, revealing a tortured looking Reaper. His eyes immediately lock onto Richie's hold on my body and our close proximity. I step away, chin high as I turn to address him.

"Sit down, Reaper."

His gaze darkens. "I'm your bodyguard, Eva. Not your fucking slave."

Richie side-steps me, heading towards the safety of my front door and the promise of escape.

"I only want to have a conversation with you."

"Well, I don't feel like talking to you right now," he spits, turning his back on me.

I scoff, taking his rejection like a slap to the face.

"Fine! Go ahead and do what you always do, Reap. Run away from any problem."

"I am not running away," he fumes. "You ran away."

"I will not take full responsibility for the downfall of our relationship!" I yell, finally gaining his attention. "That's not fucking fair."

"Fair?" he asks, gaze deadly. "You wanna talk about fair, Eva?"

He storms forward, stopping an inch short of crushing me.

"Do you think it's fair that I've spent the last six hours scouring the streets of London, looking for you?"

"Reaper—"

"I thought you were hurt, Evangeline!"

Shit.

"How am I supposed to keep you safe when you deliberately go out of your way to defy me?"

"You don't keep me safe!" I counter. "I keep myself safe."

He growls, harshly gripping the side of his head. "Why are you being so insufferable?"

"Because I don't want you here!" I argue. "I thought I made that perfectly clear!"

"Why?"

"Because it's too fucking hard, Reaper!"

Silence.

He stares at me in a way that brings a chill to my flesh. In a way that—had he been anyone else—I would run into his arms and take back everything I just said.

"Well, get fucking used to it because I'm staying."

"Reaper—"

"I'm staying, Eva. Non negotiable."

He stomps towards the guest bedroom—his bedroom—and slams the door. I release my frustrations with a rather disgruntled sigh which is neither satisfying, nor does it do my anger justice. A shower will make me feel better, so I grab a towel and a change of clothes, setting the water to the highest temperature possible. Within minutes, I'm scrubbed and scoured, skin red from the heat of the shower's spray. I'm no less frustrated, but at least I'm squeaky clean.

"Hmm."

Reaper's low baritone cuts through the small crack in the guest bedroom door, the familiarity of it making my stomach clench. The towel wrapped around my chest tightens as I breathe deep, attempting calm as I tiptoe towards the door, barely making a sound. The gap hardly grants me the perfect view—low lighting not helping—but it's enough for me to see what he's doing.

"Hmm."

Naked from the waist up, Reaper is in the centre of the bed—a bed I bought—withering. The lamp's soft glow casts and orange hue over his sun-kissed skin, exaggerating the ink decorating his torso. An image of Medusa beneath his ribs appears to move when he moves, snake hair more alive than ever. It's intoxicating to watch, if not slightly concerning. Still, I cannot look away. Or rather, I will not look away. Another moan pulls my focus, forcing me to follow the movement of Reaper's arm, muscles flexing. His wrist twists before disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats again, lips releasing a harsh growl. Liquid warmth appears between my legs, the powerful tug almost making me mirror the noises Reaper is making. I shift my weight to the opposite leg, skin suddenly too tight for my body. I momentarily press my forehead to the wooden beam surrounding the door, hoping the cool surface shocks me into walking away. I shouldn't be watching this. It's insanely intimate and completely inappropriate. My own personal heaven.

"Fuck."

Reaper's pleasure draws my attention again, his expression locked in a moment too intense to possibly put words to. His jaw ticks as he increases the speed of his movements, breathing heavy. I match the rise and fall of his chest, so desperate for his touch it almost hurts. I have no way of knowing where to look next. Part of me longs to watch his face as he succumbs to his pleasure and the other part of me is entrapped by the ripple of muscles as his hand works him into oblivion. The light reflects off his abs, body still in immaculate condition. Still the way I remember it. A trail of dark hair starts at the base of his bellybutton, journeying all the way down to his delightful cock which—much to my dismay—I cannot see. I ignore the clenching of my core, hands gripping my towel in an attempt to distract them from where they really want to be. Sweat gathers on my forehead as I continue to watch, cheeks heating up. Reaper moans yet again and this time, I release the need to hold myself back. I press my thighs together and flatten my palm against the base of my stomach, inching closer towards where I desire contact the most.

"Oh!"

Heat pools between my legs, unrelenting in its need to scorch me from the inside out. I increase my hand's pressure, choking back the need to moan. Nothing quite compares to the real thing, but I've gotten pretty used to self-pleasure over the months. This—watching Reaper—is my first exposure to anything even remotely sexual in what feels like a lifetime.

"Eva!"

My name on his tongue—drenched in pleasure—is enough to leave me weak in the knees. His eyes are still closed, meaning he hasn't caught me peeking. Rather, he is thinking about me. Imagining me as he fucks himself.

Shit!

This knowledge both pleases and frightens me. My fingers—it seems—latch onto the former, desperate for release. For a fraction of the satisfaction I used to get when in bed with this man. Reaper used to see to my every demand, knowing exactly what buttons to press to align my fulfilment with his own. Now—without even knowing it—he is doing the same thing.

One finger slides in, followed shortly by a second. My opening is sleek, drenched from the show I've been subject to. Reaper's breathing has quickened, signally the approach of his orgasm. One hand fists the bedsheets while his other pumps furiously at his cock. I'm at his complete mercy, eyes incapable of straying for one second. Even blinking feels like a crime. His stomach clenches, throat contracting as he attempts to swallow through the need to climax. Suddenly, a raw, animalistic growl tears from his chest, followed by his hips lifting off the mattress. His face is perfection, lost in a pool of bliss. Another moan slips past his lips and it proves to be my undoing. My pussy throbs as I share his pleasure, orgasm intense. I bite down on my arm to stop myself for making a noise and revealing my hiding place. Wave after wave washes over me, each one as powerful as the last. At no point does my release lessen in pressure, keeping me in a state of pleasure for what feels like hours. Eventually, my breathing stabilises, as do my fingers—still buried deep inside my walls. I glace towards Reaper, chest heaving as he stares up at the ceiling. A layer of sweat covers every visible surface of his skin, making it seem as though he's glowing. He is art. No painting can compare to Reaper Romano. And like most masterpieces, he belongs in a gallery. To be looked at but never touched.

Once again, I rest my forehead against the wooden beam, enjoying the coolness against my brow. Movement catches my eye and I'm in disbelief as he pulls my panties from the waistband of his sweats; lace dripping in him come. I recognise them from the other night—the ones he stole from me when I was deliberately taunting him.

"Fucker," I whisper, smirk staining my lips.

They're well and truly ruined, but I can't bring myself to care. The notion thrills me in ways I know it probably shouldn't. Knowing he had my underwear wrapped around his cock while he fisted himself into an orgasm has the area between my legs clenching all over again. Has my pussy greedy for more.

"Don't just stand there and watch, kitten."

Oh—fuck!

"Why not make yourself useful and get on your knees."

His voice is honey, touched by darkness.

"You ruined my panties," I accuse.

He sits up, smirk insufferable.

"They were my favourite pair."

I talk to him through the crack in the door, refusing to step away from the safety of the shadows.

"I'll make it up to you," he offers, disregarding my come-soaked panties.

He lifts himself up and pulls his sweats off, depositing them into the laundry hamper. He then slowly steps towards the door, completely naked. My heart is in my mouth when he opens it, revealing himself to me.

"I'll think of something," he promises.

His gaze travels the length of my towel-covered body and—with a smirk that undoubtedly screams desire—he hooks his finger in the knot and unravels it. Instead of allowing it to drop to the floor, he takes it for himself and heads towards the bathroom, turning the shower on.

"Will you be joining me, kitten?"

He's mocking me and it makes my blood boil.

"Fuck you, Reaper."

He smiles and, whilst wrapping the towel—my towel—around his waist, replies. "Suit yourself."

The door closes behind him, plunging me further into my own sexual deprivation. My skin feels hot. Itchy.

And I still fucking hate Reaper Romano.