My Lover, the Reaper – A mortal woman falls for Death himself — and learns love can be more terrifying than dying....

The night I died, the rain was relentless. It didn’t fall — it attacked, pelting the windshield in sheets so thick the world vanished behind them. I remember gripping the steering wheel tighter, my pulse racing faster than the wipers could move.

“Come on, not now,” I muttered, eyes darting to the gas gauge dipping toward empty. I was still an hour from the city. Still an hour from safety.

Lightning slashed the sky, illuminating the empty road ahead — and something standing in the middle of it.

A man.

No — not quite.

He didn’t flinch as my headlights hit him. Didn’t move when I slammed the brakes, tires screaming against the wet asphalt. For a moment, everything froze — time, sound, breath — until the car skidded sideways and the world went black.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the car anymore.

The rain had stopped. The world around me was unnaturally still, wrapped in a gray fog that swallowed everything except the man standing a few feet away. He wore a long black coat that rippled without wind, and his eyes — gods, his eyes — were silver, reflecting light that didn’t exist.

“Am I…” My voice trembled. “Dead?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if studying a fragile thing. “Technically,” he said, his tone smooth, deep — beautiful and terrifying. “But not beyond saving. Not yet.”

I staggered to my feet, heart pounding. “Who are you?”

He stepped closer, the mist parting around him like it feared to touch him. “You may call me whatever mortals call me,” he said. “Angel. Demon. Reaper.”

The word sank like ice into my chest.

Death himself was standing before me.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why are you here?”

“For you.” His hand lifted slightly, fingers gloved in black. “Your soul burns brighter than most. It caught my attention.”

That should’ve scared me — and it did — but underneath the fear was something else. A pull, a strange magnetism that drew me closer even as instinct screamed to run.

“You can’t take me,” I said, voice shaking. “I’m not ready.”

His lips curved, almost in amusement. “No one ever is.”

The world shifted again — the fog swirling, pulling me backward toward the darkness. Panic clawed up my throat as I reached out to him. “Wait—!”

He caught my wrist. His touch was cold, but not lifeless — like winter itself had chosen to hold me.

“Remember this moment, mortal,” he said softly. “Because death never forgets the ones who defy him.”

Then the fog swallowed me whole.

When I woke again, I was alive. The car wrecked. The rain gone. But his voice still echoed in my mind — smooth, haunting, impossible to forget.

And somewhere deep inside me, I knew one thing for certain.

Death had let me go once.

He wouldn’t do it again.

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For days, I told myself it had been a dream. A hallucination brought on by shock, blood loss, or the cracked edge of death itself. The doctors said I was lucky. I’d survived a crash that should’ve killed me.

But luck didn’t explain the cold hand that had pulled me from the darkness.

Three nights after I left the hospital, I started to notice it — the feeling of being watched. It began as a chill at the back of my neck, a whisper in the corner of my mind. The shadows stretched longer than they should have, and sometimes, when I turned too quickly, I saw a figure at the edge of my vision. A tall silhouette draped in black.

Always gone when I looked twice.

At first, I blamed the trauma. Then came the mirror.

I’d been brushing my hair in front of the bathroom sink when I saw him behind me — not clearly, just a faint reflection in the fogged glass. Silver eyes, steady, unblinking. My heart stuttered. I spun around. Nothing.

The lights flickered once, and then the air grew cold enough to frost the mirror.

“Stop it,” I whispered to myself. “He’s not real.”

But the voice that answered wasn’t mine.

“Not real?” It was soft, almost amused. “You’ve been whispering my name in your sleep.”

I froze. The bathroom door was open — yet the sound came from everywhere and nowhere.

“Where are you?”

A pause. Then: “Closer than you think.”

The light bulb burst. I screamed, stumbling back, glass shattering around my feet. The darkness that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed. It breathed.

When I woke, it was morning. The bulb was intact. The mirror clean. But on the sink, written in condensation, was a single word.

Soon.

After that, strange things kept happening. A car nearly hit me on my way to work, but the world seemed to slow down just long enough for me to step back. A falling beam at the construction site missed me by inches. Once, I swore I saw a black feather drifting down from nowhere.

He was protecting me. Watching me.

I started dreaming of him — the Reaper with the silver eyes. In the dreams, he stood at the foot of my bed, saying nothing, just watching as if memorizing every breath I took. Sometimes, his voice brushed against my thoughts like a blade’s edge.

You shouldn’t have lived.

You were meant to be mine.

Each morning, I woke with my heart in my throat and the taste of cold on my lips.

One night, after another dream, I found a single black rose on my windowsill. The petals were coated with frost, glimmering under the moonlight.

That was when I realized something terrifying.

Death wasn’t just following me.

He was waiting.

And somehow — God help me — a part of me didn’t want him to stop.

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The storm came back the night he returned.

Thunder rolled like distant growls, and rain hammered against the windows with the same violence as the night I crashed. I sat alone in my apartment, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the black rose I still couldn’t throw away. It hadn’t wilted. Not a single petal had fallen.

Something in me knew what that meant.

When the lights flickered, I didn’t move. I just whispered into the dark, “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Silence answered first — then the slow creak of the door. I hadn’t unlocked it, but it opened anyway, inch by inch. Wind swept in, carrying that scent again — not of decay, but of frost and something ancient, like the air inside tombs that never see the sun.

He stepped through the threshold without a sound.

The Reaper.

His coat trailed behind him like a shadow detached from the world. Water glistened on his hair, but he wasn’t wet. His eyes burned silver in the dim light, steady on me.

“I told you,” he murmured. “Death never forgets.”

My voice cracked. “Why are you haunting me?”

He tilted his head, a faint curve to his lips. “You think this is haunting?” His tone dropped lower, dark silk wrapping around the words. “You escaped what was meant to be yours. I simply came to collect what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours,” I said, but the words sounded weak even to me.

He took a slow step forward. The lights dimmed with every movement, until only the glow of his eyes lit the room. “Then why did you call for me in your dreams?”

My throat tightened. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted, his voice soft but sharp as glass. “Every time your heart raced in the dark, every time you whispered my name without realizing it, I heard you.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“You do now.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing my chin. The air froze between us. My breath came out in a shaky cloud.

“Say it,” he whispered.

I didn’t know where the word came from — maybe it was planted in my soul the night I died. “Azrael.”

His smile deepened, both terrifying and beautiful. “Good girl.”

The shadows around him stirred, curling like living smoke. “You were supposed to cross with me that night,” he said. “But something in you resisted. Something powerful. It drew me in.”

“What do you want from me?”

His eyes softened — not kindly, but possessively, like a predator admiring its prey. “Everything.”

Lightning flashed, filling the room with white fire. When the light faded, he was closer, his hand against my cheek. His touch burned cold.

“Don’t fight me,” he murmured. “It’s pointless. Every mortal dies. But you—” his thumb traced my skin, “—you make death remember what it feels like to want.”

My knees trembled, heart thundering in my chest. I should have been terrified. I was. But beneath the fear was something darker.

Curiosity.

Desire.

And when he leaned closer, voice barely a whisper, I realized something worse than dying had already begun.

I was falling for him.