Chapter 13: Cher's Interrogation
The scent of Rhys’s ridiculously expensive shower gel – cedar and something darker, like gunmetal – still clung to Sera’s skin hours later, mingling with the aroma of popcorn and the dusty velvet of the penthouse theater seats. He’d actually cleared his schedule. After a week of hushed phone calls that bled into the night and texts that pulled him away mid-sentence, he was here. Present. His large frame sank deep into the plush leather beside her, one arm slung possessively over the back of her seat, his thumb idly tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. The bruise from last night, a faint shadow beneath the strap of her silk camisole, tingled under his touch.
On the massive screen, Cher Horwitz was navigating the perils of high school in Clueless, the bright California sun a jarring contrast to the intimate, lamp-lit darkness of their private cinema. Sera snuggled closer, the warmth of Rhys’s side a solid anchor. A crystal bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries rested on her lap. She plucked one, the rich dark coating cool against her fingertips.
"Open wide, Reaper," she murmured, her voice soft but carrying easily in the quiet room. She held the strawberry out, the tip glistening.
His gaze, fixed on the screen where Paul Rudd was delivering a line with effortless charm, flicked down. A faint smirk touched his lips. He leaned forward slightly, catching the berry between his teeth, his lips brushing her fingers. The brief contact sent a familiar spark through her, a low hum beneath the comfortable domesticity of the moment. He chewed slowly, his eyes drifting back to the film.
Sera watched him, the flickering light playing over the sharp angles of his profile, the inked serpent coiling up his neck disappearing into his dark hair. He seemed… relaxed. A rare state. The constant tension that usually thrummed just beneath his surface, the watchful edge, was softened. It made him look younger, almost approachable. The thought was dangerous.
On screen, Cher declared, "You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet."
Sera felt the words resonate, a silly echo in the cavern of her own recent awakening. She picked up another strawberry, her heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. The chocolate felt suddenly sticky. She offered it. Again, he accepted, his teeth scraping her skin lightly, sending another, sharper jolt down her spine.
His eyes stayed on hers this time, dark and unreadable in the low light. Waiting.
The moment stretched. The projector whirred softly. Cher’s voice filled the space, discussing driving and virginity.
"She's a virgin who can't drive."
"That was way harsh, Tai."
Sera took a shaky breath, the scent of chocolate and Rhys overwhelming. Her gaze dropped from his intense stare to the intricate tapestry of ink covering his forearm where his sleeve was pushed up. Dragons, geometric patterns, symbols she couldn’t decipher – a roadmap of a life lived fiercely before her. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, lifted. They hovered for a second, then brushed lightly over the swirling lines near his wrist. The skin was warm, the texture slightly raised.
He went utterly still. Not tense, but preternaturally still, like a predator catching a new scent on the wind.
Her touch traced a coiled dragon’s tail, her thumb skimming the arc of a dark wing. The silence in the theater felt heavier now, charged, the movie’s dialogue fading to a distant buzz. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, raw with a nervousness she couldn’t suppress.
"How many hearts," she breathed, her finger pausing over a stylized, thorned heart inked near the crook of his elbow, "did you break before mine?"
The effect was instantaneous. The relaxed lines of his face hardened. The faint, indulgent amusement that had been playing around his mouth vanished, replaced by a shuttered coldness. His hand, which had been idly stroking her shoulder, clamped down, not painfully, but with startling firmness, halting her wandering touch.
He didn’t look away. His gaze pinned hers, sharp and assessing, stripping away the casual pretense of the movie night. The warmth that had been building between them evaporated, replaced by a sudden, arctic chill. The air crackled with the weight of the unspoken histories she’d just unearthed.
Sera’s breath hitched. The strawberry in her other hand felt like lead. She saw it then – not anger, not exactly. Something deeper, darker. A flicker of… something guarded and wounded, quickly veiled by that impenetrable Reaper stare. Vulnerability, ruthlessly suppressed.
He held her gaze for a long, agonizing moment. The dragon beneath her trapped finger seemed to coil tighter. Finally, his grip on her hand loosened fractionally, but he didn’t release it. His thumb moved, not tracing patterns anymore, but pressing deliberately against the pulse point in her wrist, feeling the frantic flutter there.
His voice, when he spoke, was low, rough, stripped of all its earlier ease. It scraped against the silence.
"Does the number matter, Sera?" The question was a challenge, a warning. "Or just the state they were left in?"
He shifted, turning his body fully towards her, the massive screen forgotten. His other hand came up, not to touch her face, but to grip the back of her seat, caging her in. The vintage lamp light caught the hard angles of his face, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. The playful intimacy of shared strawberries and a nineties comedy was obliterated.
"Because broken implies they were whole to begin with," he continued, his eyes, like stormclouds gathering, locked on hers. The faint scent of chocolate on his breath was a cruel counterpoint to the ice in his tone. "Most weren’t. Not by the time I found them." His gaze dropped, deliberately, to the ruby pendant resting against her collarbone – the one he’d given her weeks ago, a claim she wore willingly. Then it swept slowly, pointedly, down the length of her body curled beside him in the luxurious darkness, taking in the silk camisole, the vulnerable line of her throat, the lingering evidence of his passion marked faintly on her skin. "And you," he murmured, the roughness deepening, becoming almost a growl. "How many didn’t get the chance to break yours… before me?"
The question hung in the thick, scented air like smoke. The projector whirred. Cher Horwitz laughed, a bright, oblivious sound from another world. Sera stared back at him, her own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his thumb. The chocolate strawberry was forgotten, melting slightly against her fingers. The map of his past was suddenly a treacherous landscape she’d stumbled into, and the Reaper’s eyes held no amusement now, only a dark, demanding reckoning.
The projector’s whir was suddenly deafening. Cher’s bright, oblivious voice grated. Sera’s pulse hammered against the pad of Rhys’s thumb where it pressed into her wrist, a frantic bird trapped against his skin. His question hung, sharp and brutal: How many didn’t get the chance to break yours… before me?
The ruby pendant felt cold against her throat, a heavy counterpoint to the heat flooding her face. She stared into his storm-dark eyes, the playful intimacy of strawberries and velvet seats obliterated. The map of his past wasn’t just treacherous; it felt mined. And she’d stepped right onto one.
Her fingers, still sticky with melting chocolate, trembled slightly. She forced herself not to look away, not to shrink back into the plush leather he’d caged her against. The scent of cedar and gunmetal, usually comforting, now felt like a challenge. "None," she whispered, the word scraping raw. Her gaze flickered down to his hand gripping her wrist, then back up, defiance sparking through the fear. "You know that. You were the first."
He didn’t move. His thumb stroked once, slowly, over her frantic pulse point. A predator assessing prey. "Know it," he acknowledged, his voice low gravel. "Doesn’t mean they didn’t want to." His eyes, relentless, scanned her face – the wide, innocent eyes now wide with shock, the lips slightly parted. "Pretty little grad student. Blonde hair. Big eyes." His gaze dropped pointedly to the silk camisole clinging to her curves, the faint shadow of the bruise beneath the strap. "Bet they lined up. Nice boys. Safe boys." The words ‘safe boys’ dripped with disdain.
Sera flinched. Safe boys. The kind her parents approved of. The kind who bored her senseless. "There were… interests," she admitted, her voice gaining a sliver of steel. She lifted her chin. "None got past the lobby." She remembered awkward coffee dates, fumbling hands quickly withdrawn, the suffocating politeness she’d fled. "Didn’t want them to."
Rhys’s grip tightened infinitesimally. A flicker, something raw and possessive, crossed his face before the shutters slammed down again. "Why?" The single word was a demand. "Why hold out?" His gaze bored into hers, stripping away layers. "For what?"
The air crackled. The dragon tattoo beneath her other hand seemed to writhe. Sera swallowed, the taste of chocolate suddenly cloying. Why? The yearning for something more, something that cracked the polished veneer of her life. The desperate need to feel alive, truly alive, even if it burned. She met his stormy eyes, the memory of his violence and his impossible gentleness washing over her. "For someone," she breathed, her voice trembling but clear, "who wouldn’t treat me like porcelain." Her free hand lifted, trembling slightly, and brushed the intricate ink swirling near his collarbone – the heart she’d questioned. "Someone real. Someone who’d…" She hesitated, the word feeling dangerous. "See me. Not just the package."
His breath hitched. Almost imperceptible. His thumb stilled on her pulse. The fierce possessiveness in his eyes didn’t lessen, but the icy edge… shifted. Tempered. He searched her face, looking for the lie, finding only the unnerving honesty that disarmed him. The challenge in her gaze, the vulnerability beneath it.
He leaned in closer, his cedar-and-gunmetal scent enveloping her. His free hand came up, not to cage her further, but to cup her jaw, his calloused thumb brushing her cheekbone. The roughness was still there, the dominance, but the touch held a different weight. "See you?" he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through her bones. His gaze traced the faint bruise on her shoulder, the determined set of her mouth, the fear and fire warring in her eyes. "Princess, I see every fucking inch." His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing a trace of melted chocolate. "Inside and out." He held her gaze, the intensity almost unbearable. "And it terrifies the hell out of me."
The admission, raw and unexpected, hung between them. Sera’s breath caught. Terrified? The Reaper? Before she could process it, before she could speak, his head dipped. His lips crashed down onto hers, not with the playful heat from earlier, but with a fierce, claiming desperation that stole her breath. It was an answer and a question, a branding and a plea, silencing the movie, the world, everything but the shocking vulnerability beneath his brutal touch. His hand slid from her jaw into her hair, fisting gently, holding her captive as he kissed her like he was drowning and she was the only air. The forgotten strawberry slipped from her fingers, staining the velvet seat crimson.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a landslide, burying Cher Horwitz’s bright world under layers of heat and desperation. Rhys’s mouth claimed hers with a ferocity that stole her breath, his fingers tangled in her hair holding her captive. Sera tasted chocolate, cedar, gunmetal, and something raw, metallic – fear? His fear? The projector whirred obliviously, casting flickering light over their locked shadows.
He broke the kiss as abruptly as he’d started it, pulling back just enough to stare down at her. His chest heaved, the intricate tattoos shifting with each ragged breath. His eyes, dark and turbulent, scanned her face – her kiss-swollen lips, her wide, startled eyes, the faint smear of chocolate near her mouth. The hand fisted in her hair loosened, fingertips brushing her scalp almost apologetically.
"Fuck," he rasped, the word rough, torn from him. He didn't move away, his body still caging hers against the plush leather. His gaze dropped to the crimson stain blooming on the velvet seat beside her thigh – the fallen strawberry’s ruin. "Look what you made me do."
Sera blinked, catching her own breath. The intensity still vibrated in the air between them, thick as the velvet drapes. "Me?" Her voice was shaky but held a thread of her usual defiance. She gestured weakly towards the stain. "Pretty sure that was gravity, Reaper. And your… enthusiastic distraction technique." She touched her lips, still tingling. "Effective, though."
A harsh sound escaped him, almost a laugh choked by tension. He dragged a hand over his face, the gesture uncharacteristically weary. "Enthusiastic." He repeated the word flatly. His eyes flicked back to hers, the storm still brewing. "You ask questions that detonate landmines, princess. Then look surprised when there’s shrapnel."
The raw honesty of his earlier admission – it terrifies the hell out of me – echoed between them. Sera swallowed, the playful retort dying on her tongue. She reached out, not touching his face, but tracing the edge of the dragon tattoo visible at his rolled-up sleeve cuff. The skin was warm, alive beneath her fingertip. "Landmines," she murmured. "From before." It wasn't a question.
He watched her finger move, his jaw tightening. "Yeah. Before." The word was heavy, final. He captured her wandering hand, not roughly this time, but enveloping it completely in his larger one. His thumb rubbed circles on her knuckles, a stark contrast to the earlier possessiveness. "You wanted real. You wanted someone who wouldn’t treat you like porcelain." His gaze lifted, locking onto hers with unnerving intensity. "Real is messy, Sera. It’s scars and bad decisions and shit you wish you could forget. It’s…" He hesitated, searching for the word. "It’s dangerous."
Sera held his gaze, the flickering screen light catching the gold flecks in his irises. She remembered the violence of their first time against the dresser, the startling gentleness of the warm cloth afterwards. The fierce protectiveness warring with the darkness. "Messier than a chocolate stain?" she asked softly, tilting her head towards the ruined velvet.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, fleeting but genuine. "Messier." He squeezed her hand. "You sure that’s what you signed up for? Safe boys don’t leave stains." He nodded pointedly at the seat. "Or bruises." His gaze flickered to the faint mark on her shoulder.
Sera leaned forward, closing the small distance he’d created. She pressed her forehead against his collarbone, inhaling his familiar scent – the expensive soap layered over the deeper, essential Rhys. She felt the strong beat of his heart beneath her cheek. "Safe boys," she whispered against his skin, "never made me feel alive." She lifted her head, meeting his eyes squarely. "You do. Even when you scare me. Especially then." She traced the thorned heart tattoo on his forearm with her free hand. "This heart," she said, her voice gaining strength, "is the only one I care about breaking. Mine. And you’ve already got it." She tapped the ruby pendant resting against her own chest. "Messy and all."
Rhys stared at her, his expression unreadable for a long moment. The projector light played over the planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he couldn’t fully hide. He lifted the hand still holding hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips. His kiss was slow, deliberate, a stark contrast to the earlier onslaught. A silent vow.
He released her hand and stood abruptly, the sudden movement making Sera flinch. He paced away from the seating area, towards the towering velvet curtains framing the screen, running a hand through his dark hair. Cher Horwitz laughed brightly on screen, oblivious to the charged silence in the opulent room. He stopped, his back to her, broad shoulders tense beneath his dark t-shirt.
"Landmines," he said again, his voice low but carrying clearly. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over her curled in the vast seat, the crimson stain beside her, the defiant set of her chin. "Some are buried deep. Some… aren’t." He took a step back towards her, stopping at the edge of the plush rug defining the seating area. "You keep digging, Sera." His eyes held hers, fierce and unwavering. "You might not like what you unearth."