Page 85 of Reaper's Desire

Isabelle is quiet for a moment, staring at the photo of Vivienne smiling at some charity event. "I used to wonder why she married my father. He's so much older than her, and they have nothing in common. But now I understand. It was always about the money. And me… I guess she was probably glad to have a reason to get rid of me."

I close the laptop and turn to face her. "But she underestimated you. She thought you'd be an easy target, someone who could be killed without anyone asking too many questions. She didn't count on me refusing the contract, and she didn't count on you being strong enough to survive."

Isabelle's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something shift in her expression. "Do you really not know why you couldn't kill me?"

I let out a breath. "I… fuck, Isabelle. No. I don't know. I've been doing this for fifteen years. I've killed more people than I can count. I've never hesitated, never questioned acontract, never let personal feelings interfere with the job. But when I realized who you were—" I stop, struggling to articulate something I don't fully understand myself. "I can't explain it. And you said you didn't want me to talk about this."

"Well, I changed my mind." She glares at me. "You need to explain it to me."

"I can't. I can't even explain it to myself. I followed you to Santorini, planning to complete the contract. I told myself I'd do it there, that I'd finish the job and move on. But I still couldn't. I watched you at that bar, watched you with that man, and all I could think was that I couldn't let you die. I couldn't be the one to take you out of this world."

Isabelle is quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching my face. "And you regret accepting the contract?"

"Yes." The word comes out without hesitation. "I regret it more than anything I've ever done. I'm sorry, Isabelle. I'm sorry I ever considered killing you. I'm sorry I spent even a moment contemplating your death. If I could go back and refuse the contract from the beginning, I would. But I can't. All I can do is try to make it right. I can try to make this one godforsaken thing in my life right, and then maybe I'll have something to weigh against the rest when they catch up to me."

Isabelle sighs, wrapping her arms around herself, and she looks out of the window. "I don't know if I can forgive you," she says quietly. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to forget that you were hired to kill me, that you accepted money to end my life. But I believe that you're sorry. And I believe that you're trying to protect me now."

"That's all I'm asking for. A chance to make this right."

She turns and walks back to the bed, sitting down on the edge and pulling her knees up to her chest again. I watch her for a moment, this woman who's been through hell and is still standing, still fighting, still refusing to break. I turn back to thewindow and stare out at the city beyond. Tomorrow, we fly to New York and confront the woman who wants Isabelle dead. And I have no idea if we'll survive it.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty. I'll do whatever it takes to keep Isabelle alive.

23

ISABELLE

As the evening wears on, I watch him from the bed, my knees still pulled to my chest. I'm still angry with him. But I can also see that this has been tearing him apart, that every moment he's spent protecting me while hiding the truth has been eating him alive from the inside out.

The room is full of tension—tension over what we're doing next, over the unknown, and most of all, what's hanging between us, these feelings and this desire that we're both pretending we can let go of when this is over.

I know I'll never forget him. And I can't stop thinking about the fact that he's so sure he'll die at the end of all of this, that there's nothing more than getting me to safety and then waiting for his past to catch up with him. Maybe it is some kind of righteous retribution, for him to die at the hands of men just like him… but much like he says he couldn't imagine me not alive after he knew me, I look at him across the room, and I can't imagine him gone.

The truth is… I can't imagine him not withme. But I don't know how to reconcile that with everything else.

I want what we had for a little while back. I want the man who made sure I was safe and taken care of, who taught me to defend myself, who got drunk on a balcony with me and told me things I don't think he ever told anyone before. But how can I trust that any of it is real? That it wasn't just trauma making us open up to each other, all the while he was keeping something so big, so important, from me?

For a while, he works on his laptop, getting up to find us both some food from the kitchenette in the small room. Later, I wander back in to see if there's anything else, and I find two bottles of wine, stashed at the back of the counter. I open one and pour us each a glass, and bring one back to him. He looks at it as I set it down, then back up at me.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. I'm still furious with you." But there's less heat in the words than there was before. "I just think we both need to breathe for a few hours before we walk into whatever hell is waiting for us in New York."

He nods and takes a drink of the wine. For a little while, we both drink in silence, me refilling our glasses until I start to feel warm all over. "I guess this is dinner," I say, topping off his glass. "Wine and some cheese and crackers."

"You'll get better food in New York. After we deal with Vivienne." He pauses, his jaw tightening. "After this is over."

"If we survive it."

"You will." He looks at me as he takes another drink. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"Even though you were supposed to kill me yourself?" The words come out sharper than I intended, the wine loosening my tongue.

Julian sets down his glass, his eyes meeting mine across the table. "Especially because of that. I owe you more than I can everrepay, Isabelle. I owe you your life, and I'm going to make sure you get to live it."

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. I take another drink of wine, and the memory of the last time we did this slips in, warming me even more than the alcohol has. "Do you remember the balcony?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "In Prague. Before the phone call."

Julian goes very still, his hand frozen halfway to his glass. "Yes."