ESTELLE

Hughe. My deceased husband. He was the one who forced me into an early grave. One hundred and fifty fucking years later and I still remember his pathetic hands around my delicate skin yet . . . I couldn’t recall the reaper who captured my soul.

Not that it mattered. The deepest pits of Hell fed my fears so much that I vowed to never let love consume me again.

It would only lead to my destruction.

Reliving your worst nightmare until your eyes bled would corrupt any normal person, so yeah. I came out with a few blemishes—I convinced myself it was Hughe’s fault for ruining me, but deep down . . . I knew the truth. I was rotting in damnation for actions I made before he offered me the chance at redemption. Lucifer. The devil himself. It was a shit offer. He made it painstakingly obvious pure souls could never soil their hands like a reaper. 

A soul in the border between good and evil. A gullible idiot easily manipulated when they walked the earth, or in other words—me.

Honestly, if some wacko with red skin and horns told me before I died I would be punching numbers for the rest of my undead life until I was deemed “savable” I would have dropped to my knees and asked when could I start?

But now?

I guess life after death really was that fucking boring, and maybe before I understood what the job entailed—I would have killed to be in this position but not anymore. 

I was bored to tears of this life and slamming my head against the desk seemed more productive than sending me out to complete fieldwork.

I'd rather be stuck filing in the office than wrangling a few hundred souls. But staying seated like a good little worker-bee was out of the question with how aggressively my supervisor rounded the corner. Damn. I wish she would ignore my existence and walk away. 

Larissa stalked toward me. Her black pencil skirt exaggerated all her curves as she bent down, and slammed her perfectly manicured hand on the neatly stacked folders on my desk. 

I sighed, and her neon green eyes laser-focused on my computer screen.

“Get up. I need you to finish your reaping duties, and please don’t make me write you another incomplete.”

A tad over dramatic but whatever. 

I pushed myself from the desk, digging my nails into the side arms of the chair, and smiled through clenched teeth. “But I did my fieldwork last month.”

Larissa placed her hand on my shoulder and tightened her grip. “Get out of the office, Estelle. I won’t ask you twice.”

“Can I at least ask Caius to come—”

“He’s busy working on cases you didn’t finish last time.”

I grumbled. All right. Hint taken. 

A few souls and I would be cleared for another month. No biggie. I was a boss-ass bitch who’d been reaping for a little over a hundred years. I had this in the bag.

“Okay, I’ll go.” I straightened my posture and gave Larissa a reassuring thumbs-up and a sloppy grin, but her intense stare didn’t waver as she relaxed her hold on my shoulder.

Cool. She’s not having any of my shit today. 

I cleared my throat, sat up, and wobbled to the Severance station on the 20th floor despite trying to hype myself up for the thousandth time. My legs yearned to give out when Val came into focus, sitting behind a glass desk.

Her office always gave me the chills. Starch white walls and one half-dead fern in the corner with fluorescent lights and no windows. It was like walking into a coroner's office. Sterile, empty, and everything that occupied it—dead. Perfect decor for our headquarters.

I swallowed the lump forming in the back of my throat and clutched onto the hem of my blouse. “So, how many for me this time?” I asked, peeking at Val’s computer screen, attempting to read the small print, but I couldn't see a damn thing.

The prolonged silence spiked my nerves alongside each click of her long fingernails against the keyboard. Her honey-brown eyes were barely visible from the glare reflecting off her glasses.

Val didn’t lift her gaze and said in a disinterested tone, “A hundred and ninety-nine. It’s a short day for you. Yay.”

Bullshit.

Val’s nails continued to tap against the keyboard until a loud ding convulsed around us. My wrist watch zapped simultaneously with her final click.

My anxiety intensified as the shockwave shattered the equilibrium of the world around me.

I clenched my side, suppressing the bile from rolling up my throat.

Short day, my ass. She had to be fucking with me. That would take me hours if not a whole day. Ugh. Why couldn’t they leave the soul-reaping to the ones who were good at it?

It always reminded me of my days in Hell.