Page 31 of Reaper's Desire

It's not desire or confusion or even anger. It's something darker. Something predatory. It's that look I saw for a split second when he first wrapped his hands around my throat, that look that said he wanted me dead, that didn't make any fucking sense.

And now, it makes even less sense… and feels a hundred times more terrifying.

My breath catches in my throat. My hands start to shake.What is he doing here?

Nikos is still talking, his hand still on my arm, but I can't hear him anymore. I can't focus on anything except the man across the bar who's staring at me like I'm prey.

And then he moves.

He crosses the patio in long, purposeful strides, his expression cold and lethal, and I realize with a jolt of pure terror that he's coming for me.

"Isabelle?" Nikos's voice cuts through the fog of panic. "Are you okay? You look?—"

He doesn't get to finish. The stranger reaches our table, and his hand shoots out, grabbing Nikos by the throat and slamming him back against the wall so hard the impact rattles the glasses on nearby tables.

I scream. Or I try to, at least. The sound gets stuck in my throat, choked off by shock and horror as I watch Nikos's face turn red, his hands clawing at the stranger's wrist, as his eyes go wide with terror and confusion.

"What the fuck—" Nikos gasps raggedly, but the stranger's grip tightens.

"She's not interested," the stranger says, his voice low and cold and utterly devoid of emotion. His accent—Spanish, I finally realize, or maybe Portuguese—makes the words sound even more dangerous.

"Let him go!" I finally find my voice, standing so fast my chair tips backward. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The stranger doesn't look at me. His eyes are locked on Nikos, his expression blank, and I watch in horror as his fingers tighten around Nikos's throat. Nikos's face is turning purple now. His struggles are getting weaker.

He's going to kill him.The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

"Stop!" I grab the stranger's arm, trying to pull him away, but it's like trying to move a statue. He doesn't budge. "Please,stop, you're going to kill him!" I can hear guests scattering in the background, someone yelling to call the police, but everything dims away as I stare at the stranger currently choking the man I just met to death.

Just like he choked me…

For a moment, nothing happens. The stranger's grip doesn't loosen, Nikos's eyes are rolling back, and I'm absolutely certain that I'm about to watch someone die.

And then the stranger releases him. Nikos collapses to the ground, gasping and choking, his hands at his throat. Someone is shouting in Greek, probably calling for help.

The stranger grabs my wrist. "We're leaving," he says, and before I can react, he's pulling me away from the table.

"Let go of me!" I try to wrench my arm free, but his grip is iron. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He doesn't answer. He just keeps walking, dragging me through the bar, past the shocked patrons, and out onto the street. I want to scream, to fight harder… do something other than stumble after him like a fucking idiot. But I'm too stunned. Too confused.

And, to my shock and embarrassment—much like the other night when he had his hands aroundmythroat—there's a part of me that's not entirely terrified. A part of me isaroused.

The realization makes me feel unsettled, almost disgusted with myself, but I can't deny the heat pooling low in my belly, the way my pulse is racing not just with fear but with something darker and more shameful.

He just nearly killed a man for touching me, and some twisted part of me liked it.

The stranger pulls me through the narrow streets of Santorini, the white buildings rising on either side, the cobblestones uneven beneath my feet. The streets are steep here, and I'm struggling to keep up in my sandals.

"Slow down," I gasp, but he doesn't. He pulls me deeper into the maze of streets, away from the main tourist areas and away from the lights and music and people. The streets get narrower and darker, the buildings older and more weathered. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My wrist aches where his fingers are wrapped around it.

He's going to kill me.My heart pounds harder, almost hurting where my pulse leaps in my throat. But another thought slinks in behind it:if he wanted to kill me, he would have done it already.

Finally, he stops. We're in a secluded alley now, tucked between two old stone buildings, the only light coming from a single overhead fixture that casts long shadows across the cobblestones. The sounds of the bar are distant, muffled by the buildings and the narrow streets. He releases my wrist, and I stumble backward, my back hitting the wall.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other.

He looks different from how he did in Ibiza. Harder. More dangerous. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark and unreadable, and there's a tension in his body that makes him look like a coiled spring ready to snap. He's wearing black jeans and a black linen shirt, the glint of his gold chain showing in the open neck. He looks fuckingdeadly.