Page 82 of Reaper’s Wrath

My voice is no more than a whisper when I ask, “What do you want from me?”

His hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer until his penetrating stare looks straight into the window of my heart.

“Everything,” he rumbles softly. “I want all that you are and all you ever will be.”

Pain lances through my chest. A part of me wants to give him that—knows that I’m already his—but the rest of me knows it’s more complicated than that. He made an enemy of my family when he took me, and he’s already at war with the Russians. The way things stand, I don’t see how I could be with him and keep my old life intact. Something drastic would have to change.

“How could I possibly give you all that I am when being with you means leaving half of my heart behind?” He’s at war with my family. He’s broken ties with his own family with no signs of pursuing a reconciliation. Being with Elio would mean leaving the city forever or being constantly torn in two, both ends yanked and pulled by opposing parties, like I’m a frayed rope in a never-ending game of tug-of-war.

I couldn’t survive that. I wouldn’t want to.

My heart already breaks at the thought of constantly being pitted against those I love most in the world.

A steel-plated wall crashes down behind Elio’s turbulent stare. “My Isa wouldn’t have given up on us so easily.”

Tears burn in my eyes as I whisper, “Your Isa doesn’t exist.”

CHAPTER 43

ELIO

I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find what I’m looking for, which is why coming here was a last resort. But after yesterday's confrontation with Isa and today being Thanksgiving, I had no excuses left.

My parents always spent Thanksgiving with Dad’s family in Jersey. Their house is empty, and I can get the proof I need to jog Isa’s memory. If she’d simply remember the past, she’d realize she’s always been mine. We belong together.

If I’d had any clue I’d need to prove up my secret relationship, maybe I would have stashed away a printed photo or two, but that never happened. I can only think of one thing to show her as evidence of our past. I just hope it’s enough.

I go in through the back window my brother and I snuck in and out of as kids. I’m surprised DiAngelo never had the faulty latch replaced. I would have thought he’d be taking better care of them. Not that their safety matters to me—for Dad, in particular—but I would think D would care.

As expected, the place is empty. The eerie silence inside the old house I used to know so well has every hair on my arms and neck standing on end. Everything is the same but different. The same living room configuration but new furniture. Different wall color with the same painting of a desert sunset over the sofa. Life went on without me. I knew that, but seeing evidence of it stirs up an unexpected degree of pain and anger.

Visions of me tearing the place to pieces flash through my mind.

I don’t give them any power. I’m not going to wreck the place like a lunatic, but a small, feral part of me wants to do it. Instead, I head upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

My heart thuds louder in my ears with every step.

I don’t know what to expect, so I can’t prepare myself. I don’t know if I’d be more upset to see all signs of me erased, or to discover the room was left untouched as some sort of tribute. Probably the latter, oddly enough, because fuck that. They don’t get to throw me away, then honor my memory.

Realizing I stopped at the top of the stairs, I chide myself.

Get this over with, and let’s get the hell out of here.

I peek into DiAngelo’s room on the way, seeing it’s been updated in the same manner as the rest of the house—new bedding and paint on the walls, but his bedside lamp is the same, along with band posters that are now framed.

My turn.

I round the corner into my old room and find neither of the scenarios I’d expected. The room has been updated exactly the same as DiAngelo’s room. Matching bedding. New paint on the walls. A collection of baseball cards has been framed in a fancy display. As I move closer, I see it’s all my favorite players—the cards I was most proud to own.

The room is cozy and masculine and perfectly suited to host a guest—one guest in particular. Me. The room looks like how I would have expected it to look had I never been taken. As though, in their eyes, I never left.

I’m not sure how to process the discovery.

A niggling sense of doubt scrapes its claws down the back of my neck, and I’m not sure why. The fact that they felt guilt or remorse over losing me doesn’t absolve them of their role. End of story.

Properly chastened, I head to the closet with a scowl on my face. My old clothes are gone, but some of my old books and collectibles are still stored inside. Most importantly, the wood plank in the back corner hasn’t been replaced. It’s still the same small scrap that was never properly secured in place.

I take out the wood plank and see that my secret hiding place was never found. The small shoebox I stashed inside is exactly where I left it.