Page 32 of Reaper’s Wrath

I want to go back to sleep, but damn, I’m sore. I must be sick because my throat hurts like a bitch. I try to remember if I’m supposed to work today.

What day is it?

I’m drawing a blank.

Why does my brain feel so fuzzy? I can’t seem to shake away the cobwebs.

Rallying my fortitude, I force myself to open my eyes. Despite my groggy state, I notice right away that I’m not in my bedroom. I’m in a bed, but not mine.

Where the hell am I?

I try to look around and cringe at the stab of pain in my throat. No, not my throat. My neck. When I bring my hand to survey the situation, I realize my neck is wrapped in bandages.

And my hand is covered in dried blood.

That’s when my memory comes rushing back to me.

The warehouse.

A knife.

My death.

I ran from my captor only to die alone under a starry sky. Except … I didn’t die. Someone must have saved me and brought me here to this … hotel room? No, not a hotel. A motel. Why on earth am I in some shady motel room and not a hospital?

As each new piece of information comes to light, I examine it with an odd detachment. I should be freaking out, but whatever made me so sleepy is also keeping me eerily calm.

“Finally, you’re awake.”

I peer over at an older man who rounds the corner from what I assume is the bathroom. He’s maybe fifty. Salt-and-pepper curls frame a weathered face. He’s been in the sun a lot, so I may be off on his age. He’s fit. Close to my size. Maybe a hair shorter. And his words are heavily accented.

“I’m alive,” I rasp, still struggling to mentally keep up.

“You are, and it’s quite the miracle. You must have a strong will to live. Had my man Stavros not happened by, you’d be in the morgue right now. Stavros is good at finding lost things. He brought you here, and I stitched you up.” The man sits on the second bed opposite me, his hands clasped casually in his lap.

“You saved me?”

“It appears so, assuming the antibiotics work and infection doesn’t take you.” His casual assessment is chilling. Did this guy stitch me up here in this old motel room? Is he a doctor? He’d have to be, right? How else would he have those sorts of supplies?

“Who are you?” I finally ask.

The man’s dark eyes spark with amusement. “Others call me the Greek. You can call me Captain.”

CHAPTER 20

ISA

The second the bedroom door clicks shut, I check over my shoulder to make sure Elio is gone, then release a weary sigh. Finally, a moment alone. No watchful eyes scrutinizing my every move. Maybe I can find a way out of here.

But first, clothes.

Keeping the pillow still glued to my chest, I go back toward the door where we passed what looked like a walk-in closet in the corridor within the bedroom suite.

I've never been on a yacht before and am in awe of the efficient yet luxurious design touches. Hidden storage panels in the walls make the most of hallway space. I have no idea what's behind the panels, but I can tell they're there.

If my memory serves me correctly, there is a walk-in closet filled with clothing. Men’s clothing.

Did Elio stash me away in his room?