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But she didn’t think about it.

She only felt it.

Now the world itself ran through her like that river. Everything drifted together as one. When had the surgery finished? When had she left the table? When had she slept? When was she conscious, and when was she sleeping? How much time had passed?

It didn’t matter. The dreams were over. Everything was over. They were right about that.

But her reaper was still waiting for her. Her reaper was still there.

She was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, gazing out at the Pacific Ocean. It was beautiful, the way it crashed upon the shores. It still called to her. Sang to her to come home. Something about it drew her in. It used to scare her, those strange urges. How they would seem to pull on parts of her soul she didn’t understand.

But she was calm.

“Ms. Marguerite? You have a visitor.”

She said nothing. The words barely registered in her mind. When a man walked into the room, she didn’t turn her head to see him. When he knelt in front of her, she turned her attention to him. It took so long for her to move. She felt like a puppeteer, pulling on strings, trying to get a sluggish and obstinate marionette to obey her commands.

White hair. Silver eyes. Black clothes. He looked up at her in…in agony.

“Oh, Marguerite…what have they done to you?” He reached up to touch her cheek but hesitated. “What have they done…?”

The nurse tried to be helpful. “I assure you that Dr. Freeman is the head of his field in—”

“I don’t care!” her reaper snarled at the nurse. “Get out. Now.”

“But—”

“Out!” he roared.

Quick footsteps and the click of a door, and the nurse was gone. She should be frightened. She should be terrified. The man from her nightmares was real. The man from her visions was not a hallucination, but flesh and blood. She should be screaming, backing into a corner, begging him for mercy.

But she was calm.

And she knew she wouldn’t have to beg him for mercy.

He was here to bring it to her.

Her reaper stayed on his knees before her. When he finally placed his hand to her cheek, she barely felt it. “My poor Marguerite…I should have come sooner. I should have stolen you away. I knew what they did here—and I hesitated too long. I am to blame for this. Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.”

She did her best to smile at him. She wondered if it worked. Her reaper was so handsome…so beautiful. So gentle. She knew she was going to die.

But she was calm.

Moisture touched her cheek. Something ran down her skin. He cringed and, pulling out a silver-white handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wiped away whatever had come from her eye. The liquid that stained the fabric was crimson.

A side effect of the procedure, the nurse had told her. It would heal in time, she had said. Or so they hoped. Maggie hadn’t cared then, and she didn’t care now.

Her reaper picked up her hands and kissed them one at a time, before placing them back down in her lap. He reached into his coat for something else. A small, hard leather case. He flipped it open, revealing a syringe and a vial. Filling it, he fed the needle into a previous injection site on her arm, and then tucked the contents back into his coat.

The deed was done. Mercy had been given. She was going to die.

She should be frightened.

But she was calm.

“Forgive me, Marguerite. Forgive me, please…” Her reaper placed his head down on her lap…and he wept. His shoulders shook with it. Sadness crept through the nothingness in her. But not for her. For him.

It took all her strength—all her focus—to lift her hand from her lap and place it atop his beautiful, stark white hair. She comforted him as he cried, even as she slipped away.