The Reapers Artist

The first morning

I do not sleep.

The bed is too soft. The sheets smell like lavender and something else, something expensive I cannot name. The room is too quiet. No sirens. No neighbors arguing through paper thin walls. Just silence. Heavy silence. The kind that presses down on your chest until you forget how to breathe.

I lie there for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until I hear his footsteps again.

They come at six in the morning. Precise. Measured. The click of dress shoes on marble.

I sit up so fast my head spins.

The door opens. He does not knock. Of course he does not knock.

"Get up."

"Get out."

"No."

"Julian. Get out of my room."

He steps inside anyway. He is wearing a black suit. Perfectly pressed. His hair is wet like he just showered. He looks like he slept eight hours and dreamed about world domination.

"I want to see you in the studio in twenty minutes."

"I told you last night. Stay away from me."

"I said I would stay away while you worked. I didn't say I would stay away from you completely. There is a difference."

"There is no difference."

"There is a very big difference, Elara. I need to know you are alive. I need to know you haven't done something stupid like try to climb out a window."

I glare at him. "That's on the thirty seventh floor."

"So you did check."

"I looked. That doesn't mean I was planning anything."

"Good. Then get dressed. I'll have breakfast waiting."

"I'm not hungry."

"You'll eat anyway."

"Or what? You'll kill me? You've already made that threat. It's getting old."

Something flickers across his face. It is gone before I can name it. Anger. Surprise. Respect.

"Or I'll remind you why you should be scared," he says softly. "And I don't want to do that. I want this to be civil."

"Civil."

"Yes. Civil."

"Julian, you kidnapped me. You killed a man in front of me. You are holding me hostage in your penthouse. There is nothing civil about any of this."

He walks toward the bed. I press myself against the headboard. My heart is pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.

"You're right," he says. "I did all of those things. And I would do them again. But I am trying to make this bearable for you. I am trying to give you a comfortable room and good food and work that you actually enjoy. You could be in a basement somewhere. You could be chained to a radiator. I am not doing any of that."

"Am I supposed to thank you?"

"I don't want your thanks. I want your cooperation."

"For the restoration."

"Yes."

"And after the restoration, you let me go."

"Yes."

"You promise."

He is quiet. The silence is louder than anything he could say.

"Julian. You promise."

"No."

"No?"

"I will let you go when the restoration is done. That is the truth. But I am not promising anything. Promises are for people who have the luxury of keeping them. I don't have that luxury."

"What does that even mean?"

He looks at the window. The sun is rising over the city, painting everything gold and orange. It should be beautiful. It is just another reminder that I am trapped.

"It means the world is not simple, Elara. It means there are people who want me dead. It means there are people who want you dead now that you've seen what you've seen. Letting you go might not be the safest option for either of us."

"Letting me go might not be safe?"

"I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" I laugh. It comes out hollow and broken. "You are the one who put me in danger. You are the danger."

"Yes," he says. "I know. But I am also the only one who can keep you safe now. The syndicate knows you were there. They know you witnessed what happened. They think I handled it. They think you are dead."

"You told them I'm dead."

"I told them you were a loose end. I told them I tied it up."

My stomach drops. "You told your bosses you killed me."

"Yes."

"Then what happens when the restoration is finished? What happens when I just show up alive?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Julian. What happens to me?"

He looks at me. His eyes are so gray. Like storm clouds. Like the sea before a shipwreck.

"I don't know yet," he admits. "I haven't figured that part out."

"You haven't figured it out?"

"I've been busy."

"Busy. You've been busy. While I'm sitting here terrified for my life, you've been busy."

"Yes."

I throw the pillow at him. It hits him in the chest and falls to the floor. He does not even flinch.

"That's your big plan? You don't know?"

"I know I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better."

"It should."

"It doesn't. It makes me feel worse. Because the only person who is hurting me right now is you."

He steps closer. I shrink back, but there is nowhere to go. The headboard is against my spine. His knees hit the edge of the bed.

"I am trying," he says. His voice is low. Almost pleading. "I am trying to do this the right way. I could have kept you in the dark. I could have kept you locked in that room with no windows. I could have made you work in the dark and never spoken to you. I am trying to give you some dignity. Some control. Don't you understand that?"

"Control? You took away my entire life. My job. My apartment. My cat. You took everything and you expect me to be grateful because you gave me a comfortable prison?"

"I expect you to survive."

"Survival is not the same as living."

He is silent. The tension between us is thick enough to cut. I can feel his breath on my face. He is so close. Too close. I can smell his cologne. Something woodsy and dark.

"I know," he says finally. "I know survival is not the same as living. I have been surviving for fifteen years. I know exactly what it feels like."

"Fifteen years?"

"I was nineteen when they took me in. My family was dead. I had nothing. No money. No home. No future. The syndicate gave me a purpose. They gave me a reason to wake up every morning. They gave me a way to channel all that rage."

"And now? Do you have a reason to wake up now?"

He looks at me. His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes.

"Now I have you," he says.

My breath catches.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"Julian. What does that mean?"

"I don't know yet. I told you. I haven't figured it out."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have right now."

I stare at him. My heart is hammering. My palms are sweating. I do not understand him. I do not understand any of this.

"You killed a man last night," I whisper. "You killed him right in front of me. And now you're standing here telling me I'm the reason you wake up in the morning?"

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"Yes."

"You're insane."

"Probably."

"Probably? You kidnapped me. You threatened to kill me. You told your bosses I'm dead. And now you're saying I mean something to you?"

He leans closer. His face is inches from mine. I cannot look away.

"You mean everything to me," he says. "And that terrifies me. Do you understand? I have never felt this way about anyone. I have never wanted anyone. I have never needed anyone. But I need you. I need you to finish that restoration. I need you to stay alive. I need you to look at me like I'm a person and not a monster."

"You are a monster."

"I know. But you make me want to be something else. Something better. I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I'm capable of being better. But for you, I want to try."

I cannot breathe. The room is spinning. My hands are shaking.

"Get away from me," I whisper.

He does not move.

"Julian. Get away from me."

"I won't hurt you."

"You already are."

He pulls back. The mask is back. His face is empty again. The vulnerability is gone.

"Get dressed," he says. "Breakfast is at seven. If you're not there, I'll come get you."

"Julian."

"What?"

I do not know what to say. I do not know what I want. He is the enemy. He is the monster. He is the reason I am trapped here.

But he is also the only person I have left.

"Nothing," I say. "Just go."

He walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle.

"Elara."

"What?"

"I meant what I said. I will protect you. From everyone. From everything. Even from myself if I have to."

"You can't protect me from yourself. You're the one holding me here."

"I know." He turns back to look at me. "I know. And I hate myself for it. But I can't let you go. Not yet. Not when I just found you."

"Found me?"

"I've been looking for something my whole life. I didn't know what it was until I saw you. Three months ago. Through a window. Restoring a painting. You were so careful. So gentle. You treated that painting like it was the most important thing in the world. I wanted you to look at me like that. I still do."

"Julian."

"I know. I know it's wrong. I know everything about this is wrong. But I can't stop. I can't make myself stop wanting you. I can't make myself stop needing you."

He leaves.

The door closes softly behind him.

I sit there in the too soft bed, staring at the empty space where he was standing. The lavender sheets are tangled around my legs. The sun is still rising outside the window.

I hate him. I hate him so much it hurts. But I heard what he said. Every word. Every broken confession.

He is not just a monster. He is a man who has been alone for fifteen years. A man who has been surviving instead of living. A man who thinks I am the answer to a question he never knew he was asking.

And the worst part.

The absolute worst part.

I believe him.

I believe that I mean something to him. I believe that he would protect me. I believe that he wants to be better.

And I do not know if that makes me a victim or a fool.

Or something far more dangerous.

Something that is starting to want him too.