The Reaper's Curse #1 - Complete

Old Tales

Her reflection doesn't lie, it's the one thing that can't lie to her. It bares the truth in all its horrifying glory, and she hates it for that.

The mirror shakes in her grip as she swipes the blood from her face, the split on her nose weeping crimson with her uncaring treatment of it.

All she can remember is the feeling of the gun in her grip, the way it jolted in her hand when she shot as Oliver grabbed her wrist. She thought she'd killed Grayson, and she instantly wanted to vomit. She promised she'd never fight for revenge again, not after her pa.

The knock on her door jars her senses and she drops the mirror, watching it clatter to the floorboards. She damns it for not shattering like so many other things in her life.

"Alicia?" The voice on the other side of the door is familiar with its rough tones, and Alicia leaps to her feet to open the door to see Oliver frowning down at the bottle in his hands. "It seems we've drank all the whiskey and this is all..." He trails off as he looks at her, slate grey gaze assessing her features; the purple that's bloomed around her eyes and the left side of her face and the dried blood that cracks against her pallid skin.

She grabs the bottle from his hand, presses it to her chest, and casts her eyes to their feet.

"Let me take that," he murmurs, and he reaches for the bloodied cloth in her grip before stepping past her and into the dim room.

She didn't think to light anything; sitting in the darkness seemed more manageable than truly seeing the damage to her face. But Oliver lights an oil lamp with the matches from his pocket before dipping the cloth into the bowl of water she was using.

She swallows thickly—still tasting blood on her tongue—before she closes the door and sits on the edge of her bed. She busies her hands with uncorking the bottle that Oliver brought as he kneels before her, squinting at her with those all-seeing eyes. She winces through the pain, her right hand swollen and aching as she opens the champagne.

He reaches for her and Alicia flinches away from his touch, the little space between them tightening her chest.

"I promise I'm not going to hurt you, Alicia," he reassures her in his low voice that slides along her spine.

She tips the bottle to her lips in response, bubbles and bitterness filling her mouth as she drinks deeply, washing away the metal tang of blood. She licks her lips as she lowers the bottle and lets Oliver's fingers brush against her jaw without pulling away. His touch is callused and rough against the smooth skin of her jaw, warm against her cold. She lets him clean the blood from her face, his brow furrowed in concentration.

His touch is gentle for someone who supposedly only knows the ways of war.

"I'll take you to see the doctor in the morning," he tells her, filling the silence with his soothing voice. "She's a busy woman right now, though. I hope I'll suffice for now." He tries to offer her a smile and that effort tugs at something deep within her. Then she's reminded of her situation as he dabs at the cut against her nose and she winces.

"What's happened to him?" she questions, her voice cracking by the end of her sentence.

Oliver meets her gaze, their faces close enough that she can feel his breath tickling her lips. "He's being treated, then he'll be given supplies to be sent beyond the walls."

She lets out a breath, shoulders slumping.

Oliver lifts her chin, pressing the damp cloth to the corner of her lips. "What you did was okay, Alicia."

"He was on the ground. I shot an unarmed man."

He pinches her chin, drawing her gaze back to his. "He attacked an unarmed woman. I would've shot him myself if you hadn't beat me to it."