CHAPTER 1
Someone is watching me. Which is a weird thing to say when you’re standing behind a bar serving drinks to a bunch of people waiting their turn.
I work in one of London’s many pubs, and like all of them, this one’s packed on a Friday night.
“Riven!” A regular customer waves for my attention.
“Just a sec!” I finish pouring the beers and serve them, then I head in his direction.
Music blasts from the speakers. People are chatting, laughing, and clinking glasses.
All the while the prickling in my neck, the nagging feeling of being watched, just won’t die down.
There’s a sense of imminent danger in the air that doesn’t belong here.
While pouring drinks for the customer and his friends, my eyes examine the room.
The dim lighting in the pub accentuates the dark wood.
The walls are full of vintage plates, pictures, old framed newspaper articles, and cool commercials, some of which are older than me.
My boss, John, told me this building is more than three hundred years old, and it’s been a pub ever since its construction.
The first time I came to this place was to rob a rich dude meeting with his colleagues after hours.
Now I work here.
My eyes roam over familiar faces and visitors until I spot a man sitting by himself at a table in the farthest corner.
His back’s to the wall, the room on full display in front of him, as if he’s a soldier on a mission.
Even though I can’t see his face because of the damn lighting in here, I can feel him watching me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but there’s also a tingling sensation in my stomach.
I’m glad I’m wearing one of my favorite dresses tonight. It’s in a lovely shade of blue, with a V neckline, thin straps, and a flare skirt. It’s too short and thin for outdoors, but since it’s warm indoors, I don’t mind wearing it.
It’s a pleasant change from my usual black-on-black outfit.
As I clear a table, I feel his eyes following me. Slowly undressing me.
Normally, I only flirt with customers, not go out with them, but I could use a distraction tonight. The last time I had sex was months ago, and the circumstances were disturbing at best.
Unforgettable.
Haunting.
Two hours later, he hasn’t moved from his position, still sitting at the table in the farthest corner, all alone.
He didn’t drink that much, if I recall correctly.
Two beers max. And yet he’s still here, eating me up with his eyes and ignoring everyone, although a couple of women did try to approach him.
Whatever he said to them, they left pretty quickly and never once looked back.
That alone should be alarming, but I find myself intrigued.
My stomach does a little flip-flop when our eyes meet again, and I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from curling.
He’s persistent—I’ll give him that. An aura of mystery surrounds him, a darkness I can relate to, because being a bartender is just a side gig. My real job takes me out at night too, but rather than serving people drinks, I disburden them of stuff.
I’m a thief. I steal for whoever hires me. And they pay me well, because I’m that good, and I don’t get caught. I’ve come close, sure, but I’ve never found myself in handcuffs, and I don’t plan on that changing anytime soon.
I might make an exception if it’s for fun though . . .
Thieving’s a lonesome job, and even I, an introverted soul who loves to be alone and have plenty of me-time, need some social interaction. At least from time to time.
Hence the bartending gig, and the occasional one-night stand.
Though when I look back at his table, he’s gone.
Blinking in confusion, I glance around, craning my neck to find him among all these people. There’s no sign of him, only his empty beer bottle. He disappeared without a trace—and without even talking to me, giving me his number, or asking for mine.
Well, shit.
I swallow down my disappointment and clean up his now empty table. There’s still a prickling in my neck, and the feeling of being watched, but it’s different now. The allure of danger is gone, just like he is.
Shaking my head at myself, I ignore the sensation and head back to the counter.
A new guy sits on one of the stools, giving me the once-over and a handsome grin. His stare follows me too as I pour his beer, talk to other customers, and take orders. He looks about my age, with brown hair and intense green eyes. There’s a flutter in my stomach whenever our eyes meet.
But when I turn around again, he’s disappeared. Nowhere to be found.
Damn it. Seems to be my unlucky night.
The next time I look at the clock, it’s well after midnight. Closing time. Most of the guests are leaving, and it seems like I’m going home alone tonight.
Unless . . .
There's a pair of glorious high heels just waiting for me in my locker. I could put them on and get the Tube to a club. This plan doesn’t guarantee me a steamy night with a stranger, but at least it keeps my current disappointment in check.
Since my encounter with Reaper a couple of months ago, I’ve taken no one home with me, because I can’t get that man out of my head.
And I hate him for it. Hate him for fucking me so thoroughly that no one can compare.
Not even my own imagination. Every time I pleasure myself, his voice infiltrates my mind until it’s his dark and deadly eyes looking down on me, and his cock pumping into me instead of my vibrator.
It’s frustrating as hell. But it gets me off like nothing else.
So it’s probably a good thing the only two men I was interested in tonight left instead of hitting on me.
“I need to go,” John says, putting on his jacket. “You going to close up?”
“Sure thing,” I say, wiping over the countertop one last time.
The pub is empty. I’m the last one here. Finishing my shift and closing up won’t be a problem at all.
“Perfect.” John grabs his keys and waves at me from the doorway. “Good night, Riven.”
“Night, boss.”
After cleaning up and putting everything back where it belongs, I take off my work boots and put on my high heels, then I turn off all the lights and close up the pub. The wind makes me shiver, but at least it’s not raining anymore.
It’s almost 2 a.m. already, and the alley is eerily quiet. Normally, the darkness is my friend, since I need it for my actual job, but tonight, all alone in this abandoned alley, an icy shiver runs down my spine.
No fear though. A warning.
Only, when I look around, there’s no sign of immediate danger.
The streetlamp close to me flickers from time to time as if I’m in a horror movie. I swear, if it blinks out all of a sudden, I’ll scream.
I snatch my keys from my purse and hurry down the alley, cursing myself for not bringing my car and having to walk to the Tube instead.
Under normal circumstances, it’d be no problem, since I’m used to disappearing into the shadows if needed.
But I’ve never felt so intensely watched as tonight.
A feeling that hasn’t subsided even though I’m alone now.
This can’t be just my imagination, right?
I pissed off the Argentinian Mafia, sure, but that was months ago. Why send somebody to kill me now? That makes no sense.
My last job was ten days ago, and I’ve heard nothing suspicious since. The cops are completely in the dark. They’d never suspect a woman, let alone a bartender in her twenties, as the thief. I’m in no imminent danger.
At least, that’s what I hope as I walk through the barely lit alley.
A sudden noise makes me stop in my tracks. Fear courses through my body, and my stomach contracts.
What was that?
I don’t turn around, but I listen to every sound around me. Did I imagine it? Was it just an animal—a stray cat or a dog running around? A homeless person making their bed for the night?
Heart in my throat, I grab my keys tighter and speed up. There’s pepper spray in my bag for emergencies, but taking it out seems a bit overkill. Especially since it’s illegal—but then again, so is stealing.
I’m not quite a law-abiding citizen anyway.
When I’ve almost reached the end of the alley, I hear footsteps behind me.
Slow at first, then faster.
I run toward the multi-lane street, toward other people and cars passing by, toward safety and—
Arms grab me from behind.
A horrified scream rips from my body until a big hand slams down on my mouth, cutting me off.
My survival instinct kicks in, and I fight back fiercely. My elbow hits something, but my attacker doesn’t loosen his grip. Instead he pulls me even closer. I gasp for air, and everything stops.
The scent of ice and burning wood fills my nostrils. The scent of danger, death, and sin combined. It’s so familiar it’s almost painful.
This can’t be . . . It can’t be him.
La Guadana.
The Grim Reaper.
Blood rushes in my ears. My muscles tremble from adrenaline and tension, but the fight leaves my body in an instant. Only my heart beats at an erratic pace, like it’s the only thing left in me still fighting.
Last time I saw him was in an abandoned church in the middle of nowhere, months ago. I might have prayed that night, but certainly not to God.
After all the dirty and downright sinful things we did there, I got away from him, and I covered my tracks, as I always do. When he didn’t come after me, I began to feel safe, sure I’d never see him again.
Until tonight.
Until now.
His hand’s still covering my mouth as he whispers in my ear: “You can’t hide from me, little thief.”
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