“Now you tell me what you know. Why they want you dead.”
“Not here.” There was no way of telling how set they were on following me. They could easily sweep through the entire building looking for me. “We need to get completely clear of the building first.”
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded once. “Fine. But don’t think you can run. Our deal stands.”
“I know,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not running.”
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter 4
Maeve
We ran from the motel through a service exit, avoiding the main streets. Reaper led with silent confidence, moving through São Paulo’s backstreets like he’d memorized every alley and shadow. I stumbled after him, my legs heavy with exhaustion, lungs still burning from our escape.
The night air hung thick with humidity, carrying the distant scent of street food and exhaust fumes. Music thumped from somewhere—a nightclub or bar—the bass vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet.
After twenty minutes of zigzagging through the city, we approached a hulking structure in Brás—an abandoned textile factory with broken windows like jagged teeth against the night sky. The moon cast long shadows across its crumbling facade, graffiti visible even in the darkness.
The factory in front of us looked as if it had been untouched for the past few decades, yet Reaper moved with a certainty that suggested he had spent quite some time here.My God.Was this where he had been staying? Programming a man to turn into a machine rather than a human being wasone thing, but to not give him even basic decency—to fulfill these most primal necessities…
The back of my eyes burned. They undoubtedly didn’t even see these men asmenanymore. There were just means to an end.
“Is this where you’ve been staying?” I asked as Reaper found an entrance partially hidden by overgrown vegetation, even if I felt like I already knew the answer.
He didn’t answer, just held up a hand for silence as he scanned the area, his body tense and alert like a predator. After a moment, he motioned me inside.
The interior stretched vast and empty, moonlight slicing through shattered skylights. My footsteps echoed on concrete floors stained with dark patches—chemical spills from decades past creating bizarre, twisted patterns. Wind whispered through broken windows, creating a hollow, keening sound that raised goosebumps on my arms.
Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped steadily, the sound amplifying in the cavernous space. The air tasted of rust and decay.
Realization settled in my mind, quick and certain. No one knew I was here with him. He could easily kill me here—he was skilled enough to do it—and no one would ever know what had happened to me. I tensed at the thought, but chose to chase it away. Hesavedmy life. Surely he must have wanted to know the truth as much as I did.
Reaper navigated the factory’s maze-like interior without hesitation, making turns with such certainty that I wondered how many times he’d been here before. I cataloged every detailas we moved—exits, hiding spots, anything I could use if this alliance soured.
We reached what had once been an office in the back corner. Reaper unlocked a reinforced door I wouldn’t have noticed without him showing me.
Inside was bare-bones survival—a mattress on the floor, emergency supplies stacked in plastic containers, and a single lamp. The walls were bare concrete, cold, and impersonal. The temperature dropped at least ten degrees compared to outside, the chill seeping into my already aching bones. My teeth began chattering, no matter how hard I tried to keep them under control.
Reaper secured the door, checked the single window, and then examined the entire space—movements so practiced they seemed automatic rather than conscious decisions. I noticed how he tapped each wall, listening for hollow spots. Paranoia or training? Probably both.
“That’s your idea of a safe house?” I finally broke the silence, positioning myself against the wall with clear sightlines to the door. My legs threatened to give out, but I tried to maintain composure. “It’s freezing in here.”
Reaper turned to me, his face unreadable in the harsh lamplight. “You claim to have information I need. Talk.”
My body betrayed me as I sank onto the edge of the mattress, exhaustion and hunger making me dizzy. When had I last eaten? The protein bar in my bag felt like days ago.
“I need water,” I said, hating how weak my voice sounded. “I can’t exactly give you the story of a lifetime when my tongue feels like sandpaper.”
His expression hardened, ice-blue eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Goodness,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “Look, basic biology, okay? Dehydration equals brain fog. You want clear answers? Help me function first.”
For a moment, I thought he’d refuse. Then he muttered something under his breath—a curse that sounded particularly vile—and stalked to a side cabinet. He returned with a bottle of water and a packet of crackers, tossing them onto the mattress beside me.
“Drink. Eat. Then talk,” he ordered. He looked uncomfortably tense as he stood across me, his broad arms crossed over his chest. “My patience has limits.”
I bit back a sharp retort and instead gulped down half the bottle in desperate swallows, my body craving the hydration. The crackers were stale, but I devoured them anyway, feeling some clarity return with each bite.
