9. SIREN
9
SIREN
W hat in the ever-loving fuck just happened? I don’t even know what to feel about it. Embarrassment that Reaper just witnessed the lowest point of my career or relief that he was there to save my stupid ass. Either way, I’m now left even more confused than I was before.
This is the third time he’s shown up like that. Well, I suppose the first time while on the roof doesn’t exactly count. He was already there and watched me make a break for the roof, but then he stayed and made a point that he was untouchable. The other two times—tonight and with The Boston Maneater—were different. He specifically made a point to be there. With The Boston Maneater, I could have easily shrugged it off as a coincidence, but twice in a row? There’s no coincidence here. He’s been tracking me, and he’s been doing it flawlessly.
Every step I have taken has been done with caution, except for one slight mistake with a rope, but that’s beside the point. I have been careful. Everywhere I go, I’ve made sure that I’m not being followed. I take extra precautions, watch my back at every step. There’s no way he should be able to track me, but he keeps showing up.
Why me, though? Am I his biggest target? His biggest threat? Or does he simply just enjoy watching the show? Either way, I want answers, and I want them now.
Leaving the IDs of The Midnight Killer and 343 behind, I make a break for it, racing out of the burned-down gym and tracking every step that Reaper has taken. I know I shouldn’t. Every fiber of my body is telling me to run in the opposite direction. But what can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it when I was dangling by my hair, and for whatever reason, he didn’t. Now I need to figure out why.
My gaze scans the night. He’s nowhere to be seen, but I forge ahead anyway, sticking to the shadows and tracking him the way I would a target. It’s not rocket science. There’s a bright side of the road, lit up by the new gym and on the opposite side, there’s dark alleys covered in shadows.
I’ll take my chances with the dark side of the road.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I make my way down the path, keeping myself discreet as I pass building after building, checking the alleys before moving on. He’s a ghost, so I have to think like one.
My head hurts from the almost scalping, and at some point, I’m going to have to take a few painkillers and lay down for the foreseeable future, maybe book a scalp massage, but until then, I’m determined to find this asshole.
Passing a twenty-four-hour laundromat, a chill sails down my spine, and that’s enough to know I’m in the right spot. Reaper is the only one who’s ever been capable of drawing such a reaction out of my body, and with that, I stop at the very next alley, turning to face the darkness.
I don’t see a thing, but the chill in my bones doesn’t fade, and as I scan the darkness, I know without a doubt he’s here somewhere. But like I said, he’s a ghost, and I need to start thinking like one.
Continuing forward, I head down the dark alley, taking it slow as I scan my surroundings. He’s been tracking me since the second War Games started, and I’ve been blind to it, but that stops now.
I pass by the back entrance of the laundromat before sailing on past old, discarded boxes that have been chewed by mice and a large dumpster that hasn’t seen warm water and soap for years. The smell that comes with it is disgusting, and just as I pass far enough to take a breath without wanting to gag, a hand shoots toward me, gripping my throat before slamming me against the brick wall of the laundromat.
“Why the fuck are you following me?” Reaper growls, his imposing body hovering over mine and making my knees shake with fear.
Holy fucking shit.
He’s terrifying, but it’s not so much his large body that has me shaking in my boots, it’s the emptiness of his dark eyes. There’s just something so intriguing about them. I knew he was attractive the second I saw him. He’s deathly attractive, the most breathtaking human I’ve ever seen, but up close like this, he’s simply . . . everything.
There’s the slightest hint of his tattoos peeking out from the neckline of his shirt, and just like the last time I saw them, it leaves me desperate to see more. Desperate to find out what art decorates his strong body. But as I stand closer than I’ve ever been, I notice something new about him—a scar. It starts at the top of his brow and slices straight through to the center of his cheekbone, leaving me intrigued and needing to know exactly what happened to him.
I wonder what he would do if I were to reach up and touch it, to brush my fingers across the angry scarring on his face. Would I lose my life or just my fingers? Or perhaps I wouldn’t lose anything at all. The one thing I know for sure is that being intrigued about a man like this could only mean trouble for me.
His fingers tighten on my throat, but not enough to block my airway, and I can’t lie, if I weren’t about to shit my pants with fear, this would absolutely turn me on. His fingers are large, and I can feel the underlying strength within them. He could snap my neck if he wanted to, and yet all that matters is how warm his skin is against mine.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get my shit together before this man leaves me as nothing more than a forgotten body in an old alleyway.
Swallowing past the fear, I shove his chest, and he backs up, shock flickering in those lifeless eyes as though he hadn’t expected me to be so bold. Though I suppose that doesn’t happen often for him. People crumble under his stare, run in the opposite direction, never seek him out, and they sure as fuck never fight back.
“Why did you do it?” I demand. “Why spare me?”
He stares at me as though he can’t get a read on me, and honestly, I don’t blame him. I can’t seem to get a read on me either. “Would you have preferred that I didn’t?” he asks, recovering from his earlier shock and creeping back in, his fingers testing their limits on my throat.
I clench my jaw, certain he doesn’t intend to kill me, at least not tonight. “You don’t think I’m worth your time, do you?” I question as an ugliness begins to take hold of my chest. After all, I haven’t worked as hard as I have just to be pushed aside and looked over when it actually matters.
Those lifeless eyes hold mine with such scrutiny it’s hard to hold his stare. “Oh, how easily your ego is bruised, Little Siren.”
I fix him with a heavy stare, letting him know I’m not backing down until I get the answers I’m looking for, and when he lets out a heavy sigh and loosens his hold on my neck, a shiver sails down my spine, only this one isn’t like the chills I got earlier. This is different.
His eyes become softer, suddenly no longer lifeless, but filled with a deep excitement that makes my heart race, and I don’t doubt he feels it with the heavy beat of my pulse thrumming against his fingers at the base of my throat. “Killing you would be the greatest reward I’ve ever achieved, Kienna James.”
I suck in a gasp, my back stiffening as he uses my real name—a name that not even I have used since I was fourteen years old.
His fingers loosen further, and as he holds my stare, his hand grows heavy, sinking lower and dropping to my chest. “I have watched you closely these past few days. You have intrigued me. Your moves are divine, and when you take a life, it’s like a precise dance, an absolute masterpiece. To take your life would be nothing less than an honor. When I kill you, which I will, sweet Siren, I expect it will be a kill worthy of shouting from a rooftop.”
I lift my chin, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how his body presses in closer, his hard edges right up against my soft ones. “I see,” I whisper, his lips only a breath away from mine as the sexual tension in the air almost cripples me. “You’re all about the chase? You like a woman who’ll make you work for it.”
His hand drops lower, grasping my waist and squeezing tight, and he presses me harder against the brick wall. “I like a woman who gets on her knees and begs for it.”
Well, fuck. For him, I’ll beg until my throat is raw, not that I’m about to let him know that.
My hand slips up the front of his black shirt, brushing across the hard ridges of his abs before roaming higher to his wide chest. My fingers splay over his warm skin, and as my knees grow weaker with a deep need, I can’t help but fantasize about how good it could be between us. “You really think I’m about to give it up for you?” I ask, letting my fingers explore his strong chest.
His lips drop to the base of my throat, roaming over my skin the same way my fingers roam over his. “I don’t see why not,” he murmurs against my neck. “You’ll be dead in the next twenty-five days, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t enjoy what little time you have left.”
A sharp scoff tears out of my throat, his callous words like a bucket of ice water being tipped over my head. I shove him back, freeing my hand from the confines of his tight shirt as I hold his heated stare. “You’re a little too confident for a dead man.”
“Don’t be foolish, Little Siren,” he says, a hint of amusement in his deep tone. “You and I both know you won’t get the drop on me.”
“Is that so?” I ask, stepping away from him, taking note of how easily he allows me to go.
Reaper’s only response is to nod, and I can’t help the smile that cuts across my face. This is the best foreplay I’ve ever had. “We’ll see about that,” I tell him. “Oh, and next time you call me by my real name, I will put a bullet through your brain.”
He nods again. “Noted.”
“Good.”
Walking away, I make my way back up the alley. Only I stop once I reach the top and glance back at him one more time, hating how fucking wet he made me. I’m going to have to get my ass home and deal with this before I explode.
He’s watching me leave, and as I capture his dark gaze one last time, a wicked grin stretches across my face. “For the record, when you get me all worked up and wet like this again, you better have the fucking balls to follow through.”
Reaper takes a step as if to come and show me just how well he can follow through, but before he gets a chance to show me just how good it could be, I’m gone.
After all, it’s best to always keep them wanting, right? Because at least that way, when he sees me next, he’s going to be thinking a little less about killing me and more about fucking me raw. And that right there is a plan I can more than get down with.
Making my way back to the old gym, I take my time, knowing that Reaper won’t be coming after me again tonight. I’m sure he crossed many of his own boundaries by saving me, talking to me, and touching me tonight, just as I’ve crossed many of my own.
Seducing the enemy? Allowing him to get that close? Not exactly my finest hour. He could have killed me at any moment, but I felt safe with him. I believed that he didn’t want to hurt me, and when I pushed him back, letting him know he was getting too close, he gave me the space I needed. Don’t get me wrong, I fully believe that when the time comes, he’ll end me just as he’s promised, but until then, I don’t think he means me any harm. If anything, I think he’s curious about me, and as long as he remains curious, then I’ll live to see another day.
Though if I allow myself to be as foolish as I was tonight, then perhaps that whole living to see another day thing won’t actually be the case. I fucked up, made a colossal mistake, and if it weren’t for Reaper’s decision to show kindness, I would already be dead. But getting caught up in that rope wasn’t the only mistake I made. I wasn’t careful. I allowed myself to be tracked.
I’ve gotten too comfortable. Careless. I need to do better.
The Midnight Killer came into this old gym thinking he had the upper hand. He was luring 343 into a trap, but instead, all he managed to do was send himself to an early grave. On the other hand, 343 managed to get himself killed simply by not being aware of his surroundings. I won’t be that foolish again.
After retrieving both The Midnight Killer’s and 343’s IDs, I add them to my small pile. I officially have six, but to be completely honest, I don’t feel great about it. I killed The Boston Maneater fair and square, and I was happy to take claim over the previous kills he’d collected. As for 343 and The Midnight Killer, I can’t help but feel that these belong to Reaper. I may have helped 343 fall and break his back, but Reaper was the one who finished him.
They’re not mine to claim, and while I don’t doubt that he’ll return at some point to collect them, I feel wrong having them at all. Despite being a contract killer—and one of the most wanted persons across the globe—I like to consider myself somewhat of a rule follower. I play fair, and while I’m happy to hold onto the IDs just to ensure no one else gets their grubby hands on them, I don’t consider them mine.
Now, as for the two knives Reaper so happily parted with in this charred gym, I’m more than happy to claim them as my own. They can be a souvenir, something to remind me of what comes from foolishness. Though, just like the IDs, I’m sure Reaper will come looking for these too. Unfortunately for him, if he wants them back, he will have to pry them out of his own damn chest.
I pull the first one straight out of 343’s throat, and despite the blood staining the blade, it’s clear that this isn’t some run-of-the-mill knife. This is custom-made, the hilt created to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, and judging by the craftsmanship and the etched design of the Grim Reaper on the blade, I can only assume this didn’t come cheap.
After wiping the blood off the blade, I sheath it into one of my holsters before searching the gym for the other blade. And because nothing worth having is easy, it’s hanging from the metal beam in the ceiling.
“Shit.”
I consider leaving it behind, but a knife like this, covered in his fingerprints, is practically a calling card, and for whatever reason, I feel like I need to protect Reaper. After all, he threw this blade with the intention of saving my life, and for that, I owe him. The only issue is figuring out how the fuck to get up there.
Being the brightest crayon in the box, the best idea I can come up with is to simply launch shit at it until it dislodges from the metal beam, and with the confidence of a drunk sorority girl on the dance floor, I start hauling weights through the air.
My confidence quickly begins to run out when my arm starts getting sore, but I persist until a five-pound dumbbell finally slams into the blade, setting the bastard free. Only it doesn’t just drop to the ground, the momentum from the hit has it whipping through the charred gym, and I fly to the ground, doing what I can to protect my head until the blade finally clatters to the ground.
I quickly find it covered in soot, and after wiping it off, I sheath it next to its match before finally getting my ass moving. Then, as I start up my black Range Rover and peel out onto the main road, I press Mila’s name on my phone and wait for her to answer the call and bitch me out.
“The fuck was that?” Mila demands not a moment later. “If you were trying to get yourself killed, you should have just told me. I could have easily done it for you.”
A stupid grin stretches across my face, and I relax back into the driver’s seat, getting comfortable for the trip back to my villa. “I’m okay, Mills,” I tell her. “There’s barely a scratch on me. Besides, have you ever been hung from your hair and almost scalped? It was quite the adventure.”