CHAPTER 29| The Reapers Discard
I wake up cold.
Not the comfortable cool of air conditioning or the gentle chill of early morning. This is bone-deep, soul-crushing cold that seeps into my marrow and makes my chest ache.
The bed is empty.
I blink in the dim light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, my hand reaching across the massive expanse of black sheets to where Nikolai should be. Where he's been every morning for weeks now—wrapped around me like I'm something precious he needs to protect even in sleep.
Nothing. Just cold fabric and the faint indentation where his body used to be.
My heart starts to pound, a sick feeling settling in my stomach like lead.
I sit up slowly, looking down at myself.
I'm fully dressed—oversized cardigan buttoned all the way up, leggings covering my legs, even socks on my feet.
The same clothes I wore yesterday before everything changed.
Before Nikolai made me fall apart on the kitchen counter.
Before I watched him stroke himself while commanding my pleasure from across the room.
I went to sleep naked in his arms, utterly boneless and satisfied and safe.
He must have dressed me while I slept. Carefully. Deliberately.
The sick feeling intensifies.
Something is wrong.
I slide out of bed on shaking legs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor as I move toward the bedroom door. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to go back, to hide, to protect myself from whatever is waiting on the other side.
But I need to see him. Need to hear his voice and feel his hands and know that last night wasn't some beautiful dream I conjured from desperation.
The living room is bathed in early morning light, all glass and steel and cold elegance. And there—standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Ardencrest campus—is Nikolai.
He's wearing a suit. Sharp, dark, perfectly tailored. His hair is styled, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back like he's addressing a boardroom instead of the girl he worshipped just hours ago.
He doesn't turn when I enter. Doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
"Nikolai?" My voice comes out small. Uncertain.
He turns slowly, and the bottom drops out of my world.
His eyes are empty.
Not cold—I've seen Nikolai cold before, seen him look at people like they're insects to be crushed. This is different. This is nothing. Flat, dead, entirely void of any emotion at all.
The dark obsession is gone. The hunger, the possession, the twisted love that made him drop to his knees and worship me like something sacred—all of it vanished like it never existed.
I'm looking at a stranger wearing Nikolai's face.
"Pack your things and leave." His voice is clinical. Detached. Like he's dismissing a servant instead of the girl he spent weeks carefully healing.
My breath catches. "What?"
He doesn't step toward me. Doesn't soften. Just stands there in his perfect suit with his dead eyes and continues in that same flat tone: "The game is over, Leah. You were never a queen. You were a psychological project. A broken, traumatized girl who presented an interesting challenge."
The words hit like physical blows. My chest heaves, my vision blurring at the edges.
"My only mission," he continues with terrible precision, "was to see if I could manipulate you into trusting me.
To see if I could make someone as damaged as you willingly spread your legs for me despite everything you've been through.
" His lips curve into something that might be a smile if smiles could be weapons.
"And you did. Beautifully, actually. Better than I expected. "
I shake my head violently, my hands coming up to cover my mouth. No. No, this isn't real. This isn't happening.
"Now that I've accomplished that goal," Nikolai says, examining his cufflinks with casual disinterest, "I'm bored. Completely and utterly bored. So you need to leave my penthouse before I tire of looking at you."
The sick feeling in my stomach explodes into something violent and all-consuming. Rage. Betrayal. Heartbreak so profound it feels like my chest is caving in.
I force myself to take a step forward. Then another. My voice shakes as I speak—the voice he begged to hear, the voice I gave only to him: "No. You're lying."
His eyebrow arches. "Am I?"
"You love me." The words come out desperate, broken. "You said—you told me—"
"I told you exactly what you needed to hear to make you compliant." His tone is bored now, almost irritated. "Monsters don't love, papillon. We just play with our food until we get bored. And I'm very, very bored now."
Another step forward. My hands are shaking so badly I have to clench them into fists. "You're lying. I know you. I know what you—"
"You know nothing." His voice drops into something dangerous.
"You're a deaf, broken, pathetic little girl who was so desperate for affection that she let a psychopath fuck her with his tongue on a kitchen counter.
Do you have any idea how easy you were to manipulate?
How predictable every trauma response was? "
The slap happens before I consciously decide to do it.
My palm connects with his face hard enough that the crack echoes through the massive living room. Hard enough that my hand goes numb. Hard enough that his head snaps to the side.
I'm breathing hard, tears streaming down my face, my whole body vibrating with the force of my rage and pain.
Nikolai's head turns slowly back to face me. When his eyes meet mine, there's nothing human in them. Nothing soft or loving or even angry.
Just cold, murderous madness.
The Reaper.
He steps into my space—so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something darker. His hand shoots out, gripping my jaw hard enough to hurt, forcing my face up to meet his gaze.
"Get out of my penthouse," he says softly, each word enunciated with terrible precision, "before I kill you for daring to touch me."
His fingers tighten fractionally on my jaw, and I see it—the real desire to hurt me flickering behind those empty eyes. Not the controlled dominance he used in the bedroom. Not the careful handling of my trauma.
This is genuine violence waiting to be unleashed.
This is the monster without any of the love tempering it.
I wrench myself away from his grip, stumbling backward. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe, my vision swimming with tears.
He just stands there, perfectly composed in his perfect suit, looking at me like I'm absolutely nothing.
"Get. Out."
I run.
I don't pack my bags. Don't grab my phone or my shoes or anything else. Just sprint for the door, my socked feet slipping on the hardwood, my breath coming in desperate, broken sobs.
The elevator ride down is endless. I'm shaking so hard my legs barely hold me up, my hands wrapped around my middle like I can physically hold myself together.
The lobby is empty at this early hour. I push through the glass doors and out onto the Ardencrest campus, the cool morning air hitting my face like a slap.
I have no idea where I'm going. No destination in mind. Just away. Anywhere that isn't here, isn't him, isn't the penthouse where I thought I'd finally found safety.
The tears are coming so fast I can barely see. My breath hitches and catches in my throat, sobs tearing out of me as I stumble down the pristine sidewalks.
I'm such an idiot. Such a stupid, naive, broken idiot.
Of course it was fake. Of course someone like Nikolai couldn't actually love someone like me. He's beautiful and powerful and terrifying, and I'm just—I'm nothing. Damaged goods. A psychological experiment.
The campus buildings blur past me as I walk faster, then jog, then run. Away from the Elite Residence Hall, away from the central quad, toward the outer edges of campus where the carefully manicured lawns give way to darker, emptier streets.
I don't know how long I walk. Minutes? Hours? Time has lost all meaning in the haze of my breakdown.
The street I'm on now is completely empty. No students, no security guards, no witnesses to my complete emotional collapse.
I'm so focused on the agony tearing through my chest that I don't hear the footsteps until they're right behind me.
Heavy. Multiple sets. Moving fast.
I start to turn, but something slams into me from the side. Large hands grip my arms, my waist, hauling me backward.
I try to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth. Not just a hand—fabric. Rough and chemical-soaked, the smell burning my nose and making my eyes water.
Chloroform.
The word surfaces from some distant part of my brain even as the world starts to spin. I thrash, trying to fight, but there are too many of them. Too strong. Too coordinated.
My vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in like ink spreading through water. I can see shapes—three, maybe four large men in dark clothing. Can feel them lifting me, carrying me toward something.
A van. Black and unmarked.
I try to fight harder, but my limbs are going numb. Heavy. Unresponsive.
The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me completely is the Ardencrest campus in the distance, all its beautiful buildings and perfect lawns and promises of safety.
All of it a lie.
Just like Nikolai.
Just like everything.
Then nothing.