The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  Selena is boneless when I slip out of her. I get a warm, wet washcloth and gently clean her up. She’s still so sensitive as I wash between her legs, and she spreads wide again, her head back on the pillow, hair splayed out all over the place. Her eyes are closed and her hips move in small circles. She wants more.

  “Again?” I ask with a chuckle. She moans and, not one to disappoint, I slip inside her again, kissing her as I move much more slowly this time. We make love. Our eyes meeting as we kiss, we taste each other’s tongues. I move in and out as she pushes her pelvis up, her engorged, sensitive clit rubbing against me, sending ripples of orgasm through her that are so strong, they raise gooseflesh all over her beautiful body. I’ve never had a woman who was so responsive, so perfectly suited to me in bed. Her pleasure becomes my pleasure. When she pushes me to my side, we face each other, her leg thrown over mine, our bodies meeting in the middle, a rhythmic type of dance that allows me to see every face she makes, every expression that accompanies every twitch of her cunt around my cock.

  It feels like a dream, like some kind of waking dream that can’t be real. This wanting, this ecstasy, it doesn’t stop for me, even after I come again, this time finishing in her mouth at her insistence.

  Later, after a long bath, I get her a glass of water and climb into bed, under the covers, with her. She snuggles up against me and kisses the stubble on my chin. Her eyes are closed and her breathing deepens before I can even say a word.

  I spend the whole night going back and forth in my head. Flight or fight. Leave or stay. I should not want her like this. I should not care about her like this. This is not a long-term thing. She is not safe with me. She deserves better than me. I am going to end up getting her killed. We can’t go through with this. It’s too dangerous. I need to send her away.

  By morning, I’m no closer to knowing the right answer. I slip out early, sending her a text that I need to attend to a few things at home. It’s true. I haven’t been in Queens for a few days and I do have an actual business to run. Also, I need some distance.

  I’m probably a prick for just leaving like that, after a long night in bed together, or real intimacy. I find myself thinking about the last time I let myself get emotionally attached to a woman. Her name was Becca. She was nothing like Selena. I know this now, and I’m thankful for it. But I still see twenty ways this thing could go sour.

  Believe me, I’ve had plenty of sour deals. I’ve been in plenty of precarious positions, some that nearly got me killed. But I’m playing on a whole new level with this guy Kovolov, and now I’ve got someone I care about involved, as well. The guy deserves to be taken down. He does. And the potential payout here is huge. But taking him down means that the entire Kovolov operation comes after us. After me. After Selena. I can only hope that things don’t go terribly wrong.

  I decide to send her another quick text as she gets her work day started.

  Me: Get to work OK?

  Selena: A-OK

  Me: Sorry to run out. Had to check things at work.

  Selena: No biggie.

  Me: Boss there?

  Selena: Affirmative. Being very nice again.

  Me: Feeling OK?

  Selena: Meh. Too much excitement last night. Muscles are barking. Stomach cramping. Threw up three times. Not awesome.

  Me: Sorry.

  Selena: It will pass. TTYL.

  It will pass, she says. Let’s hope so. My father used to say, “The only path forward is forward.” So I decide to go about my business, checking in with a few clients and working on my books for a bit before heading to the gym. Pounding the shit out of a punching bag sounds really good right about now. Then I’m going to go back into Brooklyn to talk to a guy I know who knows a few things about extortion.

  The only path forward is forward. Let’s do this thing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Selena

  I am a dutiful assistant for the next week. Sergei has me scanning a billion documents, most in Russian, that he says are the purchase agreements for a competitor’s shipping business. He tells me this competitor has military-grade ships and that he plans to use them primarily to guard his shipments from attack.

  “Why don’t you just equip your existing ships with better weaponry?” I ask.

  “They have weaponry,” he says, “And armed guards lining the decks. That is not the point. Some of our shipments are priceless; we need all of the protection we can get. Each rig is now going to travel with a fleet of destroyers. And buying a competitor also puts me in a better competitive position with clients.”

  “Building a monopoly on high-stakes shipping, are we?” I ask. Then, because he seems like he’s in a good mood, I ask, “What could you possibly be shipping that would require a fleet of destroyers?”

  Wrong question.

  Sergei is up in my face in half a second, his fingers digging into my chin as he grips me hard enough to cause a bruise. “What the fuck do you care?” he spits.

  “I was just making conversation,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m interested in learning more about business.”

  “You do what I tell you and nothing else,” he hisses. “Don’t fucking ask questions. You’re just a fucking secretary.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, my heart about to jump out of my chest. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  “You know,” he says, his grip loosening. His hand moves to stroke my cheek, his thumb tracing my lips. “You are beautiful. But beauty is not a job qualification. I could have you gone tomorrow.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I know better than to ask questions. I need this job, Sergei. Please forgive me.”

  He steps back and his hands hit his thighs with a slap. “Why don’t you get on your knees and prove to me why I should keep you.” It’s not a question.

  “I don’t … Sergei …”

  “Where’s that can-do attitude?” he asks, his voice syrup-sweet and full of venom. “You need this job so bad? Need those good paychecks I sign every week? Then get on your knees and show me why the fuck I shouldn’t just go find someone else to do this job?”

  I lower myself to my knees, my skirt bursting at the seams. He loosens his belt and unzips his pants. When he pulls out his cock, I almost gag. It’s only semi-hard. He rubs it a few times before nodding. “Get on with it.”

  Tears burn at my eyes as I take his nearly-flaccid dick in my hand, then into my mouth. I choke back my gag reflex as the tears spill down my cheeks, which are hot with humiliation. He gets harder as I go, and I just try to imagine Finn in order to make myself go through the motions.

  Sergei at first looks bored, but gets more excited as the act continues. He closes his eyes and pumps his hips a bit. It only takes a few moments before I feel the hot liquid of his release shoot into the back of my throat. He lets out a moan, pulls out of my mouth, and suits himself back up.

  “Stay on your knees,” he orders, shoving his forefinger into my face. “Ask me one more question, piss me off one more time, and having my cock in your mouth will feel like a gift.”

  I stare at the floor in front of me, afraid to say anything at all. I just nod.

  “And lose some weight for fuck’s sake. You look like a whale lately,” he says sharply as he walks into his office, slamming the door behind him.

  I run immediately out the door to the hallway bathroom, throwing up the entire contents of my stomach in three violent bursts. My forehead is coated in sweat when I stumble back into the office, searching desperately through my purse for some gum, a mint, anything to take the taste of Sergei from my mouth.

  When he emerges an hour later, he throws some files on my desk and tells me to copy and file them before leaving. As he breezes out, he barely looks at me, a scowl cutting deep into his face.

  As I start to scan the documents, I realize that in between the pages and pages of Russian documents, there are a few images here and there. One of a woman bound and gagged, her eyes wide with fear. Another of a severed finger, definitely fem
ale from the long, painted nail. These are threats. They have to be.

  For the first time, I feel real fear. I have been fearful of him, of his power and the extent to which he will go to retain it, since reading through those files. But after being forced to my knees, forced to suck him of right here in the front office where anyone could walk in on us, I realize how unhinged he is. Seeing those photos … now I know he will hurt me, maybe for only the indiscretion of asking a question about what is on his ships. Definitely, if he finds out I have hacked his accounts and stolen sensitive information meant to take him down.

  We need to finish this. And soon.

  ***

  Finn

  I’m at the diner, enjoying a greasy burger with loads of unhealthy toppings, when two guys come in. They’re both in suits. Both in sunglasses. Both have that greasy look about them. They sit in the booth behind mine, ordering in English but conversing in Russian. This perks my ears.

  The waitress comes back with their drinks and they flirt with her. One asks, “Why’s a pretty girl like you serving slop in a diner?”

  “Girl’s gotta pay the bills,” she says. “So be good tippers, okay, boys? None of this ten-percent business.”

  “Buddy of ours is lookin’ for a new assistant in his office,” the other goon says. “Says the position should come open in the next week or so. Easy work. Mostly answering phones, copying, filing, managing his calendar. Interested?”

  “I’ve never worked in an office before,” she says.

  “I think you’d do just fine,” the first goon says. “A beauty like you would be a joy to have in any office.”

  She giggles. “Don’t sweet-talk me. Where’s the office?”

  “Not too far from here. Kovolov’s the guy’s name. He runs a family shipping business.”

  “Well, let me know when it opens,” she says noncommittally. “I’ll go check on your lunches.”

  I finish my lunch, acting like nothing is wrong, paying my bill and hitting the restroom before slipping out the back door so the two guys can’t see my face. I’m surely on Kovolov’s shit-list since that night at Selena’s and they might be on the lookout for me now.

  As I walk to my car, I run through the conversation in my head. If Kovolov is looking for a new assistant, he must be getting rid of Selena. Is it possible he knows she’s been in his files? Or perhaps he’s just grown bored of her since she won’t sleep with him? Either way, in Kovolov’s world, getting rid of someone doesn’t mean the person will walk away with a reference or a severance package. It usually means they leave in a body bag.

  I’d heard a rumor once, through some of my clients, that Kovolov had been under suspicion for the disappearance of one of his assistants. She was young, only barely twenty, I think, and she just up and went missing. The police questioned Kovolov but released him. Four months later, parts of her body showed up throughout the five boroughs.

  I’ve got to get her out of there. Now. I know it’s risky to go near his office, but I need to see her. Need to know she’s okay. I try calling but she doesn’t answer, so I drive to the office and park right out front in the loading zone.

  The front-desk security person yells at me as I come in the front door. “Hey, dude, that’s a loading zone only. You can’t park there.”

  “I’m just picking up my girlfriend for an appointment,” I say, hands in the air.

  “Well, then go park in the garage,” he says. “Seriously, you can’t park there.”

  “Just give me a minute,” I say sharply, running to the elevator. The doors open and I press three, hoping I can get to her before the security guard goes ballistic.

  When the door opens, I sprint to the door of Kovolov’s office. I see her at her desk—her face looks puffy, as if she’s been crying. I tap on the glass door and she looks up, her eyes going wide. She walks to the door, peering out.

  “What are you doing here? This isn’t safe,” she whispers.

  “I was worried about you,” I said. “I came to get you out of here.”

  “I’ve got a few things to finish,” she says. “I’ll see you at home at five.”

  “You look like you’ve been crying,” I say. “What did he do?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she insists. “Just go. If he comes back and you’re here …”

  The elevator dings and she stiffens, her eyes darting to see who’s coming. It’s the security guard, who stomps over and grabs me by the elbow.

  “I told you; you can’t park out there. Get on out of here, buddy,” he says. “Otherwise we’re going to have a whole other conversation.”

  This guy has no idea that I could have him on the ground before he says his next word, but I don’t want to make a scene. I let him lead me to the elevator and down to the lobby, but as I go, I look over my shoulder. I say, “Call me if anything weird happens.”

  Selena nods. The security guard says, “Thought she had a doctor’s appointment?”

  “She canceled it, I guess,” I say with a shrug.

  “Well, whatever,” he says. “Go find a parking spot if you want to come back in. Don’t make me chase after you next time. I don’t get paid enough for that shit.”

  All in all, he’s pretty nice about it, so I just give him a salute and head back out to my car.

  It’s going to be a long afternoon, waiting for her to get home from work. I’m tempted to stick around, just to see when he comes back, but I just have to hope that she will be all right. I can’t protect her until she is in my line of sight, so I can only hope that I am wrong about Sergei’s plans, or that he won’t carry them out right away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Selena

  It’s only two. I have been sexually assaulted and had Finn in here freaking out and it’s only two in the afternoon. How can that be?

  After a quick check to confirm that Sergei is in a scheduled meeting, I head back into his office and hack back into his files. He hasn’t changed the passwords, which I hope means he hasn’t figured out that I’ve been stealing information.

  This time, I don’t look at files, I just copy them to a thumb drive. I am quick and efficient, in and out in only twenty minutes, back to work, all the while hating and fearing Sergei in equal measure. I still can’t get the taste of him out of my mouth. It makes me gag again just thinking about it.

  Sergei comes back around four, a wide smile on his face fading as he faces me at my desk. He leans in and says, “I fucked a woman twice as hot as you at lunch. Ate pussy and made her scream with pleasure.”

  “That’s nice for you,” I say, looking at my computer.

  “Stand up,” he says sharply. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  I look up and see that his eyes are dark. Rage? Sadism? Challenge? Arousal? Maybe all of the above, and it scares me, but I stand, hands at my sides. Act normal. Act normal. Don’t act scared.

  I stand, and pain in my stomach feels like a knife. It’s like menstrual cramps times ten and I feel my face contort as I double over. “I just,” I gasp, “Just one second, please.” I run out the door and down the hall to the restroom, shutting myself in the stall, sitting bent half over as I wait for the cramping to subside.

  I focus on my breathing, using my yoga practice to guide me. Maybe I’m just stressed out. Anyone would be under these circumstances. It’s going to be fine. I just need to get up and go back to work and tell him I’m fine.

  Finally, the pain subsides and I walk slowly back to the office. Sergei is back at his desk, on a phone call, when I sit back down. He eyes me warily but seems less angry, less contentious. He speaks in Russian, as usual, and fiddles with a rubber band as he talks. I get back to trying to finish my day, reading email, though the cramping persists, and I feel suddenly extremely nauseated.

  A little after five, I get up and collect my things, but just as I step out from behind my desk, my skin goes cold and clammy and my vision goes fuzzy. I reach out, trying to find anything to brace myself, but find nothing as my knee
s buckle.

  I wake up with Sergei standing over me. He’s saying my name, snapping his fingers in my face. I blink a few times and then realize I must have fainted. Great. I manage to sit up, collecting my things. My purse has fallen, contents are scattered across the floor, including the thumb drive of evidence. A pit forms in my stomach. I’ve got to get that in my purse without him seeing it.

  “What happened, Selena?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just …” I start, reaching out to pull all of my things toward me. I manage to grab the thumb drive and a hairbrush together, throwing them into my bag, flustered. “I just don’t feel well today. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, perhaps I should drive you to the hospital,” he says.