Page 13 of Grim

Slowly, methodically, I look down at my mud-caked shoes.

Slipping one off, I cock my arm back and toss it directly at his chest. The shoe flies through his body and knocks a vase off the wall behind him.

I hear the sound of shattering glass, which feels fitting, as the last thread of my sanity breaks along with it.

His eyes travel from his chest directly to my eyes, and if looks could kill, I would be dead for the second time in as many hours.

“Don’t have a praise kink either then, I take it?” He chuckles darkly.

“You are insufferable! Get out of my life!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mayday. We all answer to Fate. We all ring Time’s brass bell. And the tune she’s playing right now is a duet. Best to work on your harmonies rather than trying to rearrange the sheet music. Know what I mean?”

“Do you hear yourself? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. “Never mind. I have a work matter I need to attend to. And I need you to sit tight until I return. Can you do that?”

My racing mind begins to slow. As impossible as everything he’s told me over the past few minutes is, as unbelievable as the past hour of my—apparently—dwindling life has been, a sliver of acceptance begins to slice its way into me.

I look up at the apparition in front of me.

He appears as solid and as real as anything else in this room.

His sharp and polished sense of style actually fits in quite nicely around all the ornate furnishings of this home.

I take the first steadying breath I’ve had in what feels like ages. I lock eyes with him and answer his question calmly, “No.”

“No? Give me a break. I won’t be gone long, and we can have a nice chat about whatever you want to know when I return.”

“I’m serious! I’m not spending the rest of my life watching the clock tick down while you lurk in corners like some brooding corpse concierge.”

“What do you propose then? A spa day? A wine tasting?”

“I want to go with you.”

That stops him cold.

“On the reap?” He blinks, stunned. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I work alone,” he states while stretching his neck.

“Apparently not for the next nine days.” I smirk in challenge.

“You’re not trained.”

“I’ll wear a helmet.”

“You don’t have clearance.”

“I only have nine days to live. Remember? Wouldn’t want to waste a second of it.”

His jaw tightens. “I said no.”

“And I said I’m not staying here.”

We stare each other down like opponents at high noon. Finally, he groans, scrubbing a hand down his face like I’m the source of all his immortal migraines.

“This is going to end horribly,” he mutters.

“Probably, but at least it’ll be interesting. ”

“Look, get comfy. Perhaps read a novel. Order some pizza, and it will be over before you know it.”

Moments from my life flash in my mind. Memories and experiences flit through like an old-timey movie.

I think about all the things I’ve done. More achingly, I think of all the things I have not done.

And now I know the clock is officially running out.

We all know we are going to die; it’s life’s only inevitability.

But who in this world has ever known exactly when they were going to die?

If this tall drink of water thinks I’m going to sit on my hands for my final days on this Earth, he’s got another think coming.

I smirk. “Oh, so we’ve reached bargaining?” I muse, causing his face to fall. “I don’t think so, reaper. If nine days is all I’ve got left, then I want adventure.”

“I’ll bring back some board games,” he replies impatiently.

“I can’t be trusted not to get myself into all kinds of trouble if I’m left to my own devices here,” I answer with a pouty baby voice.

“Then I will have to resort to my earlier suggestion. Where are your cuffs?”

“Come on,” I whine. “See if you can take me with you. Maybe if I’m holding on to you.”

“Don’t touch me.” His voice cracks like a whip, sharp and sudden, tinged with something that isn’t quite fear, but isn’t quite confidence either.

That edge of alarm? It only fuels me.

“Oh, how the mighty panic,” I purr, slipping off my other shoe and rising from the chair, slow and deliberate. I stalk toward him with the theatrical menace of a B-grade horror villain, arms raised like claws. “What’s the matter, Grim? Afraid of a little affection?”

“I mean it, Rue.” He’s backing up now, which is satisfying in all the ways that should probably concern a therapist. “Stay back.”

But he’s out of runway—cornered between the dining table and the curio cabinet. My palms land on his chest like a victory flag. His reaction is not what I expected.

He full-body shudders, as though my touch sends electric voltage coursing through his bones. A soft sound slips past his lips—almost a moan, nearly a curse—and his jaw clenches as his eyes roll back, just for a breath.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Interesting.”

“Enough.” The word hits like a blade.

Before I can blink, he’s moved—lightning quick. His hand snaps out, grabbing one of my dad’s old ropes off the wall. I barely process what’s happening before my wrists are caught, spun, and cinched tight with practiced efficiency. His breath is steady. Mine is not.

“I asked you nicely,” he growls, dragging me away from the wall. “But clearly, you’re one of those mortals who only learns through escalation.”

“You tied me up with nautical rope. You know that’s not normal, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs another coil from a hook and gestures toward the hallway. “Bedroom. Now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Chair or bed, Rue.”

“I swear to—”

“You’re about to be tied to the banister if I don’t hear a reasonable response in the next three seconds.”

I glare at him. Hard. But the truth is, I’m already half bound and out of leverage. So, I choose comfort—grudgingly. “Bed,” I mutter.

He guides me in with a hand to my shoulder, surprisingly gentle, then crouches down and starts looping the rope around my ankles. He’s meticulous. He does it all without grazing so much as a knee, like this is a task he’s done a thousand times.

“Do I offend you that much?” I ask as he ties off the knot.

“In every conceivable way,” he replies, standing.

“This seems like an overreaction,” I grunt, testing the restraints on my bound limbs.

He looks me over before stepping back.

“You’re impulsive, emotionally unstable, and now cosmically radioactive,” he says, arms folding as he surveys his handiwork. “This is damage control. Nothing more.”

I scoff, testing the binds. They hold.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, voice going low as he leans in, so close that his breath ghosts over my ear. “It’s just until I get back. But if you keep testing me, Mayday …” His voice dips further, silk wrapped in threat. “You’re going to wake up with some very creative rope burns.”

He straightens, turns on his heel, and walks out without another word.

The door shuts, leaving me to stare at the ceiling. My wrists bound, my ankles anchored while a reaper paces my hallway.

Well, this isn’t a dream, but it’s definitely a nightmare.