Page 28 of Reaper's Desire

I land in Santorini just after noon. The airport is small, and the heat hits me the moment I step outside. Dry and intense, the Mediterranean sun beats down on white stone and blue water. I rent a car—a nondescript sedan that won't draw attention—and drive to the hotel I booked online. It's modest and clean, nothing special. A place where I can set up surveillance without anyone asking questions.

The room is on the third floor, with a narrow balcony that overlooks the street. I drop my bag on the bed and move to the window, scanning the area. Isabelle's hotel is five miles away, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. I can't see it from here, but I know exactly where it is. I've studied the layout online, and I could get to her easily if that's the way I decide to go about it.

I unpack my laptop and set it up on the small desk, pulling up the surveillance software I installed on her phone just after I spoke with Maddox again. It was easy—a simple phishing email disguised as a notification from her bank, asking her to verify her account information. She clicked the link without hesitation, probably assuming it was just because of her international travel, and within minutes, I had access to everything. Her location, her messages, her calls, her photos.

It was so fucking easy. She's a lamb, unaware of how to protect herself in a world that's more dangerous than she could possibly imagine.

And I'm the wolf that's going to tear out her throat.

The software shows me her current location: still at her hotel. She hasn't left since she checked in this morning. I pull up her Instagram again. The photo of the sunset is still there, the caption still reads, "Finally feeling free.

Free.The word mocks me. She thinks she's free. Thinks she's escaped whatever suffocating life she had in New York. Thinks she's safe here, thousands of miles from home, surrounded by tourists and sunshine and the endless blue of the Aegean Sea.

She has no idea that I'm here. That I've been tracking her every move. That I'm the reason she'll never be free again.

That the man she gave access to just about every part of her is the same man who is going to take her life.

I close the laptop and stand, moving to the balcony. The street below is busy with tourists—couples holding hands, families with children, groups of friends laughing and taking photos. Everyone looks happy. Carefree.

I wonder what it's like to feel that way. To move through the world without constantly calculating threats, without always being aware of exits and sightlines, and who might be watching.

I haven't felt that way in fifteen years. Not since I left the military. Not since I became the Grim Reaper.

And I never will again.

—

I find her at a café in the late afternoon, the sun starting its descent toward the horizon. The café is small, tucked into a narrow street lined with white buildings and blue-domed churches. Tourists crowd the tables, taking photos of the view, ordering overpriced cocktails and appetizers. Isabelle sits alone at a corner table, a glass of white wine in front of her, her phone in her hand.

She's wearing a simple white sundress with thin straps that leave her shoulders bare. Her skin is tanned from the Ibiza sun, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face. She looks beautiful. Effortlessly so. And I hate myself for noticing.

I'm standing in the shadows across the street, partially hidden by a stone wall, watching her through the crowd. She hasn't seen me. She doesn't know I'm here. She takes a sip of herwine, her eyes on her phone, and I see the relaxed curve of her shoulders, the small smile at the corner of her mouth.

Is she thinking about me?

The thought is dangerous and unwelcome, but I can't stop it. I wonder if she's replaying that night in her head the way I am. If she's trying to make sense of what happened. If she's remembering what my tongue and fingers and cock felt like, if she's still aching for more the way I am. If she has any idea how many times I've thought about how I could fuck her again before…

If she's wondering why I ran.

She sets her phone down and picks up her wine glass again, staring out at the sea. The wind catches her hair, blowing it across her face, and she reaches up to tuck it behind her ear. The gesture is so innocent and simple that it makes my chest ache.

A man at the next table looks at her and lingers a moment too long, his eyes raking over her body, his expression appreciative. My hands clench into fists. I have to physically restrain myself from moving, from crossing the street, and putting myself between her and that man. From making it clear that she's?—

What?Mine?

The thought stops me cold. She's not mine. She's my target. The woman I'm supposed to kill. The job I accepted, the contract I'm obligated to complete. She's notmine.

But the possessive feeling that surges through me doesn't care about logic or obligation. It's primal and visceral… and completely fucking terrifying. Because it means I've lost control.

And losing control is how people like me die.

—

I follow her for the rest of the afternoon.

She leaves the café and wanders through the narrow streets, stopping to look at jewelry in shop windows, pausing to take photos of the white buildings and blue domes. She moves slowly, like she has nowhere to be, like she's trying to lose herself in the beauty of the island. I stay back, keeping distance, blending into the crowd of tourists. I'm good at this. I've spent years learning how to be invisible, how to watch without being seen. But it feels different this time.

Usually, surveillance is detached. I'm always just gathering information, identifying patterns, looking for vulnerabilities. The target is just a target—a problem to be solved, a job to be completed. But watching Isabelle feels like something else entirely. I feel that burn of obsession, that aching need deep in the pit of my belly. I stay in a constant state of partial to full arousal throughout the day, my cock half-hard or stiff from watching her, a steady throbbing ache that almost forces me into a restroom to relieve it at least once. But I need to not lose sight of her.