Page 10 of Reaper
“You are a beautiful woman, Paris.” He grinds his dick against my ass as he kisses the side of my neck down to my right shoulder. I resist the urge to move away from his touch. “Maybe we should stay in tonight. Let me show you how much I love this tight cunt of yours. I can tell how much you want me.”
I meet his lust-filled gaze in the mirror, the intensity of it making a sliver of disgust slither down my spine. It’s always the extreme with him. Lust or hate. Neither of which I want. Both being dangerous for me.
While under any other circumstance Nikita Petrov would be a beautiful man. Dirty blonde hair, light blue eyes, with a chiseled jaw line, physically he’s perfect. But to me, he’s nothing more than an ugly monster.
My captor.
My abuser.
The man I need to kill.
“How much time do we have before we need to leave?” I ask, ignoring his comment as I try to get his focus off my body and back to this fight. I don’t want to go but if I don’t have to endure his touch, I’m willing to deal with the whispers, stares, and lude gestures.
He steps away from me and glances down at his watch.
Thank God.
“You have five minutes. Wear the black mink.”
I want to scream that I hate that damn coat, but I don’t. I don’t want to bear the consequences for rebelling against his wishes. It doesn’t matter anyway because he doesn’t wait for a response before he struts out of the room.
“Fucking, mink,” I mutter. “I’m so tired of all the over-the-top shit. Why can’t I wear regular damn clothes? And who the hell wears mink anymore.”
I brace my hands against the vanity, drop my head, and try to push away the revulsion from his hands and mouth on me. Six long months of physical and mental torture. I wish I could jump in the shower and scrub until my skin is raw but there’s no time. I can’t be late.
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection in the mirror, resolve entering my entire being. It’s up to me to get out of this situation. Nobody’s going to save me. The only person who could is the reason I’m in this hellhole. I can’t be afraid anymore. I can’t do this for three damn years. I can’t endure him any longer. I won’t survive it. It has to be tonight.
I die or he does. Either way I’m going to be free.
Reaper
Igothroughthenormal pat down by one of Nikita Petrov’s goons whenever I’m at his fight club. The underground fight is happening in an abandoned warehouse on the seedier side of Oakland. They operate a number of these underground fights in different places throughout California, but this is the only one I fight in. It draws better talent.
I’m a Sinner. I’m the enemy. But when it comes to money none of that matters to the Bratva. The Petrovs can’t stand me or my brothers, but they allow me to fight because I bring in a crowd. And the bigger the crowd, the more money they make.
I’ve never lost a fight, and I don’t plan to. However, I don’t do it for the cut of the money I receive for winning even though it’s always a huge purse. I do it for me. I fight for my sanity.
“You’re good,” the goon says, with just a hint of a Russian accent. “Go on through, Sinner.”
I zip my gym bag, toss it over my shoulder, and walk inside, ignoring the glares from other Bratva members and stares from people who know I’m a Sinner and that I’m not supposed to be here. It’s the same song and dance every time I come. It’sexpected. I proudly wear my cut whenever I show up to fight so there’s no mistaking who I am and as a message if you fuck with me then you fuck with the Sinners.
The crowd’s already gathering and every night I fight it seems to grow by the hundreds. Of course, all this is illegal. From the amount of people inside this building, the alcohol being served without a liquor license, to the illegal Cuban cigars being given out. But none of it matters to the numerous politicians, celebrities, and even some law enforcement who show up once a month to these fights. They crave the blood and the madness. And I’m no different from them. I crave it too.
I shove my way through the people milling around dressed like they’re at some fancy dinner party, not a fight. I head to the locker room near the back of the building down a narrow hallway not too far from where the cage sits.
The sound of heels clicking against the stained concrete floor of the corridor draws my attention. When I shift my gaze to the approaching footsteps, I come face to face with Nikita Petrov, the Pakhan’s eldest son and the one slated to take over his father’s empire.
Although he’s the closest to me, my attention isn’t on him. It’s on the woman walking slightly behind him who looks like she’d rather be any other place but here.
She’s trying to shield herself using a long over-the-top, black mink coat, and heavy amounts of makeup. But hiding from any motherfucker in here is going to be hard to do when she’s so fucking beautiful. So out of place in this environment.
So out of place in this world.
Usually, I keep my head down, do what I got to do, then leave. It’s not like I can’t handle my own against any of these motherfuckers, but I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m here to get my frustrations and pent-up anger out then go home. Alone.
I should keep walking. Just ignore them as I pass, but the sadness in her eyes pulls me in. I haven’t experienced this kind of draw to a woman since I buried the love of my life.
“If it isn’t, the Sinner,” Nikita sneers as I try to walk by.
