Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
I watch her closely as she steps back into formation, quickly determining that she won’t be a threat.
Two minutes.
One of the men begins to fidget, his gaze flicking between the rest of us and the clock, his hand pulsing at his side. It’s so discreet that I’d dare say some of the people around me wouldn’t even notice it, but I do. I notice everything.
His lips pull into a tight line before finally relenting and stepping forward, clearly wanting to be in the game to win, but he’s not dumb enough to risk it all for the simple task of giving up his name. “The Midnight Killer,” he says, his lips twisting with frustration before finally stepping back into formation.
He’s not bad and has certainly made quite a name for himself across North America. He’s a serial killer and lacks the kind of training required to win these games. He’ll put up a good fight though.
The clock keeps ticking, and at exactly one minute left, the next contender steps forward. “They call me Graves,” he grunts, but despite his cocky expression, he’s just like The Midnight Killer. They lack conviction. Graves won’t be a threat, this last one though . . . I don’t know.
It’s down to me and one other and he stares at me as though he could somehow make me break, but I won’t. I don’t ever break. It’s not written in my DNA.
Thirty seconds.
His demeanor begins to crack.
Twenty.
“Fuck.”
The asshole steps forward, and something warns me that apart from the beautiful Siren to my right, this asshole will be a heavy hitter during these games. “The Texan Reaper.”
No fucking way.
A grin threatens to pull at the corners of my lips. I’ve more than heard of this guy. When he first came on the scene, he claimed to be me. However as his work was sloppy and unoriginal, they quickly realized he was a different guy and ended up with the name The Texan Reaper. At first, I was flattered that I had an admirer, but now I’m just pissed. Ride someone else’s coattails.
I keep my eye on The Texan Reaper, counting down the clock in my head, letting it ten more seconds pass by.
Eight. Six. Four.
Two.
I step forward, holding his gaze, and finally say the name I know everybody in this room is dying to figure out.
My voice commands the undivided attention and respect of those lesser killers around me because, right now, they’re not just meeting another contender, they’re meeting their worst fucking nightmare.
“Reaper.”
3
SIREN
Ahh fuck.
I was expecting a lot to come from this bullshit midnight meeting, but standing in an abandoned warehouse with none other than the original Reaper was not it. Judging by the audible gasps that sail through the warehouse, I’m not alone.
Reaper is . . . undefinable.
He’s a ghost. A legend. Someone I had convinced myself doesn’t actually exist. Yet, here he is, in the flesh, standing less than twenty feet away. I can barely believe it, and honestly, this changes things. Since the moment I received the invitation to these games, I haven’t felt a shred of fear. Until right now.
Reaper isn’t just some contract killer like the majority of men and women in this warehouse. He’s beyond that. He’s the one they call when a ghost needs to be eliminated, or when warlords who have been off the grid for thirty years need to be extinguished. He’s better than the best, and if I had known he would be participating in this month-long trial, I would have run the other way and never looked back.
I’m fucked. Beyond fucked. Hell, the second Reaper accepted his invitation, we were all considered dead. Everything that happens now until the end of the games is considered nothing but pure entertainment—a way for Reaper to let off a little steam and try out a few new techniques, maybe brush up on some of his skills.
I wasn’t expecting him, but what I also wasn’t expecting was to be so unbelievably attracted to him. He’s gorgeous in the most lethal kind of way. Tall, at least six foot four with dark unruly hair and even darker eyes that seem to suck the souls out of the people in the room simply by staring at them. It’s dark in the warehouse, but despite that, I can clearly make out the warmth in his olive complexion, an indicator that he spends a lot of time out in the hot sun, and the way his muscles bulge under his black shirt, tells me that he more than just cares for his body.
He seems like a soldier in the way he holds himself, like he’s had some kind of formal training, but nothing on what little I know about this man would possibly suggest that, and it leaves me curious. But not as curious as the tattoos winding up his arms and peeking above the neckline of his shirt leave me.