Page 7 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

“Then *back up*.”

He takes one step back. His shadow still drapes over me.

I throw my hands up. “You’re impossible.”

A corner of his mouth twitches.

---

Nightmares don’t care about bonding magic.

I wake gasping, clawing at phantom hands. The Reaper’s there before my next heartbeat, crouched beside the moss bed. Moonlight sharpens his features, turning him into a statue of ice and shadow.

“Don’t,” I pant, recoiling.

He stays. Doesn’t touch. Just… exists. His gaze flicks to my trembling hands.

“I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, clearly not buying it.

“*Fine*,” I repeat, lying back down.

He doesn’t leave. Settles against the petrified oak, long legs stretched toward the fire. I pretend not to notice him mimicking human posture—elbow on knee, chin propped in hand. Like he’s practicing.

“Why?” The word slips out.

He waits.

“Why keep me alive?”

His throat works. For one insane second, I think he’ll speak. Then he lifts his hand, palm up. Offering.

“No more grabby hands,” I warn.

He nods.

I hesitate before sliding my hand into his. His fingers close carefully, leaving air between our skin. The bond-thread vibrates, warm and insistent.

“Show me,” I whisper.

He exhales.

Cold floods my veins, followed by a vision—a barren throne room, centuries of solitude, the crushing weight of guarding a forest that fears him. Then *me*. Bright and blazing in the gloom. A lifeline.

I jerk my hand back. “You… feel that? All the time?”

He rubs his sternum, jaw tight.

“Oh.” My face burns. “That’s… a lot.”

He gestures at me like *you’re telling me*.

---

The next touch is an accident.

I trip over a shadow vine while reaching for a book. He catches me, one hand splayed across my stomach. His thumb grazes the underside of my breast.