Page 92 of Reaper's Desire

"Call your father," Julian says quietly, turning to me. "Tell him to come here. Now."

My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone. I stare at the screen for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what I'm going to say. How do you tell your father that his wife tried to have you murdered?

I dial his number. It rings twice before he answers. "Isabelle?" His voice is surprised. "Where are you? I've been trying to reach you for weeks?—"

"I'm at the apartment." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "The Manhattan apartment. I need you to come here. Right now."

"What's wrong? Are you?—"

"Please, Dad." The word catches in my throat. I haven't called him that in years. "Just come. I'll explain everything when you get here, but I need you to come now."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "My flight leaves in an hour, but… I'm on my way. Twenty minutes."

"Thank you." I hang up before he can ask more questions.

The phone feels heavy in my hand. I set it down on the coffee table and sink into one of the armchairs, suddenly exhausted. Julian moves to the windows, positioning himself where he can see the street below, his body tense and alert.

Vivienne sits bound to her chair, no longer speaking. Her face is blotchy from crying, her carefully applied makeup smeared. She looks smaller now, like all the power and control she wielded has been stripped away, leaving nothing but a desperate, broken woman who made terrible choices.

I should feel sorry for her. Maybe part of me does. But mostly I just feel empty.

The minutes stretch out. The apartment is silent except for the distant sounds of the city—traffic, sirens, the muffled noise of life continuing around us. I watch the clock on the wall tick forward, each second bringing us closer to the moment when my father walks through that door, and everything changes. Julian hasn't moved from his position by the window. His attention is focused outward, scanning the street, watching for threats.

My father is coming. The contract will be called off. I might actually survive this. The thought feels surreal, impossible. I've spent weeks running, fighting, barely staying ahead of assassins who wanted me dead. And now it's almost over.

Almost.

Twenty minutes pass. I'm starting to wonder if something went wrong when I hear footsteps in the hallway outside. But it's not my father's footsteps. They're too quick. Too purposeful.

Julian hears it too. He moves away from the window, his hand going to the gun at his back, his entire body coiling with tension. "Get down," he says quietly.

I don't have time to react. The door explodes inward, the lock shattering under the force of a kick. A man bursts through, armed—a gun in his hand, his eyes scanning the room. He sees Julian first and raises his weapon.

Julian moves faster than I've ever seen him move. He's across the room in seconds, closing the distance before the man can fire. They collide harshly, and suddenly they're fighting in a violent, desperate struggle for control of the gun.

I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding, adrenaline flooding my system. I need a weapon. My eyes land on a heavy crystal vase on the side table—one of Vivienne's expensive decorative pieces. I grab it, the weight solid and reassuring in my hands.

The assassin shoves Julian back, and that's when he sees me. His eyes lock on mine, and I see the recognition there.The target. The contract.He starts to turn the gun toward me.

Julian tackles him from the side, and they crash into the coffee table. Glass shatters, and the folder of evidence scatters across the floor. They're rolling, grappling for control, and I can hear the sounds of fists hitting flesh and grunts of pain. The assassin gets his hand free and swings the gun toward Julian's head.

I don't think. I just move.

I bring the vase down on his arm with all the force I can muster. The impact sends a shock up through my hands, and I hear something crack—either bone or crystal, I'm not sure. The gun goes flying, skittering across the hardwood floor.

The man roars in pain and fury, shoving Julian off him. He staggers to his feet, his broken arm hanging at an awkward angle, and his eyes find Vivienne.

Vivienne is screaming, her voice high and panicked. "Kill her! Just kill her, and I'll pay you double! Triple! Whatever you want, just kill her and get me out of here!"

The assassin ignores her. He's not here for negotiations or new deals. He's here to complete the contract. His eyes find me again, and he starts moving in my direction.

Julian gets to his feet, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. He moves to intercept, but the assassin is fast—faster than he should be with a broken arm. He feints left, then drives his shoulder into Julian's chest, sending him stumbling back. I back up, the broken vase still clutched in my hands, my mind racing through everything Julian taught me. Vulnerable points. How to use an opponent's momentum against them.

The assassin lunges for me. I sidestep—just like Julian showed me—and bring the jagged edge of the broken vase up toward his face. He jerks back, and I use the moment to drive my knee up into his groin. The impact is solid, and he doubles over with a choked gasp… driving his face right down toward the sharp glass. It gouges the side of his face, and he lets out a scream as a wet flap of bloody flesh hangs from the side of his face.

Julian is there then, grabbing the man from behind, his arm wrapping around his throat in a chokehold. They struggle, the assassin clawing at Julian's arm, his face turning red, then purple.

I see the gun on the floor, and I dive for it, my hands closing around the grip. It's heavier than I expected, cold and solid and terrifying. I turn, raising it with shaking hands, and find the assassin still struggling in Julian's grip. His movements are getting weaker. Slower. Julian's face is set in grim determination, his arm locked tight around the man's throat.