Page 32 of Grim

“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 soundslips 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.