Page 3 of Reaper's Desire

I pair the dress with strappy black heels that make my legs look a mile long and add a few delicate gold necklaces that catch the light. I leave my hair down, loose and wild, spraying texture mist into it until it looks fluffy and curls slightly from the spray and the humidity. I spritz on an expensive citrus-and-musk perfume and grab a small clutch, tossing in some cash, my ID, black credit card, and a lipstick for touch-ups.

One last look in the mirror. God, I look good. Ifeelgood.

I feel like I could do anything.

—

The club istwenty minutes from the hotel, so of course I call a car. I'm not going towalkthat far in heels. The driver doesn't say much, just nods when I give him the address, and I spend the ride staring out the window, watching the lights of the island as we drive. By the time we pull up to Amnesia, I can see that the club is well and truly alive. A thrill runs through me.

The bass is so loud I can feel it in my chest before I even get out of the car. There's a line stretching down the block, beautiful people in barely-there outfits, their faces lit up with anticipation. But I don't get in line. I walk straight to the front, where abouncer the size of a small building is checking names on a list. "Isabelle Montague," I say, my voice confident.

He scans the list, then nods and steps aside, unhooking the velvet rope. "Enjoy your night, Miss Montague."

I smile and slip past him, ignoring the scrunched-up faces of the clubgoers waiting in line who don't have my money or my last name. I've never waited behind a velvet rope in my life. I strut into the darkened interior, ready to throw myself into the night ahead of me.

The club is everything I'd hoped for and more. The music is deafening, a pulsing, hypnotic beat that I can feel thrumming through my entire body. The space is massive, all strobe lights and lasers cutting through the darkness, illuminating bodies moving in perfect chaos. The air is thick with heat and sweat, and the faint smell of alcohol and something sweet I can't quite place. Everywhere I look, there are beautiful people—men with chiseled jaws and women in dresses that leave nothing to the imagination, all of them dancing like they're possessed.

I make my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd, and order a vodka soda. The bartender is shirtless and gorgeous, tanned with his skin gleaming with either oil or sweat, dark brown hair longer on the top and shaved at the sides. He flashes me a grin as he slides the drink across the bar, ignoring at least five other people clustered around me to talk to me for a moment. "First time here?"

"Does it show?" I ask, taking a sip.

"You look like you're ready to have a good time." He gives me a pointed smile, and I look at him from beneath my lashes as I take another sip. He's hot, and I bet I could fuck him tonight, but I'm not ready to commit just yet, not when there's a whole club full of men that I can pick from.

"That's the plan."

He winks and moves on to the next customer, and I take my drink and head toward the dance floor. The crowd swallows me up immediately, bodies pressing close, and I let myself get lost in it. The music is so loud I can't think, can onlyfeel, and I close my eyes and start to move.

This is what I came for. This anonymity, this freedom.

No one here knows who I am. No one cares that I'm supposed to be poised and perfect and present. Here, I'm just another body in the crowd, just another girl looking to lose herself in the music.

I dance until my feet ache and my skin is slick with sweat, until I'm four vodka sodas in and I'm full of a buzz that's half alcohol and half adrenaline. Hands brush against me, and I don't pull away. I let them touch, let them get close, because it doesn't matter. None of it matters. I'm free.

Gorgeous men grind up against me, hands sliding over my body, fingers teasing at the edge of my dress until I spin away and find someone else. Hard, muscled bodies, long fingers, the scent of cologne and sunscreen and alcohol filling the air. The flashes of strobes illuminate more dancing bodies, couples grinding and making out, some with their hands sliding into each other's clothing. I think I see at least one couple fucking in the middle of the crowd, the man pressed up tight against his partner's bikini-clad ass while she bends and arches and swings her hair around in wild circles.

When I'm finally too parched to continue without a break, I make my way back to the bar for another drink, my hair sticking to my neck and my dress clinging to my body. The bartender grins when he sees me. "Having fun?"

"The best." I push my sweaty hair to one side, knowing it must be wild now from the salt air and humidity. He's giving me that look that says he's thinking about what it would be like to fuck me on one of these barstools right now or bend me overthe bar, and I flutter my lashes at him, letting him know I'm not averse to the idea. Briefly, I imagine taking his hand and leading him into one of the bathrooms, letting him fuck me before I come back out to find my partner for the rest of the night. I've never been quitethatpromiscuous before, and the thought is thrilling.

He makes me another vodka soda, and I take it and turn back to the crowd, leaning against the bar to catch my breath. The club is even more packed now, the energy electric, and I feel like I'm vibrating with it. I scan the crowd, taking in the faces, the bodies, the sheer chaos of it all.

Tonight is going to be a night to remember.

2

JULIAN

It's early in the morning, past one a.m., when I get a ping on my phone alerting me to an encrypted email I can't ignore notifications from.

I'm not asleep. I haven't been able to sleep properly in years. A long time ago, I learned the lesson that closing your eyes for too long in the wrong place can get you killed, and my brain has just never fully shut off since. So I'm awake, sitting on the balcony of my Barcelona apartment with a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white below me.

I open my laptop, log in with my thumbprint, and open the message waiting for me.

It's from Maddox. My broker. The man who's kept me employed for the last ten years, ever since I left the service and realized that the only marketable skill I had was killing people efficiently and without remorse.

New contract. High value. Details attached. Interested?

I tap the attachment and scan the information.