The Reaper's Innocent Prize

Chapter 1

Nora.

“Another sixteen-hour shift, Voss? Do you ever sleep?”

I shoved my locker shut, the metal door groaning in protest. “Sleep is for people who aren’t drowning in debt, Sarah.”

“You’re a saint for covering for Jenny again. Her ‘flu’ is lasting longer than my last relationship.”

I offered a weak smile, pulling my worn coat tighter around my scrubs. “Someone had to take it. And I need the money.”

“You need a vacation. Or at least a night that doesn’t end with you waiting for the midnight bus in a monsoon.” Sarah gestured towards the windows, where rain was lashing against the glass.

“It’s just water,” I said, my voice flat with exhaustion. “Besides, the bus stop has that little roof.”

“A little roof that leaks. I’m serious, Nora. Let me give you a ride.”

“You live thirty minutes in the wrong direction. I’m not making you do that.”

“It’s not a big deal. What’s an extra hour when you’ve already been here for sixteen?”

“No. Go home, Sarah. Get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “You’re stubborn.”

“I’m practical.”

“Fine. But you text me when you get home, you hear me? I don’t like you being out this late alone.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Bright and early,” I mumbled as she walked away, her footsteps echoing down the sterile hallway.

I walked out the automatic doors and into the storm. The wind whipped the rain sideways, instantly soaking the bottom of my pants. Sarah was right. The bus shelter’s roof was more of a suggestion, and a steady drip of water landed right between my shoulders.

My phone buzzed. A number I didn’t recognize, but I knew who it was.

I answered, holding the phone close to my mouth. “Hello?”

“Ms. Voss. We’re calling about an outstanding balance.” The voice was smooth, detached, and utterly without sympathy.

“I know. I told the other guy I’d have a payment on Friday.”

“Friday is no longer acceptable. We require a payment tonight.”

I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Tonight? I just got off work. The banks are closed. What do you want me to do?”

“That is not our concern, Ms. Voss. The arrangements your father made were very specific.”

“My father is dead.” The words tasted like ash. “He’s dead, and I’m paying for it. I’m working two jobs to pay for it. I will pay you. Just give me until Friday.”

“The deadline is midnight.”

The line went dead.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my phone into a puddle and watch it sink. Instead, I just stood there, shivering, the cold seeping deep into my bones. This was my life. An endless cycle of work and debt.

That’s when I saw the car.

A sleek black SUV, moving too fast for a wet city street. It wasn’t just speeding; it was aiming for something. A man in a tailored suit was cVossng the street, his head down against the rain.

The SUV didn’t slow down. It didn’t swerve.

There was a sickening thud, a crack of bone and metal that the storm couldn’t drown out. The man’s body was thrown like a rag doll, landing in a heap by the curb.

My breath caught in my throat. My nursing instincts screamed at me to run to him, to check for a pulse, to do something.

But fear held me frozen. This wasn’t an accident. I knew it. The SUV hadn’t even stopped. It just kept going, disappearing around the corner.

My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone again. 911. I had to call 911.

Before I could dial, another black car, a sedan this time, screeched to a halt right in front of me. The doors flew open.

Two men in black masks and black coats got out. They moved with a terrifying efficiency.

“Don’t scream,” one of them said, his voice a low growl.

My body finally reacted. I turned to run, but they were too fast. One grabbed my arm, his grip like steel.

“No! Get off of me!” I shrieked, kicking and twisting.

“We can do this easy, or we can do this hard, Isabella,” the second man said, moving to block my path.

“My name is not Isabella! You have the wrong person!” I screamed, aiming a bite at the hand clamped over my arm. I connected with a leather glove, but he grunted in annoyance.

“She’s a fighter,” the first man said. “Just like the boss said she’d be.”

“Help! Somebody help me!” My voice was thin against the howling wind. The street was empty. No one was coming. No one saw.

“Enough of this,” the second man grunted. “We’re exposed here.”

They dragged me toward the open car door. I dug my heels into the wet pavement, fighting with everything I had left after a sixteen-hour shift.

“I’m a nurse! That man needs help! Let me go!” I pleaded, my voice cracking with panic.

“He’s beyond help,” the first man said grimly.

He shoved me hard into the back seat of the car. I landed on the plush leather, scrambling to get out the other side, but the second man was already getting in, pushing me further inside.

“Don’t touch me!” I yelled, kicking out at him.

He grabbed my leg easily. “Just calm down.”

“I’m not Isabella!” I sobbed, the terror finally breaking through the adrenaline. “Please, you have to believe me.”

“Yeah, yeah. We believe you,” the first man said from the passenger seat. He turned around, something small in his hand. A syringe.

My eyes widened. “No. No, please don’t.”

The man in the back with me pinned my arms. “Just a little nap. You’ll wake up somewhere much nicer.”

I felt a sharp prick in my neck. A cold liquid flooded my veins.

The fight drained out of me instantly. My limbs felt heavy, weighted with lead. My vision started to blur at the edges, the masked faces swimming in and out of focus.

My life, my small, exhausting, ordinary life, was over.

No one saw. No one knew.

Sarah would think I forgot to text her.

The debt collector would think I was ignoring his calls.

The hospital would just find someone else to cover the shift.

I was being erased.

My last conscious thought was of the bus, its bright headlights probably just rounding the corner, arriving to an empty, rain-slicked bus stop where I was supposed to be.

Chapter 2

Nora.

A groan escaped my lips before a thought could form. My head throbbed, a dull, heavy ache behind my eyes. The world swayed, a nauseating lurch that made me squeeze my eyes shut again. Where was I?

The last thing I remembered was rain. A needle in my neck. The terrifying, muffled world inside a moving car.

I forced my eyes open. This wasn't a damp cellar or a concrete bunker. I was lying in a bed so soft it felt like I was floating on a cloud. The sheets were silk, cool and smooth against my skin. I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting. The room was stunning. A huge four poster bed with a carved mahogany frame dominated the space. A plush white rug covered the dark wood floor. Across from me was a fireplace, its marble mantle bare and cold.

Panic began to bubble in my chest, hot and sharp. This wasn't right. Kidnappers didn't put you in luxury suites. I looked down at myself. My scrubs, damp and smelling of antiseptic and rain, were gone. I was wearing a delicate silk nightgown, the color of cream. It was a beautiful, expensive thing I would never be able to afford in a hundred lifetimes.

I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the thick rug. A beautiful dress was laid out on a velvet armchair. It was emerald green, the kind of dress you saw on movie stars. Next to it were a pair of impossibly high heels. They were dressing me up. Like a doll.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I ran to the door, a massive, heavy wooden thing. I twisted the ornate brass handle. Nothing. I pushed my shoulder against it. It didn't budge. It was locked. Solid as a bank vault.

“Hello?” My voice was a weak croak. I cleared my throat and tried again, louder this time. “Hello! Is anyone there?”

Only silence answered me.

“You have the wrong person!” I screamed, banging my fists against the wood until my hands stung. “My name is Nora! Let me out of here!”

I rattled the handle again and again, a wave of desperate, frantic energy surging through me. I moved to the windows next. They were tall, stretching from the floor to the high ceiling, offering a view of a meticulously manicured garden. A beautiful, perfect prison. I ran a hand over the glass. It was thick, cold, and unyielding. And then I saw them. Thin, black iron bars were set on the outside, their design so ornate they almost looked like decoration. Almost.

“No,” I whispered, stumbling back. “No, no, no.”

I was trapped. Truly and utterly trapped.

A sudden noise made me jump. A small click, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. I backed away from the door, my body trembling as it swung inward.

An older woman stood there. She was dressed in a simple black dress with a white apron, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She held a silver tray laden with food: a bowl of soup, a piece of bread, a glass of water. Her face was lined with wrinkles, and her eyes, when they met mine, held a flicker of something that looked like pity.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice shaking.

“You should eat,” she said, her voice calm and even, with a slight accent I couldn't place. She stepped into the room, her presence doing nothing to soothe my terror.

“I don’t want to eat,” I snapped. “I want to know where I am. Why am I here?”

She walked over to a small table by the window and set the tray down. “It is good soup. It will help you feel stronger.”

“Are you listening to me?” I took a step toward her. “You have the wrong person. My name is Nora Voss. I’m a nurse. You made a mistake.”

She turned to face me, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “There are no mistakes made in this house, signorina.”

“Signorina? You think I’m Italian? My name is Nora. E-le-na. I work at St. Jude’s Hospital. People are going to be looking for me. My friend Sarah, she’ll call the police when I don’t text her back.” The lie felt thin even as I said it. Sarah would worry, but she would assume I fell asleep, exhausted.

The woman’s expression didn't change. “No one is looking for you. It is better for you to accept this.”

“Accept what? That I’ve been kidnapped? That I’m locked in this room? Who are you people?”

“I am Maria. I am the housekeeper.”

“Maria, please.” I softened my voice, trying to appeal to whatever kindness was behind those sad eyes. “You have to help me. This is insane. Those men, they called me Isabella. I’m not her. I swear to you. Look at me. I’m nobody. I have debts I can’t pay, my car broke down two months ago. Does that sound like the person you’re looking for?”

“He will be here soon,” she said, completely ignoring my plea. “He will want to see you. You should put on the dress.” She gestured toward the green dress on the chair.

“I’m not putting on that dress. And I don’t want to see ‘him’. I want to see a phone. I want to call the police.”

“There is no phone for you,” she said, her voice still maddeningly placid. “And the police do not come here.”

“Why not? What is this place?” My voice rose with hysteria. “Who is he?”

“He is the master of this house. It is not my place to speak his name.”

“The master?” I let out a choked, incredulous laugh. “What is this, the dark ages? You have to help me, Maria. You’re a woman. You must understand how terrified I am.”

For the first time, a genuine emotion crossed her face. It was a deep, profound sadness. “I understand more than you know, child. That is why I am telling you to eat. To wear the dress. To do as you are told. It will be easier for you.”

“Easier? I don’t want easy. I want to go home.” Tears streamed down my face now, hot and angry. “Please. Just leave the door unlocked when you go. That’s all I ask. No one has to know it was you.”

She walked slowly toward the door, her footsteps silent on the rug. “I cannot do that.”

“Why not?” I cried, following her.

She stopped at the threshold and looked back at me. “Because he would not only kill me. He would kill my entire family.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. This was not some simple case of mistaken identity. This was something far darker, far more dangerous than I could have imagined. These were not just criminals. They were monsters.

“Eat your soup, Isabella,” she said softly, her voice filled with that same terrible pity. Then she stepped out of the room.

The heavy door swung shut, and the lock clicked into place, the sound echoing the finality of a coffin being sealed. I was alone again, left with the silence, the untouched food, and a beautiful green dress that felt like a shroud.

Chapter 3

Nora.

I stared at the green dress. It was a mockery. A costume for a play I never auditioned for. The soup Maria had left was probably cold by now. I hadn’t touched it. I couldn’t swallow past the lump of fear in my throat.

I paced the room, my bare feet silent on the thick rug. I went from the locked door to the barred windows and back again. A gilded cage. A beautiful, terrifying cage.

I was tracing the pattern on the wallpaper when I heard it again. The sound that made my blood run cold. The definite, metallic click of a key turning in the lock.

I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the far wall as the heavy door swung open.

He wasn't like the men in the car, or the woman, Maria. They were just pieces in the game. He was the whole board. Tall and broad in a perfectly tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light in the room, he filled the doorway with a presence that was suffocating.

His hair was dark, his jaw was sharp, and his face was a masterpiece of cold, brutal beauty. But his eyes, his eyes were the most frightening thing about him. They were dark, almost black, and completely devoid of emotion as they swept over the room and landed on me.

He stepped inside, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. He didn’t speak. He just watched me, his stillness more unnerving than any threat.

“Isabella,” he said finally. His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through the floor. It wasn't a question.

“That’s not my name,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

A flicker of something, maybe annoyance, crossed his face. “I don’t have time for games. Your father’s little stunt has caused a great deal of trouble.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you. I don’t know my father. I mean, I did, but he’s dead.” My words tumbled out, a panicked, jumbled mess.

He took a slow step forward. “He is not dead. And his decision to hide you away is about to cost him everything.”

“No, you don’t understand.” I pushed myself off the wall, taking a hesitant step toward him. It was like approaching a wolf. “My name is Nora Voss. My father was Marco Voss. He died almost a year ago from a heart attack. He managed a hardware store.”

The man’s face remained a mask of stone. “Your performance is admirable. But unnecessary.”

“It’s not a performance!” My voice cracked. “Why won’t you listen to me? You have the wrong person. Your men, they made a mistake.”

He was closer now, only a few feet away. I could smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne, something clean and sharp, like winter air.

“My men do not make mistakes,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

He closed the remaining distance between us in a single, fluid motion. I flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. My back hit the wall with a dull thud.

He reached out, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for a blow. But he didn’t hit me. His hand, large and surprisingly warm, cupped my chin. He tilted my head up, forcing me to look at him.

My eyes flew open. Up close, he was devastating. A small, white scar cut through his left eyebrow, the only mar on his perfect, cruel face. A jolt, hot and electric, shot through me at his touch. It was terrifying.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” he commanded softly.

I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. His thumb stroked lightly over my jaw, a gesture that might have been gentle from another person. From him, it felt like a brand.

“Your father has been a thorn in my side for a long time,” he said, his dark eyes searching mine. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

“I’m not her,” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “I swear. I’m a nursing student. I work at St. Jude’s. You can call them. Ask for Sarah Jenkins in the ER. She’s my friend. She’ll tell you.”

“A clever backstory. Did you rehearse it on your way here?”

“No! It’s the truth!” I was desperate, a frantic edge to my voice. “I work sixteen-hour shifts to pay off my father’s gambling debts. He owed money to loan sharks. Bad people.”

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Does Isabella Soriano wait for the midnight bus in the pouring rain because her 2012 Honda Civic broke down for the third time this month? Does she have a student loan statement for sixty-two thousand dollars sitting on her kitchen table?”

His grip on my chin tightened for a second, then relaxed slightly. The mask was still there, but I saw something in his eyes. A flicker of uncertainty.

“I was on the phone right before your men grabbed me,” I pushed on, sensing the tiny crack in his certainty. “It wasn’t my powerful father. It was a debt collector from a company called Vantage Financial. He told me I had until midnight to make a payment I don’t have.”

He stared at me, his gaze intense, analytical. He was studying every feature on my face, from my eyes to my mouth, as if looking for the lie.

“What color are your eyes?” he asked, the question so unexpected it threw me off.

“What?”

“Your eyes. What color are they?” His voice was sharp, impatient.

“They’re brown,” I stammered. “Just… brown.”

He said nothing. His thumb traced the line of my jaw again, slower this time. The terrifying shock of his touch was starting to mix with something else, something warm and confusing that spread through my veins.

I hated it. I hated him for making me feel it.

“Please,” I whispered, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see anything. I just want to go home.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer, a silent battle of wills passing between us. I felt like he could see every secret I had, every fear, every pathetic little hope.

Then, without a word, he dropped his hand. The absence of his touch left my skin feeling cold.

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He didn’t look back.

“Wait,” I called out, my voice small. “Are you… are you going to let me go?”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn around. “You will stay here.”

“But you believe me, don’t you? I can see it. You know I’m not her.”

He was silent for a long moment.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said, his voice flat and final. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The lock clicked into place, the sound sealing my fate once more. I slid down the wall until I was huddled on the floor, my body trembling. He was gone. And I was still a prisoner. But a single, fragile thought took root in the terror.

He had hesitated. For just a second, the Reaper had hesitated.