Page 14 of Reaper's Desire

The thought is absurd, and I push it away. I am what I am. I've made my choices, and I've lived with the consequences. There's no going back, no changing who I've become.

And yet…

I can't stop thinking about her—the way she laughed. The way she moved. The way she felt against me…fuck. I want more of that. I've never wanted more.

Until now.

I finally head back to my hotel and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my duffel bag. I should pack. I should leave.

But I don't. Instead, I pull out my phone and open the browser, searching for flights to Barcelona. I still have some time before I need to be back. I could reschedule my flight. Get there tomorrow, instead. I'd still get to New York in time.

I could go out and see if I could find her at the clubs again. Fuck her one more time before I go. How long will it be before I meet someone who makes me feel that fucking good, that alive, again? Maybe never—I've never felt anything that intense before.

One more night can't hurt.

I stare at the screen, my finger hovering over the button to reschedule, and before I can stop myself, I press it.

And then I close the browser.Fuck it.

I'm not leaving. Not yet.

I shower again, rinsing off the sweat from the walk back, and get dressed to go out. When I head out, the streets are busy, filled with people heading out for the night. Music spills from open doorways, laughter echoes off the buildings, and the air is thick with the smell of perfume and alcohol. I keep my head down, my hands in my pockets, and try not to think about how fucking ridiculous this is.

I'm a professional. A killer. I don't do this. I don't chase women. I don't obsess over one-night stands.

And yet here I am.

The club is already packed when I arrive, the music spilling out onto the street and the line to get in stretching around the block. I bypass the line again, slipping the bouncer a hundred euros, and he waves me through without a word. Inside, it's chaos. Bodies pressed together, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the smell of alcohol. The music is deafening, thebass vibrating through the floor, and the lights are strobing in a way that makes my head ache all over again.

I scan the crowd, looking for her, but it's so packed that it's hard to pick out any one person in the flashing lights and press of bodies, even though I'd recognize her anywhere. I push through the crowd, making my way toward the bar, my eyes constantly moving, searching. Every woman with dark hair makes my pulse spike, but none of them are her.

She's not here. Not that I can see, anyway.

I order a drink—whiskey, neat—and lean against the bar, watching the crowd. Maybe she'll show up later. Maybe she's just running late.

Or maybe she's not coming at all.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, and I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from the disappointment.

This is pathetic.

An hour passes. Then another. I nurse my drink, watching the crowd, and feel the frustration building with every passing minute. She's not here. She's not coming.

I order another drink and keep watching. The club is a blur of faces, none of them hers. Women approach me—beautiful women who make it clear they're interested—but I brush them off. I'm not here for them.

I'm here for her.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly, and wonder if I've lost my fucking mind. I'm sitting in a nightclub in Ibiza, searching for a woman whose name I don't even know, because of one night of sex that shouldn't have meant anything. I signal the bartender for another drink, and he pours it without a word. I take a sip, the whiskey burning down my throat, and let my eyes drift over the crowd again.

She's still not here. I should go. But even as I tell myself that, I know I won't leave. Not yet. Not until I've exhausted every chance that she might walk through that door. Because for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt something last night. Something that made me feel like more than just a weapon, more than just a killer.

So I sit at the bar, nursing my drink, watching the crowd, and wondering if I've lost my mind over a woman whose name I don't even know.

5

ISABELLE

I'm being pathetic.