Page 34 of Reaper's Desire

Iwatch her disappear around the corner, every instinct screaming at me to follow. But I don't.

I force myself to stay in the shadows of the alley, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my jaw so tight it aches. What could I do about it? What can I do other than what I've already done… let her go,again?

She's terrified of me.

The thought sits like lead in my stomach. She should be terrified. I just almost killed a man in front of her with my bare hands, dragged her through the streets like a fucking caveman, and told her she's in danger without giving her a single concrete detail she can use to protect herself.

But I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell her about the contract, about the mafia, about the fact that I was supposed to be the one to end her life. She won't believe me. If I just tell her to get out of here, maybe she'll just move on to the next leg of her trip, disappear, before…

Who are you fucking kidding?Isabelle couldn't disappear if her life depended on it… which it does. Whoever goes after her next will just track her the way I did, and they won't hesitate.She'll be dead within hours after she touches down in her next location.

The only person who can protect her is me. If even I can. I'm not sure I'll be able to protect myself.

We're a dead man and woman walking, and the most I could realistically hope for is that we die together.

I'm a fucking idiot.

I've thrown away my life, and for what? A dead woman? One I'll never see again?What the fuck am Idoing?

My mind racing, I turn and head in the direction of the one place I'll be able to lie low until I figure out how the fuck I'm going to get out of this.

The streets of Santorini are quieter now, the tourists retreating to their hotels and villas as the night deepens. I keep to the shadows, my senses on high alert, scanning every face, every doorway, every dark corner for threats. The rental villa I secured—I planned to hide out there after I finished the hit until I could get out of Santorini—is on the outskirts of town. It's small and isolated, rented from the kind of guy that doesn't ask questions as long as the money clears.

Perfect for what I need.

I make my way there now, taking a circuitous route to ensure I'm not followed, considering the scene I just made at the bar. The streets narrow as I climb higher into the hills, the white buildings giving way to older structures, stone and weathered wood. The villa sits at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by olive trees and scrub brush. It's single-story, whitewashed like everything else on the island, with a small courtyard and a view of the sea in the distance. The windows are dark, the door locked. I let myself in with the key the owner left under a potted plant and flip on the lights.

The interior is sparse—a small living area with a worn couch and a coffee table. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove anda mini fridge. A bedroom with a double bed and a single nightstand. A bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. It's not much. But it'll do.

I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands.What the fuck am I doing?

The question has been circling in my mind since I left Ibiza, but it's louder now. More insistent. I should have killed her in that alley. Should have finished the job when I had the chance, when she was too shocked to fight back, when no one was watching.

But I couldn't. I couldn't even make myself try.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, already knowing who it is.

Unknown Number:Status update?

Maddox. Checking in. Making sure I'm still on track.

I stare at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard before I type out a response:Tracking target. Complications arose. Will complete within the week as promised.

The reply comes almost immediately:Make sure you do. Client is getting impatient.

My jaw tightens.Understood.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and stand, pacing the small living area like a caged animal.

I need to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible, and run to somewhere so remote that maybe I can hide out until the Capetti family forgets about me. Fucking Siberia, maybe. And even then, those families have long memories. I don't know if I'll ever be safe again, even if I do survive the coming days.

Or… I could help her.

I could help her run. Help her hide. Try to find out who ordered the hit and why, and desperately seek out some leverage, a way out, something that will keep Isabelle alivewithout getting us both killed. Some way to save us both… which is a pipe dream, but one I keep coming back to, as if it makes any sense at all.

Us.

The word stops me cold. When did I start thinking of this asus? When did Isabelle Montague stop being a target and become someone I'm willing to die for?