Page 3 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

A choice.

I hold out the egg. “Take it.”

He goes utterly still. For a heartbeat, the forest feels alive, watching.

Then—

A hand, cold and clawed, wraps gently around my wrist.

THE REAPER WATCHES

His grip doesn’t tighten. Doesn’t hurt. Just holds — cold and steady, like winter river stones pressing into my pulse. I force myself to breathe.

He’s taller up close. *So* much taller. My head barely reaches his chest. Those glowing sigils ripple under his skin like liquid mercury, casting faint light on the sharp planes of his face. The air smells different near him — damp earth and cedar smoke, with a metallic bite I can’t name.

“Are you—” My voice cracks. “Are you going to kill me?”

No answer. Just those eerie silver eyes tracking the bob of my throat. His thumb shifts slightly against my inner wrist.

The egg still warms my other hand. I should drop it. Shouldn’t have touched it. But the soft golden pulse feels like the only real thing in this nightmare.

A branch cracks nearby. The Reaper’s head snaps toward the sound, hair sweeping over his shoulder like a white curtain. His claws flex — not digging in, just... adjusting. As if holding a teacup he’s afraid of breaking.

When he moves, it’s sudden.

He releases my wrist only to grip my upper arm, steering me deeper into the woods. His stride eats the ground, and I have to jog to keep up. The black cloak swirling around him parts to reveal a leather belt hung with strange tools — bone handles, twisted obsidian shards. No weapons. Or maybe *everything* is a weapon when you’re nine feet of fae muscle and shadow magic.

“Slow down,” I pant, stumbling over a root.

He stops instantly. Looks down at my bare feet, then at the treacherous forest floor. For three seconds, we just stare at each other. Then he scoops me up like I weigh nothing.

“Wait—!”

Cold. He’s *freezing*. I gasp, instinctively squirming, but his arms lock around me. My cheek presses against his chest. No heartbeat. Just a deep, resonant hum that vibrates through my ribs.

“Put me down.”

He keeps walking. His cloak billows, wrapping around me. It feels like being swallowed by a storm cloud.

“Asshole.” I smack his shoulder. It’s like punching marble. “I don’t need your—”

A low growl shudders through him. Not threatening. Almost... amused? His chin brushes the top of my head as he adjusts his hold. My face burns. *Get angry, not embarrassed.*

Darkness thickens as we pass under a canopy of interlocked pine branches. The Reaper doesn’t hesitate, navigating the maze like he’s part of it. Glowing fungi and bioluminescent moss replace the fog’s eerie gray light. It’s beautiful. Wrong, but beautiful — like finding roses growing in a crypt.

---

He sets me down in a clearing where the trees form a perfect circle. There’s a bed of moss, a shallow pool fed by a spring, and shelves carved into the trunk of a petrified oak. Books line them. Actual *books*. I blink. Monsters aren’t supposed to read.

The Reaper crouches by the pool, filling a stone cup. Water sloshes as he offers it.

I cross my arms. “Poisoned?”

He tilts his head. Waits.

“Right. Not chatty.” I take the cup. His claws graze my fingers. Static zaps between us, sharp and sweet. He jerks back like I burned him.

The water’s clean, at least. I drink greedily while he watches, perched on a boulder. Studying me like a puzzle.