“I didn't. You’re the one who wanted to touch me first,” he shoots back.
“I did not. I just…” Words die in my throat. “I miscalculated.” It sounds pathetic even to my own ears, but it's true. Managing my form next to them while in a moving car is harder than I thought.
“Miscalculated, huh?” Talon teases.
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“Nah,” he muses, stretching out his legs. “I just think it’s interesting. You always gotta concentrate this hard not to put your hands on a man's thighs, or is that just amething?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because I’m too busy suppressing the urge to commit a violent supernatural crime. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Cassian turns around so fast I almost hear his spine crack, pinning Talon with a stare so chilling it probably dropped the car’s temperature by ten degrees.
“Talon,” he warns.
Of what, I don't know. But based on the way the air suddenly feels like we’re one wrong move away from a blood sacrifice, it’s not the kind of warning that comes without consequences.
Talon raises his hands in mock surrender. But the smirk never leaves his lips. If anything, it deepens, his eyes glinting with the kind of amusement only a man who enjoys being a problem can have.
“Alright, alright,” he drawls, but there’s not a shred of sincerity in it.
I shift uncomfortably, pressing further into the door, as if that’ll somehow put more space between me and the absolutely heinous realization I’ve just had. The worst part about the tingles—that’s what I’m calling them now, because if I acknowledge them as anything else I’ll simply pass away—is that theydon’t go away. Even after the contact is broken, they linger. Cling. Make themselves at home in my nervous system like they’re a part of me.
For lack of anything better to do (or to distract myself from the existential crisis happening in my own body), I turn to the window, watching the streets blur past. Less streetlights. Fewer buildings. Just the occasional warehouse or abandoned lot.
Technically, it’s still my jurisdiction as a Grim Reaper, but not somewhere I visit often. Not many people live here. Not many people die here.
Unless you count the occasional accidents… or murders.
“Recognize the area?” Nathaniel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, where his stare meets mine.
“Somewhat.” I nod. “A big portion of the city is under my jurisdiction. This still applies to it. But anything further up north belongs to another Grim Reaper. We get assigned to districts.”
“Huh,” he breathes. “Didn't know that. What kind of districts?”
“Not the kind humans have. It's more of a natural balance thing. Souls are drawn to the Reaper meant to guide them, andwe instinctively sense the boundaries of where we're supposed to work. The borders aren't physical, but they're solid enough that we don't cross into another Reaper’s territory unless something seriously messes with the order of things.” I shrug, eyes flicking back to the window. “Not that any of this matters now. Since, you know, youstolethe soul I was supposed to reap.”
Nathaniel hums, clearly filing that information away. “So if we drove just a little farther north, you’d feel it?”
I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. It’s like… stepping onto the wrong side of a magnet. Feels off.”
“Good thing we're not driving north then.”
Again, a surprising answer. More than that, I get the distinct feeling he's absorbing everything I say. He seems so…attentive. And I don’t know how to feel about that. Not that I care. It’s not like I have any trade secrets. The dead do what the dead do. Reapers reap. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
The truck slows down as Nathaniel pulls into a secluded lot, surrounded by crumbling brick walls and overgrown weeds. There’s a security fence, but it's half-collapsed, looking more decorative than functional. In the center of the lot, there’s a small side entrance leading into what looks like an… old hospital wing? Straight off, it looks like one of those abandoned places no one ever bothers to demolish because the paperwork is more trouble than it’s worth.
I don’t need to ask whose place this is.
Cassian gets out first, grabbing a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking the heavy door. Nathaniel follows, and Talon gestures for me to get moving.
“Welcome to our humble abode, Little Grim,” he says, the words—still—drenched in amusement. “I promise it’s cozier inside.”
I don’t doubt that. From the outside, this place looks like a ghost story waiting to happen. But these three don’t strikeme as the kind of people who’d live in squalor. No, I imagine whatever’s inside is carefully curated, clean, and efficient. Just like the basement they left behind.
Cassian disappears inside without waiting for anyone, while Nathaniel moves around to the back of the truck, grabbing one of the heavier garbage bags. Talon stretches, looking way too pleased with himself, then nudges me forward.
“Go on,” he says. “Don’t be shy.”
