Page 61 of Reaper's Desire

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the hurt flickering across her face before she turns away. "Fine. Whatever you say."

She disappears into the bedroom, and I hear the door close with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in the small apartment, and I lean against the counter and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the exhaustion and the want and the fear.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, expecting another update from one of my contacts. Another near miss. Another assassin is getting too close. Another piece of bad news in an endless stream of bad news.

Instead, it's a message from an unknown number. No text, just a video file.

Every instinct I have screams not to open it. Unknown numbers mean compromised security. Video files mean blackmail or something designed to fuck with my head. I should delete it immediately, pull the battery from the phone, and assume the device is compromised.

But at this point, I need every bit of information I can get. It could be evidence from one of my contacts, something to help figure out how to get to the bottom of Isabelle's contract. I'm grasping at straws, but I'm becoming desperate now, and desperate men make mistakes.

I open the file, rubbing a hand over my face as I lean back against the counter, and it starts to play.

The video is grainy, shot in what looks like a warehouse or basement. There are concrete walls and a single overhead light casting harsh shadows. And in the center of the frame, tied to a chair with her head hanging forward, is a woman I recognize immediately.

Katya.

My stomach drops like a stone, cold dread flooding through my veins and turning my exhaustion into icy panic, my body flooding with adrenaline.

I haven't seen her in three years. We had a thing once—nothing serious, just convenience and mutual attraction during a job in Moscow. She was a fixer, someone who could get documents and weapons and information without asking too many questions. We spent a few weeks together, fucked a handful of times, and parted ways without drama when the job was done. She was good at what she did. Professional, and smart enough to know when to walk away.

I never thought about her again. I never had reason to.

Until now.

In the video, she's barely recognizable. Her face is swollen and bruised, one eye completely shut, the other just a slit of white and red. Blood crusts her split lip and drips from her nose in a slow, steady stream. Her shirt is torn open, revealing burns and cuts across her torso—methodical, deliberate marks that I can see with a practiced eye are the result of hours of work, someone taking their time. One shoulder is bent at the wrong angle.

A man steps into frame. I can't see his face, but I can see the knife in his hand. It has a long blade and a serrated edge, a weapon designed to cause maximum pain.

I feel bile rise in the back of my throat. I desperately want to stop watching. But I can't. I have to see this through to the end, because I know deep in my roiling gut that this is linked back to me.

And if this woman died because she had a tie to me, the least I can do is watch her misery to the end.

The video is four minutes long. She tries to be brave, not to give them what they want, which is nothing but her pain. Thereare no questions, no interrogation, just torture. And when she starts screaming, finally, she doesn't stop.

By the end, Katya is dead, her throat cut in one brutal slash that sends blood spraying across the concrete floor. Her body slumps in the chair, head lolling to the side, and the camera lingers on her corpse for a long moment before the screen goes black. Then another message comes through. This time with text.

We know about the girl. We know you're protecting her. Everyone you've ever cared about is a target now. Everyone you've ever fucked. We'll find them all. And we'll make you watch.

Below the text are photos, dozens of them. Women I've slept with over the years, their faces circled in red like targets, with addresses listed beneath each one. Some of the photos are recent—surveillance shots taken in the last few days, judging by the clothing and weather. They're building a database to use against me, and they're making sure I know it.

Cared aboutis a strong phrase, but I can tell they're giving it a lot of room. Andeveryone you've ever fuckedmakes the threat clear enough. They don't really care if I've ever had an emotional attachment to any of these women. They're just hoping that even the Grim Reaper will break if enough blood is shed on his behalf. That deep down, I still have some shard of my soul left.

There are men I've met who don't. Who could watch every woman they've ever fucked be slaughtered in front of them and not blink. I tried hard to be that man, but I'm well aware now that I'm not.

Maybe I never was.

I set the phone down on the counter very carefully, my hands shaking from a rage so pure and absolute it takes everything I have not to put my fist through the wall, not to scream, not tograb my gun and start hunting every single person responsible for this.

They killed Katya to send a message. Tortured her for hours, made her suffer, all to prove a point. And if they find out about Isabelle—if they discover that she's more than just a job I refused, they won't just kill her. They'll do worse.

They'll make it last. Make it hurt. Make me watch every second of it before they kill me too, and they'll make sure I know that her suffering is my fault. That every scream, every cut, every moment of agony is because I was stupid enough to care about her.

I pick up my phone and delete the video, delete the messages, delete everything. Then I pull the battery out, drop it in the trash, and destroy the SIM. I move to the window and stare out at the dark courtyard below, my mind racing through possibilities. I'm running out of options and time. Out of ways to keep her safe.

I can't let them know. I can't let them see that Isabelle is anything more than a job gone wrong, a target I'm keeping alive for some other reason than desire or emotion. If they think she matters to me—if they think she's someone I care about, someone I'd sacrifice for, someone who could be used as leverage—she becomes the perfect weapon. And I've been careless.