Page 29 of Reaper's Desire

Andfuck, it feels like the easiest thing in the world to stare at her endlessly. The way the sunlight catches in her hair. The curve of her neck when she tilts her head to look at something. The way her dress moves when she walks, the fabric clinging to her hips, her thighs.

I notice the way men look at her, the way they turn their heads as she passes, their eyes following her, their expressions hungry. And I hate every single one of them.

The rational part of my brain knows this is insane. I need to complete the contract and move on before the Capetti family sends someone else. I could have killed her a dozen different times in a dozen different ways since I found her at the café—she's oblivious, an easy target.

But the rational part of my brain is losing the fight.

By the time the sun sets, I've come back around to the same decision I made yesterday. I'm sitting on a low stone wall near her hotel, watching the entrance, my hands wrapped around a cup of bitter coffee I bought from a street vendor. The sky is on fire—orange and pink and purple bleeding together, a sunset people travel across the world to see.

Isabelle is back in her hotel. I watched her go inside twenty minutes ago. I take a sip of the coffee and stare at the hotel entrance.

I've been lying to myself. Telling myself I can buy time, find leverage, figure out a way to negotiate with the Capetti family. But there is no leverage. There is no negotiation. There is no way out of this that doesn't end with someone dead.

Either Isabelle dies, or I do. And I've been avoiding the choice because I'm weak. Because I fucked her and felt something I haven't felt in years, and now I can't separate the job from the woman.

But I have to finish this.

I don't have time to keep stalling. Don't have time to keep following her around Santorini like some lovesick fool, watching her from the shadows and hating myself for noticing how beautiful she is, hard as fuck just fromlookingat her. Christ, I haven't gotten hard just staring at a woman in years.

At this point, I need to kill her for my own sanity, as well as my self-preservation.

I have to do the job. Tonight.

I'll follow her when she leaves the hotel to go out tonight. I'll wait for the right moment—somewhere quiet, somewhere isolated. I'll make it quick. Painless. She won't even know I'm there until it's over. And then I'll be done with this. Done with her. Done with the feeling that's been eating me alive since the moment she said her name… hell, since the moment I fucking saw her.

I drain the last of the coffee and stand, tossing the empty cup into a nearby trash bin. Tonight, I'll be the Grim Reaper again. The killer with no conscience, no hesitation, no weakness.

Tonight, I'll finish the job. And maybe—just maybe—I'll be able to forget the way she looked at me when she came. The way she gasped my name. The way her body felt beneath mine, warm and alive and perfect. Maybe I'll be able to forget all of it.

But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. Some things you can't forget. Some things stay with you forever.

And Isabelle Montague—the woman I'm about to kill—is one of them.

9

ISABELLE

The beachside bar I go to in the evening smells like saltwater and Greek wine, a bar meant for tourists who want to feel like they've discovered something authentic. White wooden tables are scattered across a stone patio, and strings of lights overhead make everything glow, the Aegean Sea stretching out beyond the low wall that separates the bar from the beach.

I thought about staying in my hotel and ordering room service, maybe taking a bath, and trying to forget about the last few days. Trying to forget about the stranger from Ibiza who looked at me like he wanted to kill me when I said my name.

But I came here to vacation, to see the sights, not stay in my room, no matter how perfect and luxurious it is. So I put on a silky white dress with a halter neck, belted at the waist with a jeweled gold chain, sandals, and threw my hair up in a messy bun with tendrils spiraling down my neck, intent on living it up to the fullest. Just like I have been this entire time so far.

That's what the stranger was. Living it up, enjoying my trip, getting fucked within an inch of my life, just like I'd planned. So what if it went weird at the end? It was a good hookup, anincredibleone, a once-in-a-lifetime fuck. And now I'm going to find someone to move on past it with.

I take a sip of my wine, a crisp white that tastes like citrus and honey, and try to focus on the view. The sea is calm tonight, the water reflecting the sunset. A few boats bob in the distance, their white sails catching the last of the light. It's beautiful and peaceful. But I still feel restless.

"You look like you could use another drink."

The voice drifts toward me from my left, accented and warm, and I turn to see a man standing beside my table. He's tall, maybe in his early thirties, with dark hair and olive skin and an easy smile that suggests he's used to charming tourists. He's handsome in a conventional way—strong jaw, straight nose, white teeth. I'm sure he's used that line a million times, and that he's here just looking for a pretty tourist to take home… but that's fine. I'm a pretty tourist, and I want to go home with someone. He's not devastatingly beautiful like the stranger from Ibiza, but attractive enough.

"I'm fine," I say automatically, then realize I've already finished my wine. The glass sits empty in front of me, and I don't even remember drinking it.

He gestures to the empty glass, his smile widening. "Are you sure? Because it looks like you finished that pretty quickly."

I lick my lower lip, tasting citrus, and see his gaze flick to it. I smile. "Okay. Sure. Another white wine would be great."

His smile turns triumphant, and he flags down a passing waiter, ordering in rapid Greek before turning back to me. "I'm Nikos," he says, pulling out the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.