Page 38 of Death is My Ride or Die

“Not in a thousand years,” I seethed.

“Oh, I’ve got time, cupcake. I’ve got forever. But what about your mortal friend?”

Death’s gloved hand lifted to his lips. He bit down on a wrapper and slowly slid another candy into his mouth. His veiled glare pierced mine as I battled internally to hide my frustration. There was no reasoning with him, and I couldn’t be selfish. Not when it was life or death for Marcy. Denying him was a privilege I didn’t have.

For Marcy. With my chin lifted high, I strode forward. My knees hit the ground, the thin material of my leggings allowing no cushion against the cold, unforgiving marble floor.

“Look at me,” Death demanded.

The monster before me embodied pure, unfeeling evil. Shaking with mortification, I refused to give him the satisfaction of my defeat.

I slowly tilted my head up to glare at his tattooed throat.

Death’s long leg stretched out, the heel of a black, worn-out leather combat boot slamming into the floor like a hammer and startling me as it came down right beside my body. The throne-like desk chair slid against the floor, slowly dragging him closer until the apex of his thighs nearly touched my chest.

“In the eyes.”

I lifted my chin. Shadows fell away from his features like tendrils, and I ceased any movement.

Death’s true identity drew me in like a predator luring in its prey. He was a monster in an angel’s skin. His lighter green eye sported a long, jagged scar that stretched from his eyebrow to his high cheekbone. I imagined something with hooks for nails had ripped into his face and not even immortality could heal it. He kept his hair shaved short on both sides of his skull and longer at the top, his thick midnight mane of loose curls shaped into a messy faux-hawk. Stubble shadowed a masculine jaw, and his nose was strong and Roman. That harsh scar over his eye, paired with a few piercings scattered around his carved features, made him look vicious, like he’d scalp a guy for looking at him sideways. Fit his personality to a T.

His expression held not even a flicker of humanity or emotion. No amusement in his eyes, no arrogant twist to his mouth. Nothing. A blank slate—an empty canvas daring the interpretation of my brush. The careful intention of this communicated a high level of intelligence, a self-awareness beyond my years of experience, and a terrifying level of control. Control that had saved my life once or twice—ifsavedwas even the correct word. Control that could flip on a dime and put the whole world in peril.

Death could be the poison, or he could be the cure. Maybe that was why he was such a beautiful yet frightening sight to behold.

He reached toward me, holding my jaw in place to keep our eyes connected. Another piece of my heart fragmented beneath his touch as he whispered, “Now say please.”

A few tears that I’d desperately tried to hold back came forth, despite my best efforts to keep them in. “Please,” I said tightly.

His gloved thumb dragged across my wet cheekbone, curiosity mingling with wicked intentions as he studied my face in the palm of his hand. I pictured the inhuman strength behind his touch, how he’d torn Malphas’s underlings apart in the alleyway, and the vicious power beneath the thin layer of his glove. He intercepted a droplet as it slid down my cheek, my lips. His mouth tilted up at one side before he aggressively swiped away the tear.

He rubbed the moisture slowly between his thumb and middle finger. Fastening his eyes on mine again, he then dragged his wet thumb over his tongue.

“That will suffice,” Death decided. “For now.”

Whatever spell he’d had me under shattered as his boots landed on the ground on either side of me. He lifted his enormous frame from the chair, and I had to sit back on my heels to avoid his legs hitting my face. He towered over me like a brutal god.

I crawled backward and hurried to my feet, but standing did very little to close our height difference or ease my anxiety.

“Stop crying,” Death said. “It’s time for solutions.”

He prowled away without warning, heading to the glass meeting table. Hugging my arms, I followed him. Death peeled his leather jacket off and dumped it haphazardly on the table, knocking over a container of pens in the process. I tried and failed to not notice the way his long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his powerful upper body. He plucked a black pen from the mess, uncapped it with his lips, and spit the cap out like a bullet to the floor.

“Sit.”

Sit.Like a dog. I lowered into the modern swivel chair opposite him, simmering with rage on the inside.

“Malphas will not kill your friend,” Death said, countering what he’d said earlier, to my surprise. His voice had slipped back into that cold, predatory growl, the magnetic pull between us gone. “When he killed all those guardian Light Angels, it was strategic. They were sacrifices to resurrect Ahrimad’s soul from the Underworld. What Malphas wants now is power overyou. He has less of it if Marney—or whatever her name is—dies, because losing leverage over you lessens his chances of getting theBook of the Dead. Which is something he cannot afford.”

“But why would he take Marcy? I don’t have theBook of the Dead, and neither do you.”

“Yet,”the Grim Reaper said. “Your aunt is the current protector of the grimoire; therefore, she knows its location. I suspect that Malphas or Ahrimad have figured out her connection, and that’s why Malphas had an interest in you all along.”

“That’s where Lucifer is right now, isn’t it? Prying the location out of my aunt.”

Death gave away nothing.

“If he hurts my aunt . . . ” I began.

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