Page 5 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

He raises an eyebrow.

“You’re messing with the forest. Cheating.”

A shrug. Infuriatingly elegant.

I collapse on a log, sweat chilling my skin. “Why won’t you just kill me? Is there a ritual? Waiting for the moon?”

He kneels, plucking a blue mushroom. Snaps it in half. Liquid oozes out. Points to my mouth, then makes a dramatic gagging face.

Despite myself, I snort. “Toxic?”

Nod.

“Oh. Thanks, I guess.”

He tilts his head, sunlight catching the silver in his eyes. For a second, I think he’ll smile.

---

Nightfall brings nightmares.

I jolt awake screaming, tangled in his cloak. It smells like him — cold and deep and ancient. The fire’s died to embers. Across the clearing, the Reaper sits motionless against a tree. Staring.

“Don’t you sleep?” My voice rasps.

No response.

Three days pass like this. He hunts — brings rabbits, berries, once a fish with translucent scales. Cooks them with a touch, his hands glowing red-hot. He watches me eat. Watches me pace. Watches me poke at his books (poetry, mostly. *Weird*).

On the fourth morning, I snap.

“Either kill me or talk to me!”

He looks up from whittling a branch into what might be a flute. His hair’s down today, framing that stupidly perfect face.

I march over, boots squelching in dew. “You can’t just—”

He grabs my hand.

Everything stops.

His palm presses against mine, calloused and icy. A gasp tears from him, raw and pained. My vision whites out. Heat floods my veins — not mine. *His*. The sigils on his arms blaze as he shudders, pulling me closer.

“Let go!” I try to wrench free.

He can’t. Or won’t. His other hand grips my waist, holding me steady as tremors wrack his body. The cold melts. Fire replaces it, radiating where our skin meets. His breath comes faster, lips parting on silent words.

The heat crests — and breaks.

He collapses backward, dragging me down. We land in a heap, my face crushed against his chest. His heartbeat thunders now, savage and alive.

“Get off,” I mumble into his shirt.

His arms tighten. Not trapping. Clinging.

And that’s when I feel it — the bond. A thread in my ribs, humming where his skin touches mine. Not magic. Something older.

He turns his face into my hair. Breathes.