Page 50 of War Games

Pulling my blade out of my pocket, I step toward The Texan Reaper, more than ready to get this over and done with. “What do you say?” I taunt, twisting the blade between my fingers. “Make it quick with a shot straight through the eye into the brain, or perhaps I should just gut you like a fish?”

“Go to hell,” he spits.

“I’m already well on my way,” I tell him. “I suppose I’ll see you there.”

Then just as I go to make my kill, a feminine gasp sounds from the opening of the alley, followed by a guy’s voice. “Hey. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Fuck.

My head snaps up, taking in the group of teenagers standing at the top of the alley. There are at least seven of them. Three girls and four boys, each of them looking barely eighteen, probably out looking for trouble on this beautiful Saturday night.

My hand tightens on the blade as I consider my options. I could finish the kill and get this asshole out of my way while scarring these kids for the rest of their lives, or I can slink away and come back to finish him off another time. I’ve never walkedaway from a kill, but now that the kids are starting to pull out their phones to record, I doubt I have any fucking choice.

“Shit,” I mutter before smirking at The Texan Reaper. “Consider yourself lucky. I’ll be back for you, and when I do, I’ll make it fucking count,” and with that, I disappear, kicking in the back door of one of the stores in the alley and cutting through the building, doing everything in my power to evade having my face uploaded on social media. I’ve gone to such extreme lengths to keep myself invisible, and The Texan Reaper won’t be the reason for my downfall, not tonight, not fucking ever.

Slipping out an office window of the store, I’m able to jump over a back fence and finally escape out into the next street, and just as I hear the familiar sound of sirens breaking through the night, I slip away into the shadows like the perfect fucking ghost.

That was too fucking close, and I don’t like it. Not only did I have to leave a mark still breathing, but my home was compromised, and my identity was almost caught on camera. This is not how I play. I don’t almost get caught, and I sure as fuck don’t leave targets alive.

I’m slipping, and it has everything to do with Siren.

Making my way back to my home, I have no choice but to race through another shower, rinsing the blood off my skin before finally getting my ass dressed properly.

I can’t do this anymore. Allowing myself to get close to Siren isn’t only fucking with my head, it’s compromising everything. It’s too dangerous. My head isn’t screwed on properly, and because of that, I’ve allowed fucking amateurs like The Texan Reaper to almost get the drop on me. This isn’t okay. I’m supposed to be the best, and right now, I’m a fucking joke.

If I can’t seem to fuck her out of my system, then there’s only one other option left for me to salvage these games and ensure not only my survival, but Shadow’s as well—tonight Siren must die.

18

SIREN

Aweight dips beside me on my bed, and my eyes spring open into the darkness of my bedroom to find Reaper hovering before me, a knife in the palm of his hand and that lethal stare locked right on me.

Fear rushes through my veins, and before he gets a chance to officially take me out of the competition, I snap into action.

His arm starts to arc toward me, and as I suck in a breath, I use every ounce of strength I have and bring my knee up, slamming it hard into his crown jewels before frantically rolling. Reaper drops hard, groaning in agony as his blade plunges deep into my pillow, right where my head used to be.

My heart races faster than it ever has before as I scramble off my bed and make a break for it. My feet pound against the floorboards, not daring to waste a second looking over my shoulder. He’s down and out. There’s no way he could just simply recover from a blow like that to his balls, but this is Reaper we’re talking about, and he’s a different breed.

I fly out of my bedroom with such force, I knock into the hallway wall and use it to brace myself as I rush through the darkness.

I’m such a fucking idiot. After what happened between us at the lake, I stupidly convinced myself that he wouldn’t hurt me. At least, not yet. I thought we were good, but I was clearly wrong. All I know is that over this last week and a half, I have more than imagined what it would be like to wake up to find Reaper in my bed, but that sure as fuck wasn’t what I had in mind.

“You’re gonna fucking pay for that!” I hear Reaper holler after me, his deep, rumbling tone sending the most fearful chill down my spine and making me realize he’s recovered a lot quicker than I anticipated. But how? Are his balls made of steel? No man should have ever been able to recover from that. His balls should be somewhere up in his stomach right about now.

“Drop dead, asshole,” I yell back, finally breaking free of the hallway and scrambling around the corner before barging through the kitchen.

My panic is too much, and I can’t help but glance back to find Reaper right on my six, and as a terrified squeal tears from the back of my throat, he reaches out and locks his fist around the long rope-like plait of my hair, pulling me to a violent halt before slamming me against the kitchen counter.

I cry out in pain, and in a flash, his body is hard against mine, keeping me pinned as he presses his blade against the base of my throat. He’s breathing heavily in my ear, and despite how easily he subdued me, it’s clear that I’ve managed to inflict some sort of pain on this mystical creature behind me.

My whole life flashes before my eyes, and as my heart races faster than the sound of light, I realize it’s all over. Unwanted tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall, knowing I’ll never get to see Mila’s face again, never get to experience love, or enjoy the beautiful things in life.

He takes his time, and the longer he takes, the harder it becomes to hold back the tears. “Do it,” I growl, my voice thick with desperation. “Just fucking do it.”

Reaper hesitates, and I feel the very moment his hand begins to shake. I grab his wrist, preparing to shove him away if I get even the slightest chance.

He takes a breath, and a moment later, the blade shifts away. “I can’t,” he says, that deep, terrifying tone now filled with an unsettling agony. Then, before he has a chance to find sanity, I shove his hand down against the counter, and as one of the knuckles in his hand breaks, I disarm him and curl my fingers around the hilt of the blade.

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