I did as I was told.
For most, a debt meant they asked something of the Horsemen—revenge, wealth—boring shit like that. My contract was not so simple. Grim saved me, and in return he owned my life.
He grasped my wrist, looking at the fresh burn. “What is this?”
“You think I tried to kill myself with my vape?” I glared at him. “I burned my wrist.”
His grip remained tight on my wrist, eyes hard on mine, as if trying to spot the lie.
The day after Grim saved me, he appeared with his tattoo freshly wrapped on his chest. The red ink was too bright. I didn’t realize until after it was because of the blood.
That was how it all started.
Grim never said that I had a contract now, or I had to dothisto getthat. No, that moment was more primal. The tattoo a fucking statement.
I slid back into my life easily, and it was because of that ease that I never really fought back. Months would go by without me ever seeing him, but it was almost like he could sense when the ocean was starting to look tempting.
Grim dropped my wrist.
I quickly threw on my clothes.
I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking he cared. To Grim, and to everyone else in the world, I was merchandise, useless when broken.
Living was my punishment, and the Reaper was going to make damn sure I was punished.
EIGHT
GEMMA
A cool gush of salty winter air woke me up. My shimmering muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze. The balcony door was open, and the musky smell of cannabis drifted on the air.
He’d been here.
I quickly sat up and opened my nightstand.
Empty.
Fuck.
For years I’d had no problem getting drugs. Now no one would sell to me. If I did manage to get something, Grim would slide into my room and steal it.
I pushed my satin duvet off my body and went out to my balcony. It was iron cold outside, the air sharp and biting. Gauzy curtains whispered against my skin, and the faint hint of light illumined the horizon a gray purple.
A black streak of ash marred my balcony, the only evidence Grim had been there.
I stared down to the night-darkened beach, imagining my footprints in the sand, disappearing into the glimmering black waters.
It’s a beautiful day to die.
I smeared the ash with my finger, the pad turning black. Grim didn’t scare me. I was scared of myself.
I don’t know why I went into the ocean that day. I don’t know what was stopping me from walking back into it.Why do I want the salty water to fill up my lungs until I breathe nothing but burning, bitter cold? Why do I want to die?
But there was nowhy. It was just a feeling—a colorless, dark urge.
Still in my pajamas, I grabbed a puffy overcoat and went down to the beach. For one week in the summer, these beaches would be flooded with swans. Known as the Swan Swell, it was an anomaly unique to Crowne Point. Now, the swans had mostly migrated, but there was always one swan that remained.
“Hey, buddy.”
