Page 39 of Reaper's Desire

Or maybe I'm just too scared to be alone.

The thought makes my stomach twist with shame, but I can't deny it. I'm terrified. More terrified than I've ever been in my privileged, sheltered life. And Julian, for all his violence and mystery and cold distance, is the only thing standing between me and whatever danger he says is hunting me.

So when morning comes and he knocks on the bedroom door, his voice rough with exhaustion, telling me we need to leave immediately, I don't argue.

I just pack my suitcase and follow him out into the pale dawn light.

—

The first hotel he takes me to is a shithole. There's no other word for it. The building is crumbling stucco painted a faded yellow, the windows are grimy, and the lobby smells like cigarette smoke and mildew. The man behind the desk doesn't even look up when Julian pays in cash, just slides a key across the counter and goes back to watching a soccer match on a tiny television with terrible reception. I stand in the middle of the lobby with my designer suitcase and my Chanel sunglasses and feel completely, absurdly out of place.

Julian notices, of course. "Problem?" he asks, his voice flat.

"No," I lie.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "You've never stayed anywhere like this before."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No."

"Get used to it." He picks up his duffel bag and heads for the stairs without waiting to see if I follow. "We can't use your credit cards or mine, and we can't stay anywhere that requires ID or asks questions. This is what off the grid looks like."

I want to argue. I want to tell him that surely there are nicer places that take cash, that we don't have to stay in a place where I'm genuinely afraid to touch anything. But I don't say any of it, because the look on his face when he glances back at me makes it clear he's not interested in my complaints. In fact, despite everything that happened between us in Ibiza, he doesn't seemto want me at all anymore. He barely even looks at me, and certainly not with that heat in his eyes that he had before.

So I follow him up three flights of narrow stairs that creak ominously under our weight, down a hallway with peeling wallpaper, to a room at the very end. The room is exactly as depressing as I expected. Two narrow beds with thin mattresses and scratchy-looking blankets, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, a closet that would hold a few pieces of clothing at best, and a small window that overlooks an alley filled with overflowing dumpsters.

Julian sets his bag down and immediately goes to the window, scanning the alley below in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease. "Is someone out there?" I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intend.

"Not yet." He moves to the door, testing the lock, the chain, the deadbolt. "But they will be. Eventually."

"Who?" I set my suitcase down and wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy warmth of the room. "Who's coming after me?"

He doesn't answer immediately. He just finishes his inspection of the room, checking under the beds, in the bathroom, behind the thin curtains. When he's satisfied, he finally looks at me, and the expression on his face is carefully blank. "Assassins," he says simply. "Hitmen—or women, occasionally. Professional killers. People like—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "People who do this for a living."

The wordassassinshits me like a slap. I sink down onto the edge of one of the beds, my legs suddenly unsteady. "That's insane. Why would assassins want to kill me? I'm nobody. I'm just?—"

"Someone wants you dead. I don't know why. I don't know how it connects back to your family, if it even does. Maybe it hassomething to do with your father's name, maybe it doesn't. But your life is in danger."

I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying.My father. Dangerous people. Professional killers.It sounds like something out of a movie. Like fiction. Like something that happens to other people, not to spoiled heiresses who spend their days shopping and their nights at charity galas.

"I don't believe you," I whisper.

"Yes, you do." He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't have come with me if you didn't."

He's right, and I hate that he's right. Some part of me knows he's telling the truth.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, gesturing at the depressing room around us. "If people are hunting me, why are we hiding in cheap hotels? Why aren't we going to the police? Why aren't we?—"

"The police can't help you." His voice is hard. "The people who want you dead have reach. Money. Influence. Going to the police would just make you an easier target."

"Then what's your plan?" My voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "We just keep running forever? Hiding in shitty hotels and paying cash for everything until what? Until they give up?"

"No. I'm going to find out who ordered the contract and convince them to call it off."

My eyes widen. "How?"

"I have connections. People who owe me favors. It's going to take time, and it's going to be dangerous, but it's the only way to end this." He says it like he's sure, but I'm not certain that he is. There's something about his voice, about the look in his eyes, that makes me think he's not sure he can pull this off.

That maybe I'm going to die no matter what.