Claimed By The Iron Reaper’s Son

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The next morning, the physical consequences of my failed escape attempt caught up with me. When I tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through my palms. I held them up to the dim morning light filtering through the barred window; both of my hands were covered in raw, angry scrapes from where I had clawed at the gravel driveway while Jake dragged me back.

My throat felt tight and dry, and a deep shiver shook my frame. Getting soaked in a freezing downpour had left me with a pounding headache and a fever that made the small bedroom feel like a furnace one minute and an icebox the next.

When the key turned in the lock at seven-thirty, I couldn't bring myself to stand.

Sarah pushed the door open, her usual clipboard in hand. She took one look at me—still wrapped tightly in the gray blanket, my face flushed bright red and my breath hitching—and dropped her board onto the nightstand.

"Oh, kiddo," she sighed, walking over and placing a warm, calloused hand against my forehead. She winced. "You're burning up. I heard about what happened last night. Word travels fast in a place like this."

"I'm sorry," I croaked out, my voice nearly gone. I tried to push myself up on my elbows, but my arms shook violently and I collapsed back into the pillows. "I can work. Just give me five minutes..."

"Shut up and stay down," Sarah said, her tone strict but lacking any malice. "You aren't doing anyone any good like this. If you drop a tray of hot grease on yourself in the kitchen, it just makes more work for me. Stay in bed. I'll tell the boys the kitchen is closed for inventory this morning so I can handle the breakfast rush alone."

"Thank you," I whispered, closing my eyes as a wave of relief washed over me.

"Don't thank me yet," Sarah muttered softly, pulling the blanket up to my chin. "Stone was furious when he heard you tried to clip the fence. Jake managed to quiet him down, but you need to recover fast. I'll bring you some hot tea and aspirin after the morning rush."

She walked out, locking the door behind her, leaving me to drift back into a heavy, feverish sleep.

My dreams were chaotic and loud. I dreamed of my father laughing as he counted stacks of hundred-dollar bills, completely oblivious to the shadow of the giant warehouse towering over him. I dreamed of the high chain-link fences growing taller and taller, wrapping around my body like iron vines until I couldn't breathe. And in every dream, a pair of stormy gray eyes watched me from the darkness, completely unyielding.

A sharp click of the door lock woke me up hours later.

I blinked heavily, expecting to see Sarah with a mug of tea. Instead, the massive, imposing figure that stepped into the small room made my breath catch in my throat.

Jake.

He was no longer soaking wet, but he still wore the heavy leather Reapers vest over a dark shirt. In his large hand, he carried a small white first-aid kit and a steaming bowl of broth. He closed the door behind him, but this time, he didn't lock it. He walked over to the nightstand, set the bowl down with a soft thud, and pulled the hard wooden chair over to the side of my bed.

I instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around my neck, staring at him with wide, defensive eyes. "What are you doing here?" I rasped, my throat burning. "Did your father send you to punish me?"

Jake sat down, his large frame making the wooden chair look incredibly small. His sharp jaw was set in a tight line, and his face was a wall of unreadable stone.

"If my father wanted to punish you, Ava, you wouldn't be resting in a bed right now," Jake said, his deep, gravelly voice remarkably quiet in the small room. He opened the first-aid kit and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and some clean white gauze. "Sarah is stuck prep-cooking for a club event tonight. I told her I'd handle you."

"I don't need you to handle me," I said, trying to pull my hands away under the blanket.

"Give me your hands, Ava." It wasn't a request. The low, steady command left no room for argument.

When I didn't move, Jake reached out and gently but firmly wrapped his large, warm fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand out from under the gray cover. He turned my palm upward. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw the raw skin and the tiny pieces of dark gravel still embedded in the scrapes.

I braced myself, expecting him to be rough, to treat me with the same brutality he used on the poker cheats or the rival prospects. But as he soaked a cotton ball in the stinging antiseptic, his movements were surprisingly slow and careful.

The moment the liquid touched the raw scrapes, a sharp hiss of pain escaped my lips, and I tried to pull away. Jake’s grip on my wrist tightened just enough to keep me still, but his thumb brushed against the uninjured skin of my inner wrist in a reassuring, steady rhythm.

"Hold still," he murmured, his gray eyes fixed entirely on my palm as he gently dabbed away the dirt. "The longer you fight it, the more it hurts."

"You're one to talk about pain," I whispered, the fever making me bolder than I should have been.

Jake paused for a fraction of a second, his cotton ball hovering over my skin, before he continued cleaning the wound. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I heard the club women talking while I was restocking the bar last week," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "They said you weren't born a Reaper. They said the older members used to beat you behind the garage when you were a prospect just to prove you didn't belong because you were adopted."

The air in the room instantly froze.

Jake’s entire body went completely rigid. His stormy gray eyes snapped up from my hands, locking onto my face with a cold, quiet fury that made me instantly regret opening my mouth. The silence between us became suffocating, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing.

I thought he was going to drop my hands, stand up, and lock me away forever. I thought I had finally pushed the monster too far.

But he didn't move. He just stared at me, his jaw clenching so hard that the muscles in his neck strained against the dark tattoos. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low and gravelly it sounded like grinding stones.

"The people in this club talk too much," he said, his eyes darkening. "What happened to me when I was a kid has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with why you're like this," I countered softly, the fear in my chest melting into a strange, unbidden wave of empathy. "You act like a statue made of ice because you think if you show any feeling, they'll break you again. They tried to crush you, Jake. That's why you're so obsessed with their rules. Because the rules are the only thing that made them stop."

Jake let out a sharp, dark breath. He slowly set the cotton ball down and picked up the white gauze, wrapping it neatly around my palm with practiced efficiency.

"You don't know anything about me, princess," he murmured, his voice tight. "In this world, if you show weakness, you die. My father taught me that the hard way. The men who bullied me? The ones who called me an adopted stray? They bow to me now. They take orders from me because I became more lethal than any of them."

He finished tying the gauze, his fingers lingering on my palm for a second longer than necessary. Then, he looked up, his gray eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, possessive intensity that sent a sudden, electric heat rushing straight down my spine.

"I survived this place by becoming a monster," Jake whispered, leaning closer until his face was inches from mine. "And right now, that monster is the only thing keeping you safe. So stop trying to run away from me, Ava. Because if you slide under that fence again, I might not be the one who finds you."

He stood up abruptly, packing the first-aid kit away with sharp, efficient movements. He pointed to the steaming bowl on the nightstand. "Eat the broth. Sarah made it. I'll see you behind the bar tomorrow night."

He walked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. A second later, the familiar click of the lock echoed through the silence.

I looked down at my neatly bandaged hands, then over at the steaming bowl. My heart was racing wildly, but for the first time since I had been dragged into this compound, it wasn't just out of fear. It was out of a terrifying realization that the battle-scarred Vice President was slowly pulling me into his dark world, and I was losing the will to fight my way out.