Page 40 of Reaper's Desire

A shudder runs down my spine, and I want to ask what kind of connections he has, demand answers about who he really is,what he really does, why he's helping me. But the look on his face tells me I won't get those answers. Not yet. So instead I ask, "How long?"

"I don't know." He turns away, moving back to the window. "Could be days. Could be weeks. Depends on how fast I can track down the right people and what kind of leverage I can find. And in the meantime, we have to stay hidden and on the move. You do what I tell you when I tell you to do it. You stay put, and you don't go out alone."

Weeks. Weeks of running, hiding, living in places like this with a man I barely know. Weeks of being hunted. The reality of it crashes over me all at once, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. My hands are shaking. My vision blurs at the edges.

"Hey." Julian's voice cuts through the panic rising in my chest. He's in front of me suddenly, his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. "Breathe. Just breathe."

I try to follow his instruction, dragging air into my lungs in short, gasping bursts. His hands are warm through the thin fabric of my dress, solid and real, and I focus on that sensation, using it to anchor myself, even if he no longer seems like the man I met in Ibiza. That wild, unhinged, feral man who fucked me like an animal is not the controlled, hard creature who has plucked me out of Santorini and brought me here.

"I've got you," he says, and his voice is softer now, almost gentle. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise."

I look up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's lying. But all I see is determination… and something that looks almost like fear. He's scared too, I realize. Maybe not for himself, but for me.

The thought should be comforting. Instead, it makes everything feel more real. More dangerous.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."

He holds my gaze for another moment, then releases my shoulders and steps back, putting distance between us again. I feel the space, and I wish he would close it again. Turn back into the party boy from Ibiza, the man who made me come undone. I want that man, not this unfeeling one in front of me who looks at me as if he couldn't be less interested in me, not as if he's tasted every part of my body. "Get some rest. We're leaving in a few hours."

I swallow hard. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere else." He pulls out his phone, his attention already shifting away from me. "I'll let you know when it's time to move."

And just like that, the moment of connection is gone. He's back to being cold and distant, focused on whatever plan he's working through in his head.

I lie back on the narrow bed and stare at the water-stained ceiling, wondering how the fuck my life turned into this.

—

We leave Greece on a ferry to Italy, then take a series of buses and trains north through the countryside. Julian changes our route constantly, doubling back, taking detours that add hours to our travel time. He never explains why, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings, and I understand that he's making sure we're not being followed.

The realization makes my skin crawl. Every stranger on the train becomes a potential threat. Every person who looks at me too long makes my heart race. Men who stare at me are no longer men checking me out, and I no longer feel the thrill of masculine attention. I find myself mimicking Julian's vigilance,checking over my shoulder, watching for anyone who seems too interested in us.

It's exhausting, terrifying… and strangely exhilarating.

There's something intoxicating about being on the run with this dangerous, mysterious man. Something that makes me feel more alive than I ever did at charity galas or shopping on Fifth Avenue.

And then, just outside of a small town on our way through Italy, I get my first real taste of what it means to be hunted—and not just the abstract knowledge that Julian is watching every shadow we pass.

We're leaving a train station when I suddenly feel Julian's hand shove me back, behind him, his entire body going stiff. "Don't come out from behind me," he hisses. "Stay right where you fucking are."

His voice is so harsh, so rough, that it sounds nothing like either of the men I've known him to be so far—the unhinged, passionate lover or the cold, indifferent businessman. His hand strays to his hip, and he moves us closer to the wall, on the other side of the flow of people coming and going from the station.

"Up there," he murmurs through gritted teeth. "Stay on the side of the wall, Isabelle."

My heart is pounding. I look in the direction he is, but I don't pick out who it is that he's seen. Everyone just looks like tourists and locals, thronged together. Cold sweat prickles on the back of my neck, and I feel suddenly breathless.Is this what having a panic attack is like?

We keep walking, and suddenly, as close as I am to him, I feel the barest movement in Julian, the shift of his body, and when I look, I see his hand twitch outward.

And then we keep walking. His hand slides to the small of my back, sending a charged jolt through my entire body. It already felt as if every hair on me was raised, and his touchonly invigorates that feeling, every part of me flooded with adrenaline.

"Where—" I start to say, and he snaps out a sharpshushingsound as we go around a corner. I see his shoulders relax, and I stare up at him. "What?—"

"We passed him already," Julian says, very low. "And he's dead now. Or at least, he will be soon. No one will get to him in time."

His voice is so cold, so flat as he says it, that my entire body briefly feels as if I've been encased in ice. I whip my head toward him, and see the smallest flash of a bloodied, incredibly thin knife being slid through a cloth with a fast hand movement, before the knife disappears.

"Come on," Julian says. "We need to get to our hotel before we leave again tomorrow. If there's one, others will be on their way."