Page 60 of Reaper's Desire

"Julian—"

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't say anything right now. Please."

So I don't. I just sit there in the darkness, watching him struggle with whatever he's feeling, and I wonder if this is what it's going to be like from now on. Desire is interrupted by danger. Always running, never quite reaching each other.

Finally, he starts the engine and pulls out onto the empty street.

And we disappear into the night once more.

15

JULIAN

The Prague safe house smells like mildew and old cigarettes, a scent of stale decay. I notice it the moment I unlock the door and step inside, Isabelle close behind me. The apartment is on the fourth floor of a concrete block building, far from the tourist center. Here, in this neighborhood of crumbling facades, no one asks questions. No one cares who comes and goes as long as you pay cash and keep your business to yourself.

It's perfect for what we need. Which is to say, it's a shithole that might keep us alive another forty-eight hours.

"Jesus," Isabelle mutters behind me, dropping her bag on the floor with a thud that echoes in the empty space. "This is worse than the last one."

"It's secure." I move through the apartment methodically, checking the locks on the single window, testing the door frame, scanning for anything that looks disturbed or out of place. My body moves on autopilot, but my mind is somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark and exhausted. "That's all that matters."

She doesn't respond. She just stands in the middle of the small living room with her arms wrapped around herself, looking exhausted and defeated… and so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.

I know the feeling. The exhaustion. The defeat.

It's been less than a day since we left Croatia in the middle of the night, the taste of her still on my lips. My eyes burn with fatigue, my muscles tight, and even still, I can't help but feel the burn of desire when I look at her.

I almost made a fucking mistake. I almost gave her what she's been begging for, even though I know what kind of man that would make me. ButGod, how much am I supposed to endure?

I shot a woman last night, just before dawn, at a gas station while Isabelle slept in the car. She ambushed me when I was leaving the bathroom behind it, but I was ready for anything that might spring out at me, and I shot her before she even had time to fully aim.

The noise woke Isabelle up, but I told her it was a car backfiring, and we sped off into the night. I left the woman there, the shell casing in my pocket, her body the first step in a cold case that some police officer will never solve.

And I felt nothing. It was a much-needed reminder of who I am and who I can never be to Isabelle. I can't be a man who gets wine-drunk with her on a balcony and fucks her in the middle of the night. I can't be anything to her but the one thing standing between her and death, for as long as I can stay alive.

Now the mafia has increased the bounty again. Every killer from Berlin to Budapest knows there's a fortune waiting for whoever brings them Isabelle Montague's corpse, or mine. The price on my head has tripled in the last week, making me almost as valuable a target as she is after hers raised, too.

I'm so fucking tired I can barely think straight. My body is running on adrenaline and caffeine, my internal engine guttering on the momentum that comes from knowing that if we stop moving, we die. Every sound makes me reach for my weapon. Every shadow could be death.

And through it all, Isabelle is there. A constant temptation and a reminder of what I can't have, all at once.

"You should sleep," I say, moving to the small kitchen area and opening the refrigerator. It's stocked with basics—bread, cheese, bottled water, beer. My contact here is reliable, which is the only reason I'm using this place at all. Trust is a currency I can't afford to spend carelessly right now. "I'll watch."

"I'm not tired." Her voice is flat, and I can hear the lie in it.

"You're exhausted. I can see it."

"So are you." She moves closer, and I can smell her shampoo. She's got to be at the end of whatever expensive toiletries she brought with her, but for now, she still smells like honey and almonds, some silky, luxurious scent that doesn't belong in this shithole apartment. It reminds me of salt-scented wind and our hot Ibiza hotel room, of the balcony we were just on together… and I need to forget all of that.

I need to forget the way she gasped my name and the way she feels around my cock, or we're both going to die.

"When is the last time you slept?" she demands. "And I don't mean half-sleeping with a gun in your lap."

I don't answer. Truthfully, I can't remember. The days have blurred together into one long stretch of running and hiding and killing, punctuated by moments of wanting her so badly I can barely breathe.

"Julian—"

"Go to bed, Isabelle." My voice comes out rough with exhaustion. "We're moving again tomorrow. You need rest."