Cupid screwed up.

Either that or my entire existence has been cursed from the moment I was born.

I feel as though I have been chewed up, spit out, pissed on and then chewed up again. As disgusting as that sounds.

Soul mates.

Humans do not usually have soul mates. It is something reserved to the supernatural. How could this happen?

There are no words to accurately describe the way I am feeling right now. And Out of all the souls out there, why his? Why must I be bonded with the one thing I am trying to get away from?

And more importantly, why does he even get a soul? It would only be fitting for the reaper of souls to not be given one. Who decides these things? I would like to have a word with them.

It is not fair.

Some times, it feels as though I am in a TV show. Like a bad soap opera. The story of the girl who got screwed over and over again.

Other times, like right now, I feel as though I need to just stop whining and get over myself. I annoy myself. So what if I am soul mates with the bad man who closes lives for a living? So what if some psycho is trying very hard to kill me right now? So what if I have been casually drinking tea every Sunday with Satan without knowing it for two years? I can handle these things. I am a big girl who has dealt with way worse things in her life. Like my parents, for instance.

Maybe digging my own grave right now was an overreaction. An impulse.

I know I do not actually want to die, I just want to make a statement. It is ridiculous, but at this point, to be honest, the only reason I am still digging is because it feels good. It is therapeutic. Repetitive, simple, physical. Everything I wish my life could be.

When a large shadow appears on the ground in front of me, I know exactly who it is. He came sooner than I expected.

"What do you want?" I snap, bringing my eyes up to his.

The jerk does not even look like he was just in a fight with the devil. In fact, it almost seems as though he had time to iron out his cloak before coming here.

"What are you doing?" The hint of amusement in his voice betrays his frown.

"I asked first." Petty, I know.

"You know exactly what I want," he says, his sly gaze roaming all over me.

I feel instantly aware of how my sweaty clothes cling to me, or how my face is probably covered in dirt right now. I chose to ignore him. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm digging my own grave. Isn't it poetic?"

He lets out an exasperated sigh and crouches in front of my hole. I try not to stare at his biceps as he does. "Come out."

"No."

"Come on, I won't bite. Not unless you ask me too." He smirks and raises an eyebrow. He looks too sexy for his own good. I need to be mad at him, not ogle him.

I flash him a dirty look and continue digging my way down. Maybe if I dig deep enough, the ground will swallow me.

"Alright. I'm coming down." He makes a move to throw one of his legs over the hole.

"Stop!" I yell, "Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe I want to be alone right now? I need time." Lots of it. Preferably, an entire lifetime of it.

He clicks his tongue, "You've been given enough of that," he motions to the hole, "clearly." He extends his hand towards me, "Either you come up or I come down." He gives me a challenging look.

"You're so annoying," I mutter, gripping the edge of the hole on my own and ignoring his hand. It is no use fighting him. I know I will lose.

"Right back at you," he grits.

I dust my pants off and grab my shovel off the ground.

"I'll take that," he takes it away from my hand, "Wouldn't want you going around digging more holes. Someone might think there's a giant mole living around here." He starts moving toward my house, just assuming I am going to follow him.

"Very cute," I sneer.

When it becomes clear that he wants us to take this inside, I halt my step.

"I'm sure we can talk just fine out here. I'm enjoying the nice weather."

The last time we were in my house, I ended up with his tongue down my throat.

He turns around with a smug look on his face, assessing me before a smirk breaks across his lips. He knows exactly what I am thinking. He turns back around and starts walking again.

Suddenly, I feel a hot wave of air wash over me. My skin starts prickling under the heat until I have to shed my leather jacket. I start fanning myself with my tank top, even becoming aware of the back of my neck breaking in sweat.

Did the sun just reach its peak? It is so hot all of a sudden. Early autumn my ass, this feels like middle of July.

"You sure it's not too hot out here?" he chuckles.

"Asshole." He did this. How, I am not sure.

He walks up to my porch and I have no choice but to follow him inside where I can start blasting the air conditioning. I go up the steps, panting from the scorching heat. I need water.

As soon as I step inside, it instantly disappears. The cool indoor air hits me all at once and the contrast makes me shiver violently. It feels like I just stepped in my fridge.

Death's eyes immediately dip to where my nipples are peaking through the thin undershirt as a result of the temperature change. I am not sure if the goose bumps that make their my skin are actually from the lowered degrees or from the way he is looking at me.

Annoyed does not begin to describe the way I am feeling.

"You never play fair," I say, crossing both arms across my chest.

His eyes return to my face, "I could say the same thing to you," he says with a dubious smile. "Though sadly, I didn't come here to play."

I figured as much. I slide back into my jacket, as though it can shield me against his calculating eyes. By the look in his eyes while he watches me do it, I can tell he is not pleased.

"I'm sorry that you had to learn about it this way," he starts, "It wasn't my intention."

I am sorry I had to learn about it at all. This, complicates things. It certainly explains a lot, at least. Mostly, it explains why I have been feeling so attracted to him, even after everything. It explains why he is always there. I avert my gaze.

It makes sense, but it does not change how I feel about it. About us. About him.

More importantly, it does not change the fact that he lied to me this entire time. He knew and he chose not to tell me. And for what reason? So he could toy with me knowing I had these feelings towards him and hated myself for it.

"How long have you known?" I snap. And was it before or after you tried to kill me?

"I've had my doubts for a while."

"For a while?" I want to know exactly how long.

"Since the first time I saw you."

"That night in the woods," I state, "That's why you acted so weird?"

I watch him hesitate, grinding his jaw together. "Actually, that wasn't the first time I saw you."

My frown deepens.

"Elaborate," I grit.

"I've, huh," Death always seems to exude so much confidence, to the point where he looks cocky and conceited. Like nothing could ever get to him. But right now, he grows serious. Almost a little unsure at what he is about to admit. "Been watching you for a long time," he finishes.

My lips part a little. I should find his admission creepy. Be madder, but now all I feel is... curious.

"Tell me exactly how long."

"Long enough." He turns his back to me and grabs the vase I launched at his head once. The one Sophie glued back together piece by piece. He examines it for a moment before continuing, "Long enough to know that you never eat breakfast," he starts, "Your entire wardrobe consists of black," he replaces the vase in its spot, "you have no family and other than Sophie, no friend to speak of." I narrow my eyes.

"You are obsessed with your dagger for a reason I have yet to find out." His tone deepends, "You don't like to be around people. In fact, you hold on to your loneliness like it's your lifeline." My eyes widen, the atmosphere suddenly growing tense around us.

"You despise what you do. You hate it so much that anytime you finish off a target, a part of you dies with it," he turns back around and stares deep within my soul. I almost flinch. I can feel the blood, rushing to my head. The heavy pouding of my heart as it hammers against my ribs. I do not want to hear anymore. "The only reason you operate your business off a website is so you can have as little contact as possible with your clients," he takes a step towards me and I watch through tear-filled eyes. "You refuse to kill outside of a contract because you believe in some twisted way that it makes you less responsible." Another step. "Despite your pet badger being a complete demon to you, you keep him around because every punishment he gives you soothes your conscience," he continues, his voice becomes a little softer. "You've never been with a man, because you think you are undeserving of affection." I close my mouth, unable to form any words. I feel the hot tears I cannot control escaping my eyes. He raises a finger to one of them and wipes it tenderly before bringing his finger to his mouth.

I recoil away from him, but he inches closer to me. He then grabs a tendril of my hair and pinches it between his fingers. In a carefully controlled tone, he adds, "So, I'd say a few months, give or take."

Without thinking, as if possessed, I drive my palm across his cheek with all the strength I can muster. The boiling rage surging through me makes my cheek flame as I watch him straighten his jaw with eyes narrowed to slits. I am vaguely aware of my shaking now, knuckles taunt from having my fists clenched during his entire speech. How dare he say those things to me?

The tears keep rolling down, but I do not sob. When my bottom lip starts trembling, I bite it down.

"Get out of my house," I say with bitter resentment, "I don't ever want to see your face again."

"Why? Scared of the truth or scared that I know you perhaps even better than you know yourself?" He presses his body to mine until I feel like I am suffocating in his scent and his warmth. A moment passes during which I can not focus. All I see is him, all I feel is him. What is wrong with me?

"I didn't say those things to hurt you, Emma," he whispers softly. He wipes another tear, "You can be yourself with me. I know your truth, and I know your lie."

He brushes his lips over mine, ever so gently. Like small flutters, so soft that they are barely there. Our breaths mix with the salty tears as he continues to pepper them with kisses. A large hand presses into the small of my back, pulling me into him. His kiss deepens until my lips part naturally to allow him entry.

Instead of staying pressed against him like my treacherous body wants me to, I push him away.

"If you know me so well, then tell me what I'm thinking right now?" I mutter.

When he remains silent, I continue, "I'm thinking the last thing I would ever want is to be with Death," I spit.

A cloud of warning settles on his features as he looks down at me with barely concealed anger. He fixes me with an implacable expression, reminding me of a predator. Reminding me of that night. The temperature drops a few degrees, the same way it always does when he is seething.

When I think he will pounce on me, he rolls his neck instead, as if to relieve some built-up pressure. He gaze settles back on me and when it does, it is cold, complacent.

"Go shower and put some clean clothes on," he states, looking down at my dirt-covered jeans, "We're going out."

"What?" I blurt, a little too loud and a little too high pitched.

"You heard me. Or do you want me to do it for you?" His tone is icy.

"You're out of your damn mind if you think I'll go anywhere with you."

He bridges the gap between us in one long stride, "Maybe I am, but so are you. Now chop, chop, princess. I turn into a pumkin at midnight." He lowers his face to mine, "Let's see if you can get ready as fast as you can dig a hole."

I get the strong urge to slap the smug look off his face again, but my hand still fucking hurts.