Chapter 7
The laundry room hums with its usual chaos by mid-morning. Washers spin like angry hearts. Dryers roar hot breath into the air. Steam curls up from the floors in lazy white snakes. I stand at the folding table, hands moving on autopilot, stacking towels into neat squares. Sweat trickles down my back, making the jumpsuit stick like a second, unwanted skin. Every few minutes I feel eyes on me. Jax lingers near the dryers again, pretending to check lint traps. Rico paces the far wall, cracking his knuckles every time someone else gets too close to my table. Hale patrols the doorway, clipboard in hand, but his gaze keeps drifting back to me like a magnet pulled by steel.
I let them watch. Let them simmer. The gifts from earlier sit hidden in my pocket: gum, apple, water bottle. Small trophies. Proof they're already hooked. But I'm not satisfied with small fish anymore. I want the sharks.
A shadow falls across my stack of towels. Tall. Broad. Blocking the light from the overhead bulbs. I don't look up right away. I finish folding the towel in my hands, press it flat with deliberate care, then place it on the pile. Only then do I lift my eyes.
He stands less than three feet away. Reaper. The scarred one from the yard. Up close he's even bigger than he looked through the fence. Shoulders wide enough to block a doorway. Arms thick with muscle and old ink that crawls under the rolled sleeves of his gray shirt. The scar runs from his left temple down across his cheekbone, jagged and white against tanned skin, like someone tried to erase half his face and failed. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and they don't blink. Not once.
He doesn't speak. Just stares. The kind of stare that makes the room feel smaller, the air heavier. Around us, the noise drops a notch. Jax freezes mid-step. Rico stops pacing. Even Hale glances over, then quickly looks away, suddenly very interested in his clipboard.
I meet Reaper's gaze straight on. No flinch. No smile yet. I tilt my head just a fraction, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. "You're in my light," I say softly. My voice carries just enough to reach him and no one else.
He doesn't move. Doesn't answer. But one corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker. Hungrier.
I pick up another towel. Fold it slow. "If you're going to stand there staring, at least make yourself useful. These piles won't carry themselves."
A low sound rumbles from his chest. Not quite a laugh. More like gravel shifting under boots. He steps forward. One long stride. Now he's close enough that I can smell him—sweat, metal, something sharp like gun oil. He reaches past me, takes the top towel from my stack without asking. His arm brushes mine. Deliberate. The contact sends a jolt straight down my spine. Hot. Electric.
He carries the towel to the nearest cart, drops it in place, then turns back. Still silent. Still staring.
I raise an eyebrow. "One towel? That's all you've got?"
He crosses his arms. The muscles in his forearms flex. The scar pulls tight when he speaks at last. His voice is low, rough, like it's been scraped raw too many times. "You talk a lot for someone who just got here."
"I talk when it's worth it," I reply. I step closer. Not much. Just enough to force him to look down at me. "And right now, you're worth it."
His eyes narrow. Something flickers in them—interest, maybe. Or warning. "You know who I am?"
"Reaper," I say without hesitation. "The one who breaks things. People. Promises. Whatever gets in your way."
He studies me. Long. Slow. Like he's deciding whether to crush me or keep me. "And you think you're different."
I smile then. Small. Sharp. The same smile I gave the darkness last night. "I know I am."
He leans in. Just a fraction. Close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. "Careful, little queen. I don't play games."
I don't back up. I lift my chin instead. "Good. Because I don't either. I win them."
For the first time, his mouth curves. Not a full smile. Just a hint. Dangerous. Promising. He straightens. Looks me up and down once, slow, like he's memorizing every inch. Then he turns. Walks away without another word. The crowd parts for him like water around a blade.
Jax exhales hard when Reaper disappears through the doorway. Rico mutters something under his breath. Hale pretends he didn't see any of it.
I pick up the next towel. My hands are steady. My pulse is racing.
Because that wasn't just an encounter.
That was a challenge.
And I just accepted it.
The game just got bigger.
The stakes just got higher.
And Reaper?
He's already on my list.
Right at the top.