Arrogance radiated off him in waves, a calm and quiet one. I swallowed, barely noticing how clean the room was until my eyes flicked away from him. The clutter I’d left—plates, papers, clothes, books, my printer—were gone. My suitcases were lined perfectly along the wall, boxes closed and stacked like they’d never been opened. The floor was so spotless it gleamed.
This wasn’t how I left it.
This wasn’t normal.
It felt like a shrine.
Like someone had come here to prepare my room for prayer or...death.
Tears stung the back of my eyes, and a horrible thought bloomed in my chest.
Was I dead?
Was he here to drag me to the afterlife?
Was he really the Grim Reaper’s personal intern like I’d thought?
The aura around him wasn’t human. It never had been. Even from the cliff that day, I’d felt it. That...wrongness. But I’d ignored it.
“Even if you were dead,” he said, low voice deep and viciously calm, “you brought it upon yourself. It baffles me why you’re sad.”
His words slid through the air and sank beneath my skin, pooling in my bloodstream like poison and making my body break out in goosebumps. I shivered from the sound of his voice. It was like my heart had stopped, rebooted, then tried to sprint its way out of my chest.
He still hadn’t looked at me.
Still hadn’t dropped the book.
Suddenly, what he said hit me.
“I’m not…” My voice cracked. “Not dead?”
He made a soft, indifferent sound. “Hmm.”
I exhaled shakily, the relief sharp enough to sting.
But then the relief faded.
Because I wasn’t dead.
And he was in my room.
Sitting on my chair.
Reading—
My blood went cold.
He was reading my goddamn journal.
“Fuck!” I threw the covers back and lunged out of bed, snatching the book from his hands so violently a page tore. I didn’t care. I slammed it shut and cradled it to my chest.
His face.
Damn. Fucking. Crows.
I forgot how to breathe.
What I’d seen from the cliff wasn’t even a shadow of what stood in front of me now. He wasn’t beautiful.
