“Reaper?” I touched his face, alarm shooting through me. “Reaper!”
No response. His breathing turned shallow and irregular, but at least he was still breathing. The poison had finally pulled him under completely, leaving me truly alone.
A persistent ringing broke the silence. I turned to see Reaper’s phone lit up on the nightstand, vibrating against the wooden surface with impatient urgency.Unknown caller.
I ignored it, focusing instead on replacing the now-warm cloth on Reaper’s forehead with a fresh, cool one. The phone eventually stopped, only to begin again seconds later with increased intensity, as though the caller could sense being deliberately ignored.
The ringing finally ceased. The sudden silence felt weighted, oppressive—the quiet before something breaks.
Then came the sharp notification sound of an incoming text. Against my better judgment and every instinct for self-preservation, I reached for Reaper’s phone.
The message displayed clearly on the lock screen, words that turned my blood to ice:
Ms. Durham. I know you’re there. Answer the phone when it rings. Your cooperation will determine whether Reaper ends up in a body bag or merely in restraints.
My stomach dropped, replaced by cold dread that spread through my veins like the poison in Reaper’s. They knew my name. They knew exactly where we were. We weren’t hiding—we were already found.
I looked up from the phone to Reaper’s unconscious face. The blue-black poison lines now reached his jaw, creeping toward his temple like death claiming territory inch by inch.
The phone in my hand began to ring once more. This time, I had no choice but to pick up.
Chapter 12
Maeve
The phone seemed to gain weight in my hand, as if the call itself could somehow harm me. I watched Reaper’s chest rise and fall with shallow breaths, the blue-black lines of poison standing in stark relief against his now pale skin.
With trembling fingers, I swiped to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Durham.” The voice on the other end was smooth, casual almost—a businessman on a conference call rather than the puppet master of a shadow organization. “I was beginning to worry you might not answer. How disappointing that would have been for everyone involved.”
I said nothing, watching Reaper’s chest rise and fall with each labored breath.
“Nothing to say? That’s surprising for a journalist of your caliber.” The caller’s voice filled the silence between us, cool and controlled. “Perhaps you’re distracted by my operative’s condition.” I reached for Reaper’s hand, as if it would somehow help ground me in this situation.
“I’m Reaper’s handler. You can call me Brock.” He introduced himself with unsettling politeness, as if we weremeeting at a gallery opening instead of across a battlefield. “I must say, I’ve admired your work. Your tenacity in digging up information about our little organization is quite impressive. It’s an honor to speak with Xavier Hale’s sister—or should I say, Blackout’s sister? Such a touching family reunion this could be.”
The mention of Xavier’s codename sent my heart racing, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing it in my voice.
“What do you want?” I asked flatly.
A soft chuckle. “Straight to business. I appreciate that.” His tone hardened. “I want my asset back. Now.”
“Your asset?” I glanced at Reaper, the blue-black lines spreading across his skin. “He’s dying. You poisoned him. The blue lines have reached his jaw. He needs an antidote.”
There was a pause before he spoke again. “Fascinating. The compound is progressing faster than anticipated.”
The detachment in his voice made my stomach turn. This man had shaped Reaper, broken him apart, and rebuilt him into a weapon. And now he was observing his deterioration like a scientist watching bacteria in a petri dish.
“You know he took that bullet for me,” I said.
“A regrettable deviation from protocol,” Brock replied. “Though scientifically valuable. His conditioning should have prevented such… heroics.”
Brock continued, “It would be a real pleasure to accompany Reaper personally. I think we’re overdue for a little chat—all three of us.” The thinly veiled threat in hiswords made my stomach clench. I couldn’t force myself to say a single word.
“I need to observe him immediately,” Brock continued, all business now. His tone shifted to something colder, more detached. “Bring him to me within two hours. I’ll text you the coordinates.” Not a request—a command from someone used to absolute compliance.
