Bloodlines: The Reapers Book Three

by Bo Reid

  "She needs to come back on her own,” I sigh.

  “The fuck she does,” Hunter growls, “look, Fed,” he spits out my old title, “I get you have been here for a while, but you have never been in the thick of this life. Morana doesn’t just fucking come back on her own; she convinces herself that we don’t want her to come back, and she will stay gone. The one time we didn’t look for her, shit happened, and she was never the same. Then we fucking walked out, and if it wasn’t for you, we might not have gotten her back that time either. Don’t think we don't appreciate what you did back then, but you know nothing about the Reaper.”

  “You know Morana, you know her heart, and you know some of her pain, but you don’t know who she is as the Reaper. You don’t understand that; that piece of her isn’t only destructive to others; it rips her apart,” Ranger sighs.

  “I’ll call Emma and have her track her movements on her phone or something,” I sigh, leaning against the seatback.

  “Fuck this,” Hunter growls, throwing open his door and getting out.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” Ranger growls.

  “I’ll walk back. I’m not riding with his punk ass,” he grits, pointing his finger at me before slamming the door and turning his back on us.

  “Ugh,” Ranger sighs, slumping forward and hitting his head against the steering wheel.

  We sit silently in the SUV for what feels like a lifetime before he speaks again.

  “How much do you know about our backgrounds?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We never talked about where we came from, but I gotta figure you read our files long before you showed up in Sanorah.”

  “I know about your parents if that’s what you’re asking,” I offer. Yeah, I read their files, and I have pretended not to know anything for two years because that's polite.

  I watch him nod his head as he stares out the windshield.

  “When I first met her, I thought it was my chance to protect her since I failed before. I didn’t know she would save me more than I would ever be able to save her. She doesn’t need us to protect her, to save her, but we save her soul by allowing her to save us. She needs to protect those she loves because she sees Hades' death as her failure; the biggest problem is she thinks we need to be saved from her when we need her to survive.”

  He pauses, and I wait for him to continue. Ranger isn't the type to share his feelings, he isn’t mushy, and honestly, he communicates better in caveman-style grunts than actual words, so for him to willingly be speaking right now is pretty huge. It shows the magnitude of his feelings when it comes to Morana being gone.

  “I don’t know how it is for you, but Morana is my air. When she’s gone, it’s like I can’t breathe. I wouldn’t survive very long without her around.”

  “When I first met her… I thought I knew all about her, all about all of you, but I was wrong. I mean, I was wrong aside from the murdering. I thought you guys were just mindless killers, henchmen doing the dirty work of a mob king… It turned out you guys were just trying to survive and love someone who never thought she was worth loving. I thought I could change things for her — thought I could help bring her back… Make her human again,” I say quietly as Ranger eyes me in the rearview mirror.

  “Turns out she never needed my help, she doesn't need to be protected, she doesn’t need a prince to come and save her, and she isn't cursed with something that can just be waved off and changed. She is who she is…”

  “And who she is, is already perfect,” Ranger whispers.

  “Yeah, I don’t want to chase after her because she doesn't need us to save her. She isn’t the kind of girl you drag back home; she’s the kind of woman that only comes back when she wants to. Going after her wouldn't end well for any of us.”

  “You weren’t there the last time she walked out, she was gone for weeks, and the only indication we had of her still breathing were the bodies that dropped.”

  “But she came back,” I point out.

  “She almost didn’t make it back.”

  Ranger puts the SUV in gear and pulls back onto the road, turning around and driving back to the motel.

  “We give her two hours, then I’m setting this place on fire to bring her home,” he says as he pulls up to our motel room, cutting the engine and getting out without a second glance my way.

  Morana

  We drive to the outskirts of town, pulling up to an old farmhouse. As I look at the name on the mailbox, a smile pulls at my lips. Murder really is more fun with friends.

  I should probably note right here that this is one of the more stupid things I have done in my life, and trust me, I have done plenty of very stupid things. Plus, I already know how pissed off the guys are going to be when I don’t come straight back to the motel. Ranger is probably going to completely lose his mind, especially after our early morning jaunt. It doesn’t make me feel good knowing my bullshit hurts them, but I have a tendency to hurt the ones I love the most, to prevent my heart from hurting even more than it already does. Call it a toxic personality trait if you want to, but hurting people makes me feel better.

  “There is a shed out back; I’ll meet you back there. He won't come with me if he sees you.”

  “Fine,” I huff, “But if this is some trick, I’ll gut you,” I say as I climb out of the truck — like I said, stupid decision.

  “No tricks, Little, just treats. Bloody treats,” he says and winks — I have no doubt about bloodshed today, just reservations on whose blood will be shed.

  Walking into the old storage shed, I see the bloodstains from past victims on the floor. A chair seated in the center of the room, and a single light hangs on a rusted chain. It's very fifties mobster — not really my style. It’s times like these I really miss our old building in Sanorah. It was glorious for torture; everything was outfitted in stainless steel because it’s easier to wash away trace evidence from. The incinerator made the body cleanup a breeze. And somehow, Marcus managed to supply us with hospital-grade cleaners specifically formulated to get rid of blood; pretty sure they use it to avoid cross-contamination of surgical instruments, but it works great for making sure every last bit of trace evidence is nowhere to be found. In case you didn’t know bleach doesn't get rid of all blood, just stuff that's visible, it can still be seen under a blacklight, and in our line of work, we just can’t run the risk.

  Plus, burying bodies is a lot of work. Good thing there won't be any need to hide this one.

  When I hear muffled, male voices approaching, I stand in the shadows, pulling my blade out and gripping it, just in case. After all, I have been known to be a poor judge of character in the past; let's just call it a character flaw — I might have a few.

  Kesden opens the shed door and scans the room, his eyebrows pinch together in confusion, but he enters, and Deputy Bernard enters with him. Bernard is as dirty as they come, evident by his blood-stained torture shed, and he will be so much fun to play with.

  “Where is he?” Bernard asks Kesden.

  “They’re bringing him by any minute now,” Kesden says, casually leading Bernard into the room.

  “You think we’re going to have much trouble with that girl in town? I don’t know much about her, but she seems to have your father up in a tizzy,” he chuckles, and I feel my lips pull up into a sly smile. I work really hard to make sure everyone has the proper amount of fear when it comes to me, it makes a girl smile knowing her efforts have not gone unnoticed.

  “I don’t think she’ll be any trouble,” Kesden says before clocking Bernard across the jaw, sending him stumbling backward. Kesden manages to grab him and toss him into the bolted-down chair, snapping cuffs on his wrists before he can comprehend what just happened.

  “What the fuck?!” Bernard growls, and Kesden smiles.

  “You can come out now, Little,” Kesden says, his eyes never leaving Bernard.

  I step out of the shadows and around to study Bernard’s face. Apparently, it isn’t
nearly as fun when they don’t know enough to be afraid just yet, but I’ll change that. By the time I go home, the streets of this town will run red, and every nightmare dreamed in this town will have my face attached to it.

  “Happy, Little?” Kesden asks, stepping behind me and placing his hands on my hips.

  I am happy, overjoyed, actually. So happy that I really don’t give a fuck that Kesden has taken this moment to get extra close to me. It might just be the impending torture, but I maybe like having him close to me. Maybe it would be nice to have another psychopath in the bunch.

  “Ecstatic,” a sinister smirk pulls at my lips as I raise my blade, “it's such a shame you don’t know who I am, Bernard.”

  “You’re a spoiled little brat who has never had to deal with the repercussions of your actions,” he grits out.

  “And who does that remind me of?” I raise my hand to my chin tapping in thought. “Oh, right! You.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, glaring.

  “Now, Bernard, I was told I’m supposed to be subtle, but that really isn’t my forte. Subtlety doesn’t make me happy; you know what does?”

  “Blood,” Kesden whispers in my ear.

  “Blood,” I confirm before reaching my blade out and slashing it across Bernard’s chest.

  He doesn’t even try to hide the pain and surprise as he screams from both. I sigh contently as his pain washes over me like the soundtrack to my favorite movie — one I just want to blast on repeat.

  “Oh, hell, Kesden. You finally found someone as fucked up as you are,” Bernard grits out through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, Bernard dear, not even close,” I lean in close to his face before whispering. “No matter how fucked up you think he is, just remember; I’m worse. And I’m not afraid of his daddy, not like I know you are,” I slide my blade across his ribs, deep enough that I feel it nick the bone, and I smile when he throws his head back and howls in pain.

  A smile breaks across my face, as the blood soaks into Bernard’s shirt. When Kesden steps around me, he motions for me to hand him the blade. Warily I place it in his hands; I really hate to give up the control here, but when he stabs it into Bernard’s thigh, I laugh. I almost forgot just how calming torture could be.

  The whole MC explosion two years ago was a good time, but it was a mission and not nearly as soothing as being up close and personal. This, though? Oh, it brings me back, it’s not as personal as Declan, Galen, or Maverick, but still enough to soothe my dark soul.

  “Why?” Bernard manages to huff out, and I know he won't last long through the torture I wish I could inflict on him. At least dealing with the others, they had the decency to attempt to hold out through the torment; well, long enough that it didn’t leave me wanting too much more.

  That’s the thing about torture; it's like sex; if it’s good, it leaves you feeling sated, satisfied, and calm; if it isn’t, it leaves you frustrated, antsy, and wanting more.

  I shrug my shoulders at him in a “why not” type of way.

  “She’s got a list; your name is on it, and frankly, I never liked you,” Kesden says before gripping the hilt of the knife, twisting it and ripping it from Bernard’s thigh.

  After just twenty-five minutes of blood, screams of agony, and the most refreshing dose of laughter, I’ve had enough, and so has Bernard. So, I put him out of his misery by slicing my blade across his neck. His head falls forward, and the shed goes silent.

  I let out a deep sigh before turning my attention to Kesden, who has the same look of contentment on his face as I do. “You wonder what might have become of two psychos like us had my father not forced yours out of Sanorah?” I ask, cocking my head to the side, truly wondering what he thinks would have become of us.

  Kesden’s eyes snap up to meet mine, and confusion has his eyebrows pinching together.

  “Your father didn’t kick us out. My dad left to take your mom away; she wanted out. She was pregnant with Aether, and you couldn’t have been older than three or so. She didn’t want him to be raised in the syndicate, so she went to my father and asked for help,” he starts to explain, and I cock my head to the side as he takes a step towards me.

  “They had a thing, your mother and my dad. I was six, but I can still remember her coming over to the house. She asked my dad for help, and one night we all loaded up and came here,” he reaches out and runs his bloody hands down my arms. “She was going to come back for you guys, but he didn’t let her.”

  “Then she didn’t try hard enough; if she got away from my father, she could have gotten away from yours,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest as Kesden takes another step towards me.

  “He has her, you know. He’s the one that took her.”

  “Figured as much.”

  “She’s at his house.”

  “Yeah, figured that too.”

  “Are you going to get her?” he asks, cocking his head to the side as he grips my hips.

  I shrug. “Eventually.”

  “It would be easy to just go in and get her out, but you want to slaughter everyone first?”

  I smile, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “Who me? Slaughter? Naw.” His lips quirk up into a small smile before he pushes me back into the wall slightly.

  “Yeah. You. Little Miss Murder.” He bends down, crashing his lips to mine.

  I tangle my hands in his hair pulling him closer to me. His hands trail down my body, gripping my ass before hoisting me up and pinning me against the shed wall. He grinds his hips into me, and I nip at his lip. I always have enjoyed a good, hard fuck after torture, like I said they just go hand in hand.

  “Wait,” I say, breaking apart from our kiss and pushing him back slightly.

  “What?” he pants, gripping my ass.

  “You don’t share.”

  He groans, dropping his head to rest into the crook of my neck. “You’re still set on that, huh?” he chuckles before letting me slide down his body.

  “Yup, you sure you don’t want to give sharing a try?” I wink at him, and he shakes his head.

  “You’re more trouble than I gave you credit for.”

  I place my hand on my chest, dropping my mouth open in mock surprise. “Trouble? Me? Never.” I state firmly as Kesden motions behind him to the dead man we just tortured.

  “Okay, maybe I’m a little bit of trouble,” I shrug. “Come on, take me back to the motel.”

  “Morana?” Kesden asks softly, sounding hesitant. When I turn around to face him, he has his hands shoved into the pocket of his jeans.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Have you ever had the chance to do the right thing but instead walked away?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you feel about it afterward, making the choice to leave someone that needed you?”

  “You know she’s there because you saw her, didn’t you?” I ask, and he nods, raising his gaze to meet mine. “And you left her behind, walked out on her when you could have saved her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you asking me how you live with yourself for walking away, or how someone forgives you for turning your back on them?” I ask, walking back over to him.

  “Both?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than anything else.

  “You move forward and decide if you can live with yourself. If you can’t, you make up for it; if you can, you move on. As far as forgiveness goes, you can’t control how other people move on; you’re only in control of yourself, Kesden.”

  “When you walk away, how do you feel?” he asks.

  I shrug, “Depends on who I’m walking away from.”

  “Come on, speaking of walking away, I need to go make up for the last time I did.”

  Kesden groans, but trails behind me as we exit the small shack and walk to the truck. As I reach for the passenger side handle, he grips my hips and spins me around, pinning me to the side of the truck.

  “If we had stayed, I think you and I would have been inevitable, and m
aybe we still are, maybe that’s part of why you’re here now; because we were always meant to find our way to each other. When you come to your senses, you know where to find me,” he whispers before nipping my bottom lip and grinding his hips against me.

  “If you decide to try sharing, you know where to find me,” I say, reaching down and stroking him through his pants.

  He groans, dropping his forehead to rest against mine. “Trouble,” he grits out.

  “But the best kind,” I whisper in a husky voice.

  “The bloody kind.”

  “Isn’t that the best?” I ask with a smirk.

  Chapter 15: Pamilya

  Ranger

  “What do you mean you can’t fucking find her?” I growl into the phone at Nash.

  “I mean, she doesn’t want to be found, so we can’t find her,” he says clearly exasperated at trying to explain something so basic to me. “Maybe if you guys stopped pissing her off, she wouldn’t keep running off!” he yells at me.

  “It wasn’t me!” I yell.

  “You know as well as I do that even before Emma taught her all the fucking tricks to hide, she was better at it than the fucking CIA. If she doesn’t want to be found, you’re not going to find her,” Nash sighs.

  “Give me that,” I hear Emma in the background before the phone gets jostled around.

  “Ranger,” Emma bites out.

  “Yes?” I grit.

  We thought Morana having a female friend would be great. Turns out, girls stick together, and no matter what the issue is, it's our fault and they back each other. Even when one of them is slightly homicidal, and the other is ex-FBI — girl power and all that. You have to admire it unless you’re the one getting yelled at by them.

  “When she gets back, I need you to tell her that she either has to move up her killing spree timeline or greatly extend it, like one a year or some shit. Mass murder is probably the best way to go at this point, and it’s the option I vote for,” Emma says calmly as if she just told me to separate the laundry — which she does not explain calmly — which I never do, and yes, they both tell me to. I don’t understand what needs separating; we only wear black.