Page 15 of The Reaper's Vow
My phone buzzes with a text from Britney.
Why is my boss asking about you? Please tell me you didn’t do something to jeopardize my job. I really need it.
Oh fuck. No. No. No.
I type back a quick response:
What did he ask?
My fingers hover over the screen, waiting for her response. The three dots appear and disappear several times before her next message comes through.
He asked for your name, and where you lived? Did you leave something behind?
My handbag is sitting right here on the floor beside me, everything accounted for. This is a lie—a way to get information about me. I type back quickly.
What did you tell him?
Just that you were my friend and it was your first time here. Why are you being so weird about this?
I stare at the screen, my blood turning to ice. They know I was with Britney. They know it was my first time at the club. How long before they connect the dots and figure out exactly who I am?
I’m not being weird. I swear I didn’t do anything. Talk tomorrow?
I power off my phone before she can respond, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it. They're already looking for me. Already asking questions. How long before they show up at my door?
I need to leave. Tonight. Pack a bag and disappear before they?—
A knock at my door freezes the blood in my veins. Three sharp raps.
I force myself to my feet. My wolf paces beneath my skin, alert and agitated. She can sense something I can't—or won't acknowledge.
Another knock. More insistent this time.
“Karina?” A voice calls through the door. Male. Deep. Unfamiliar.
My blood turns to ice. They know where I live. I back away from the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
“I know you're in there,” the voice continues, calm and patient. “I can hear your heartbeat.”
Enhanced hearing. Wolf senses. Of course.
I press myself against the wall beside my window, mind racing through escape routes. Fire escape. But it's on the other side of the apartment, and the floorboards creak. He'd hear me moving.
“I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
Like hell. Men who “just want to talk” don't show up at your apartment at two in the morning after you've witnessed them commit murder.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I call out, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “You have the wrong apartment.”
A low chuckle filters through the door. “We both know that's not true. How about you open the door?”
“No.” My wolf is pacing frantically now, torn between fight and flight. “Go away or I'm calling the police.”
“The police?” There's genuine amusement in his voice now. “And tell them what, exactly?”
My stomach drops. He's right, and we both know it. What would I tell them? That I saw a murder at an underground sex club while I was trespassing in a room I had no businessentering? That I'm a werewolf who shifted to escape? They'd either laugh me out of the station or lock me up for psychiatric evaluation.
“Karina.” He says my name like he's testing how it sounds. “That is your name, isn't it? Karina Greene. Now, are you going to open this door, or do I need to rip it off its fucking hinges? Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
