Page 4 of Reaper
Lila is used to getting her way. Never with me, but most of the brothers will do what she wants. None of the pouting shit or begging will ever get me to do something I don’t want to do.
“Reaper, come on,” she whines like it will change my mind.
It won’t. Nobody is allowed to touch me while I’m fucking them unless I want them to. And I’ve never allowed Lila to touch me, and she knows this.
With the tip of the knife covered in Aleksi’s blood, I drag it along her neck, causing beads of her own blood to mix with his on her alabaster skin. She gasps at the contact, but her eyes light up with lust.
“If you try to touch me again, I’ll slit your damn throat and leave your corpse right beside his.” Her eyes widen for a second, but she nods as understanding sinks in. “Now open your fucking mouth like the good slut you are so you can choke on my dick.”
Paris
SixMonthsago…
I’m shivering as goosebumps prickle my skin. My arms are locked across my body as I try to calm my nerves. I have no clue where I am or who took me. After they pushed me inside a van in the middle of broad daylight, they tied my hands with black zip ties, and pulled a bag over my head.
No one helped me as I kicked and screamed. Onlookers just gawked, pointed, and some even pulled out their phones to record while I screamed for anyone to help me. No one intervened. Now, I’m standing in this room after someone pushed me inside, uncuffed me, then removed the bag from my head.
I don’t know what’s happening. They only told me to behave, so I don’t get hurt before slamming the door and locking it from the outside.
“What the hell is going on?”
I startle, backing away as far as I can get from the door when heavy footsteps approach. I search the large room for anythingto use as a weapon, but except for a nightstand and the enormous bed taking up most of the space it’s virtually empty.
The walls are bare—no pictures or decorations, and the hardwood floors are scuffed. It’s not much to look at, but it’s not some musky dungeon or jail cell either, so I guess I should be grateful for that.
I take another step closer to the wall away from the door when the footsteps stop in front of it. The door creaks open, revealing a man in a crisp black suit, his silver hair combed back away from his slim face. He appears to be in his late fifties, with a long gash across his cheek.
His face is stoic as he clasps his tattooed hands behind his back. “My name is Yuri.” His thick accent is slow and deliberate, each word drawn out. Definitely eastern European, possibly Russian. “I’m to escort you, but you must behave, or I’ll have to tie your hands again. And I don’t want to do that. Do you understand, Miss Johnson?”
My eyes widen. “How do you know my name?” I take a few steps away from him until my back is plastered against the wall. “Where am I?”
He smiles, but it looks forced, almost like he’s trying to ease my panic, but it’s only making it worse. “That is not important at this time. Are you going to behave, or do I need to put the zip ties back on?”
I shake my head as more fear slithers down my spine. “I’ll behave.”
He offers me another smile, the corners of his mouth lifting in a painful grimace. “Thank you. Now, let’s go. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
“Keep who waiting?”
“Follow me,” he says, instead of answering my questions.
I tighten my arms around my body and follow the stranger out of the room. We step into the hallway and it’s like we’ve stepped into another world.
Luxury.
It’s over the top to say the least. It’s something most people can never afford. Everything is white, marble, and trimmed in gold. I don’t know for sure if it’s actual gold, but looking around at how huge this place is, it’s probably real.
We step into a rotunda with a large circular glass table sitting in the center. A massive vase overflowing with stark white and black roses dominates the center of the room, directly beneath a huge, glittering chandelier.
“Where the hell am I?” I mumble to myself.
The man’s shiny black shoes resonate off the white marble floors as I follow him at a safe distance. I try to shake off the feeling of impending doom, a cold dread settling in my stomach, but I can’t. The only sounds are my heart hammering in my chest and the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his footsteps echoing in my ears.
When we stop at the end of a hallway off to the right of the rotunda, at a large mahogany door with an intricately carved lion’s head in the center, the need to run takes over my body. But the man’s warning replays in my mind. I don’t want to be restrained again.
The man knocks on the door, but he doesn’t wait for a response before he pushes the large door open. Reluctantly, I follow without question because there’s no point in running. I have no idea where I’m at or where to go. I’ve already been warned so if I bolt, the consequences will probably be worse.
Stepping into the office, the acrid smell of alcohol and cigarettes burn my nostrils. A faint cloud of white smoke rises from an older man who’s sitting behind a huge ornate oak desk.
