The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  “That’s right,” I confirm.

  “I need you to say it. Don’t laugh! I’m being serious. I need you to say that you’re here to protect me.”

  “I’m here to protect you,” I say. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “Including you.”

  “Including me.”

  “Then yes.” She straightens her back. “My name was Melissa Collins once upon a time. But I’m Cora Ash now.”

  I step forward, meaning to kiss her, hold her, something. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, like she can’t decide if I’m a friend or a threat, like she can’t decide if she knows me or just thinks she knows me. Before I can put her at ease, the front door rattles in its hinges. I turn off the faucet and bring my finger to my lips, and then creep to the door, waiting just beside it. I gesture to Cora and then to the door. Her face hardens and she nods.

  “Hello,” she calls. “Who is it?”

  “It’s the building manager,” the man says, voice slurred, but not much. A couple of slugs of whisky to get the courage he needs for the job.

  Cora looks at me. I gesture to the door handle. “Oh, okay. Let me just unlock the door.”

  “We had reports of the pipes leaking, is all, and we need to check all the apartments.”

  Cora opens the door and then leaps back, which is good because the men come barreling in right away. I let them run by me, and then I leap at them, smashing one over the head with the hilt of my pistol and pressing the barrel against the other man’s ear. “Take one more step,” I say, “and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

  I kick the door closed behind me and lead the man deeper into the apartment, giving his groaning friend a kick to the face, knocking him out cold.

  “You got any rope?” I ask Cora. She watches from the TV, eyes wide like people get when they’re not used to violence.

  “Rope? No. I don’t just keep rope around here.”

  “No? All right, then.” I smack the man over the head. He falls to his knees with a loud thump and then collapses on his face.

  Tucking my gun away, I nod to Cora. “We need to go. Right now.”

  “I can’t believe this.” She looks at the men, lips trembling. At first I think she’s going to cry but then her green eyes light up fiercely and she gives one of the men a kick to the thigh, gritting her teeth as she growls, “Coming into my apartment like this, you fucking animals.”

  “Come on.” I grab her by the wrist. “They might have friends. We’ve gotta ride.”

  I drag her out of her apartment and down the stairs, watching all the corners, ready to fight if there’s fighting to be done. When we get to the front door she yanks her wrist away and pushes herself against me. She does it with so much force that I’m pressed flat against the wall, her body tight against me.

  “You have to promise me,” she says. “You have to promise me that you’re different. You’re not like those men. You won’t hurt me.”

  I take her by the neck, my hand covering the snake’s head and tail, and then kiss her so hard that for a second we forget about the danger. Then I shove her away, scared that if I don’t I won’t be able to stop myself.

  “I promise,” I say, grabbing her hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cora

  I’m still angry as I follow Logan to his bike, sick and tired of men thinking they can do what they want to me. If it isn’t men like Charles, assholes who think my body was designed for their personal pleasure, it’s assholes who think my family’s money was designed for them to steal. There’s an element of twisted humor to it, too, since none of them seem to realize the fault in their plan. I would laugh if rage was not still working its way through my body, making me clench my teeth way too hard, feeling like my jaw might shatter at any moment. I cling onto Logan too hard, digging my fingernails into his leather.

  He knows my name, which means he’s been sent after me, too. Is there anyone in this world I can trust? I think about climbing off the bike and running away, but then we’re riding. In truth, I’m glad the choice is robbed from me. Despite everything, I want to be with Logan right now. I repeat his promise in my mind: he won’t hurt me. He gave me his word.

  We go into his apartment and he locks the door and places a chair in front of it, and then we sit on the couch in silence for about half a minute.

  “I guess you wanna know why I’m looking for Melissa Collins.”

  Does he know what that means to me, referring to her as though she’s somebody else, not me?

  “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  He explains it to me: telling me about his dad’s mission for him, and the money my dad supposedly owes his club. “But I don’t have it in me to get that cash out of you, Cora. I just … He didn’t know what he was asking me. There was no way he could know that I’d … Well, there was no way he could know that we’d met. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. I’m not gonna shake you down for cash. We’ll have to work something out, though, something with those goons who stormed into your apartment. Do you know who they were? They were mafia, Cora. Serious bastards.”

  “Mafia,” I repeat. And I thought playing dive bars and trying to think of clever lyrics was hard. Now I have to deal with the fucking mafia! “Great.” I massage my jaw, trying to contain it, but then I can’t; laughter explodes out of me in giant bursts, causing my sides to ache, causing my face to ache. Everything aches and I keel over, laughing like a madwoman, unable to stop myself. I laugh until my throat is sore and then lean back, panting for breath.

  Logan raises an eyebrow, watching me. “Something funny?”

  “You’re all a bunch of fools,” I say. “You only have half the information. If you’d done some more research, maybe you’d know. But no, for men like you—mafia and outlaws, what has my life come to?—for men like you, charging in and feeling tough is more important, isn’t it? Never mind about facts. You really are Vikings, all of you, not the Norse who stayed at home and farmed and made laws, but the mad marauders who pillaged villages and razed homes. You all just want to feel big.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  I tell him about Dad’s will. His face starts confused, and then the more I explain, the wider his smile grows. It’s a mad smile, one that lies somewhere between humor and anger. By the end he’s laughing just as hard as I did, covering his mouth after a minute or so. “Goddamn,” he says. “That’s really somethin’, Cora. That’s really fuckin’ something. What sort of twisted deal is that? So you have access to millions and—”

  “Sometimes I worry I can’t pay my rent. When I run out of gas, I pray to God my credit card isn’t maxed.”

  We meet eyes and then laugh like maniacs for a few minutes.

  “This changes everything, I reckon. At least for me. What am I going to do, put a baby in you and a ring on your finger?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound awkward. “Right.”

  Tell him now, I will myself. Tell him right now!

  “Not that you’d make a bad wife.” He bows, playing the gentleman. “I’m sure you’d make a wonderful life partner and all that.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.

  “Have at it.”

  I sit on the toilet, hunched over, arms wrapped around my knees. I sit there for a long time, not trying to go the bathroom, just thinking: trying to work out if I can really trust Logan, if I can stay here. My secret is out, my sacred secret, the one I promised myself never to tell anybody. This morning I was worrying about lyric writing and wondering if I’d ever go on a date with Logan, and now I’m worrying about the mafia and Logan knows who I really am. Everything seems surreal. I try and summon up the courage to go out there and tell him about the baby, just blurt it out, but the words won’t even form under my breath, let alone out loud.

  “Are you all right in there?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I call back. “Just give me a minute.”

  “All right.” I liste
n to his footsteps recede from me, and then pace slowly around the apartment.

  He was going to try and take Melissa’s money, I reason, and he isn’t anymore, because of me. He must have feelings for me. He must want me. I remember the way he acted the morning after his tears and grow angry at the thought. I have to give him a second chance to be real with me, to show me there’s more to us than frantic fucking and words full of rage. I think of the way Viking women would be traded by their men, wedding dates set and bride prices arranged without the woman so much as uttering a word. I’m lucky that I can go out there and talk to him, but it’s harder in some ways, too. Freedom to choose is also freedom to be indecisive and sometimes—not often, but sometimes—I wish that choices could be made for me.

  “I’ve decided to trust you,” I announce, feeling vaguely foolish as I stand at the threshold of the living room.

  “Okay.” He tilts his head at me. “To be honest, Cora, I thought you trusted me anyway.”

  “I guess I did.” I shrug. “It’s complicated. I just … I need to know that you’re going to be real with me, Logan. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

  His face hardens.

  “See!” I blurt, unable to stop myself. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, what? That look on your face. The look that says: if she asks me to talk about myself one more time, things are going to get ugly. You know the look I’m talking about.”

  “Please don’t play the therapist.” He goes into the kitchen. “Do you want a beer?”

  “I’ll take a beer, sure, but I could do without the snide comments. I’m not playing the therapist. Two men just broke into my apartment. You must be able to understand why I want you to be real with me.”

  “I get it,” he says, bringing the beers through. “I really do, all right? I get it and then some. Life’s crazy right now and you need your knight in shining armor to also be your Romeo. You want to have your cake and eat it too.”

  “If you make one more snide comment,” I say, “I’m going to slap you across the face.”

  He sips his beer, and then grins with suds sticking to his lips. “Well, excuse me, tough lady.”

  I slap him across the cheek, and then bring my face close to his. “Want another?”

  He leans back, smiling all the wider. “You really are a little psycho, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don’t like it when the man who’s supposed to be on my side acts like a jerk-off.”

  “Harsh words.”

  I take a sip of my beer and sit back on the couch.

  “Maybe we ought to talk about you,” he says. “Why do you have to take a trip down Logan Lane. Can’t we go down Cora Cul-de-Sac instead?”

  “Wow. Wordplay.”

  “Aren’t I just full of surprises, Miss Ash?”

  “You are, actually,” I say. “What about me? There’s nothing interesting about me. I told you about my mom dying of cancer, didn’t I? That was true; I didn’t make that up. I told you how when my dad died I sat at the upstairs window looking down at the driveway waiting for his bike for two full days before calling somebody, didn’t I? I didn’t?” I shrug. “I just sat there and stared, thinking that if I moved it might make something bad happen to him, but if I just watched, sooner or later he’d come back. It wasn’t like I saw my dad as a hero or anything like that. Maybe it was selfish. It was just that I’d already lost my mom, and we didn’t have much family. I didn’t want to be completely alone. But I was. He went out there and got himself killed.”

  “Do you know how he died?” Logan asks.

  “It was a biker thing,” I say, nodding. “The police inspector told me.”

  “Did he tell you the name of the club?”

  “No, he …” I pause, looking into Logan’s face. His Viking-blue eyes are full of emotion, his lip curled. “It was your club, wasn’t it? My dad tried to take over your club!” I stand up, the revelation sending me pacing around the apartment with my beer in hand, bringing it to my lips every couple of seconds. “I always knew he’d gotten himself into trouble, but—what are the chances?”

  “Slim,” he says. He comes over to me, standing close, so close that I can smell oil and sweat and beer and smoke and cologne all mixed together, a scent that works its way up my nose and into my body, spreading like smoky hands, touching me, caressing me. “Are you angry with me?”

  There’s something childlike in the question, as though a lot hinges on my answer. I give it thought. I’m not, I realize. I’m shocked at the coincidence of it. But I’m not angry with him. “You weren’t involved, were you?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I didn’t know shit about it until Dad died.”

  “Then I’m not angry with you.”

  And then something bizarre happens, something I’ll never understand. I tell him I’m not angry just as uncontrollable anger explodes inside of me, starting in my belly and cascading down my arm, causing me to launch the beer bottle at the wall and scream so that my vocal cords tear.

  “It’s not fucking fair!” I cry. “It’s never fucking fair! Nothing is fucking fair!”

  Logan leaps back reflexively. Then he crouches slightly, watching me warily. “Cora. It’s all right. Cora, relax.”

  “Why would he do that?” I kick the couch, not caring when my toes throb. “Mom was dead. He should’ve kept himself safe for me! But instead he … He was a selfish prick! I fucking hate him! Oh, he could tell me what to do, tell me how to live, but he didn’t care enough to stick around, did he?”

  Logan wraps his arms around me as I start to tremble, locking his hands and holding me completely still. “It’s okay,” he whispers, over and over. “It’s okay, it’s okay …”

  He leads me to the couch, sitting me down and rocking me back and forth.

  “It’s not fair,” I whisper, tears sliding down my cheeks. Now that the anger has passed, I’m shocked by the sudden force of it. It rose from nowhere, like a grass snake, hidden so well as to be almost nonexistent one moment and then deadly lethal the next. I bury my face in his neck, thankful for the warmth of him, and cry myself out. He strokes my hair and rubs my shoulders, soothing me.

  “Life ain’t fair, is what I’ve learned,” he says. “I know that’s pretty obvious advice, but there it is.”

  “No. You’re right. Life isn’t fair.”

  He takes my face in both his hands and looks deeply into my eyes. “I know how you feel,” he says. He swallows. “I feel the same about my dad. Anger and hate and half the time I don’t even believe it. I cried that night. I cried like a baby, so of course I know how you feel, Cora. I feel like I’ve taken a shotgun to the chest all the damn time. Except when I’m with you, ’cause then I can take the pain.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Just like that. Just by being with me. That can’t be true.”

  “It is. It really is. I’m just as surprised as you are. I’ve been with enough women in my life, but none of ’em have made me feel like you. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “I don’t think you have to.”

  I disentangle myself and go into the bathroom, wiping my eyes with some toilet paper, and then return with a fresh fire in my chest. But this fire isn’t rage. This fire comes from a deeper place. I stand at the bathroom door, looking at him as he looks back at me. He’s wearing a pale blue T-shirt, almost the same shade of his eyes, with scuffed blue jeans and scuffed black boots. His hair is tangled and jagged around his shoulders, tucked behind his ears. His jaw is set like a soldier’s, but with the hint of a smile on his lips. His arm muscles are well-defined, the backs of his arms ridged.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  “You.”

  I’ve never felt sexier as I strut over to him, drop to my knees and push him back onto the couch when he tries to lean up. I undo his jeans and yank them down to his knees, taking his cock in my hand and looking up into his face. He’s soft at fi
rst. I think he’s shocked by me. I can’t blame him. I’m shocked by me. I open my eyes wide and stare at him, massaging his cock more than jerking it, rubbing my hand up and down smoothly, gracefully, feeling every minor change in his hardness. Slowly, he becomes hard in my hand. I feel the change, a dormant animal becoming tense, ready to bite. He brings his finger to my mouth. I suck it, and then bite it.

  “I want to feel you,” I moan, my pussy already screaming at me. But I want to hear him moan. I need to know I have control over some aspect of my life. I need to make my man moan, the father of my child moan. I bring my face to his cock, opening my mouth wide. His size is intimidating, even when he’s already been inside of me. I push my mouth down onto his cock, the helmet pressing firmly against my tongue, and then the shaft, and finally the base of it. The head presses into the back of my throat. I choke myself, pushing my face down until his balls are squashed against my lips.