Reaper, p.25
Reaper, page 25
Then I do.
Screaming his name.
“Reaper.”
His voice breaks my lips in a feral yell, and I let loose, knowing full well this may be the last time we do. We may die, life and the truth may rip us apart, but in this moment, I still love him.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, ripping through my body with an intensity that leaves me shaking. Every muscle contracts as the pleasure tears through me, and I feel myself clench around him, my body milking his cock as wave after wave of sensation overwhelms my senses. I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the way he's filling me as my climax consumes everything else.
Tears spring to my eyes — not from pain but from the raw emotion that comes with the physical release. This could be our last time. The thought hits me again as I'm coming down from the high, and it makes the pleasure bittersweet, desperate. I love this man so fucking much it terrifies me.
"Don't stop," I gasp, pushing back against him even as my body trembles with aftershocks. "I want you to cum. I need you to cum inside me."
He's still moving, still driving into me with that steady rhythm that's slowly unraveling what's left of my sanity. I reach down between my legs, finding his balls where they slap against me with each thrust. They're tight and heavy in my palm, and when I cup them, massaging gently, he makes a sound that's half growl, half prayer.
"Fuck, Adriana—"
"Cum for me," I whisper, rolling his balls between my fingers. "Fill me up. I want all of you."
His rhythm becomes erratic, more desperate. I can feel him getting close, can hear it in the way his breathing turns ragged. The handcuffs jingle frantically as his movements become more urgent.
"You want it?" he pants, his grip on my hips bruising.
"Yes. Please, Reaper. I need it."
He buries himself deep and comes with a roar that echoes off the walls, his whole body going rigid as he empties himself inside me. I feel every pulse, every hot spurt as he fills me completely. His name falls from my lips in a whisper as he collapses forward, his chest pressed against my back, both of us breathing hard.
We stay like that for a moment, connected, his softening cock still inside me. When he finally pulls out, I feel his release leak down my thighs, and something possessive and primal purrs in my chest. Mine. He's mine, at least for tonight.
Then he's gathering me against his chest, arranging us so we're lying on our sides, my back pressed to his front. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me close.
"I love you," he murmurs against my hair.
"I love you too," I whisper back, and mean it with every fiber of my being.
The contentment that settles over me is warm and heavy, like a blanket. His breathing evens out behind me. I pull the sheet up over both of us, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety that I wish could last forever. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, and I feel myself melting into him, into this moment of perfect peace.
"Sleep," he says, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck. "I've got you."
My eyelids grow heavy as his breathing deepens behind me, his arm a protective band around my waist.
I drift.
The dreams come in waves, washing over me like warm honey. In them, Ricky and I are somewhere else - a small house with a garden, sunlight streaming through clean windows. He's making breakfast again, humming something under his breath while I watch from the doorway. In the dream, we have time. We have forever.
His hands are clean in this version of our story. Mine too. No blood under our fingernails, no ghosts haunting our sleep. Just the simple pleasure of morning coffee and his laugh when I steal bacon from the pan.
But even in the dream, shadows creep in at the edges.
Vanessa appears in the kitchen doorway, her face pale and accusing. "You think you can just forget about me?" she says, and her voice sounds like static, like a radio tuned to the wrong station. Trackmarks line her pale arms; her veins stand out dark, polluted, against her translucent flesh. "You think you can play house while I'm still dead?"
I try to speak, to explain, but the words stick in my throat. Ricky doesn't seem to see her - he keeps cooking, keeps humming, oblivious to the specter of my sister standing three feet away.
"He was there," Vanessa continues, her eyes boring into mine. "That night. He was there. There’s more than he’s telling you and you know it."
The kitchen dissolves around the edges, the warm sunlight turning cold and harsh. I reach for Ricky, but my hands pass through him like smoke.
"You're choosing him," Vanessa whispers, and now she's closer, her face inches from mine. "Choosing him just like I did. And you’re going to end up just like me."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Adriana
A heavy bang rips me out of my nightmare. Grateful, frightened, naked, with thoughts of my dead sister and my perilous future racing through my head, I slip out of bed and run to the nearest closet, opening it and finding a robe, which I quickly throw on while Reaper stirs awake in bed. He stands and pulls on his underwear while I hurry to answer the door. Charlie Eng and six heavily armed and mean-looking Triad goons stand on the other side. He blinks once at seeing me in a robe, but otherwise displays no outward signs of emotion.
“What is it?” I say.
“It’s time,” he says. “You have work to do.”
I cross my arms and wait. There’s been more than enough of his cryptic bullshit for today. When he does nothing, I speak up in Mandarin. “I won’t move until I have details.”
Eng’s eyes narrow; I cross my arms tighter and set my scowl in a line sharp enough to cut glass, anticipating either a fight with him or a task that means certain death — maybe a heist of Fort Knox or assassinating the president. After a moment, he sighs. “Fine. You and the others are to take my mother to karaoke.”
Nearly a minute passes before I blink and breathe.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Why?”
“Because I had promised my mother I would take her to karaoke. It is something she enjoys very much. However, unfortunately, because of a recent setback involving Volkov’s men interfering with our business, I must put out some fires and restore some business relationships,” Eng says, with a tone that says he is not at all sorry he’s being pulled away to work.
“Why not send some of your own men?”
“Because my men will either be with me or busy elsewhere. This situation is very tenuous. You and your companions must escort and entertain my mother.” A knowing smile flashes momentarily across the faces of several of Eng’s men. “If you want my organization’s help in taking down Volkov, this is the price. Now, get ready. You leave in twenty minutes.”
Eng leaves without another word, and after a quick post-sex shower, dress, and coffee, I stand bleary-eyed and blinking in the hallway outside our room, waiting with a pistol in my hand. Reaper stands beside me, also armed, and moments later, Tank, Diesel, and Mayhem all come out of their rooms, their faces a mixture of perturbation, boredom, and mania, respectively.
“I haven’t been to karaoke in ages,” Mayhem says. He’s bouncing. Smiling. Looking at all four of us with unabashed excitement. “Tank, you in for a duet? We could do ‘Under Pressure.’ You know it?”
“I know it. And I refuse to dishonor the memories of David Bowie or Freddie Mercury with you.”
“Your loss. What about you, Diesel? Reaper? Anyone in?”
I feel a grin tugging at my lips as I watch Mayhem's enthusiasm. Despite everything we've been through, there's something infectious about his excitement. I nudge Reaper with my elbow, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
"Come on, Reaper," I say, batting my eyes at him. "When's the last time you sang karaoke? I bet you've got a decent voice hiding under all that brooding."
Reaper gives me a look that could melt steel. "Not happening, Adriana."
"Oh, come on," I press, enjoying the way his jaw tightens. "Just one song. For me?"
"Absolutely not."
Diesel shakes his head before I can turn my attention to him. "Don't even think about it. I save my vocal talents for the shower and Samantha's ears only."
"You're all dead inside," Mayhem declares, but he's still grinning. "More spotlight for me and Mrs. Eng, I guess."
Before anyone can respond, heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. One of Eng's men approaches — a stocky guy in a black suit who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Time to go," he says curtly. "The car's waiting downstairs."
We follow him down to the lobby and out onto the street, where a sleek black limousine idles at the curb. The driver holds the door open, and I slide in first. The interior is all leather and soft lighting, but what catches my attention immediately is the woman sitting across from us. She's small and elegant, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun and bright, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her age is impossible to determine; she could be sixty or eighty, with that timeless quality some people possess. There's an energy radiating from her that reminds me of a hummingbird — quick, vibrant, delicate.
"You must be Charlie's friends!" she says in accented English, clapping her hands together. "I am Mrs. Eng. Thank you so much for taking me out tonight. We had this date scheduled for weeks, my Charlie and I, but now, he tells me he has some emergency. He works too much, you know? Always business, business, business. "
Mayhem settles in beside her, his face lighting up. "Mrs. Eng, I'm Mayhem. I have to tell you, I am so excited about this. What's your go-to karaoke song?"
Her entire face transforms with delight. "Oh! You like karaoke too? Charlie always says it's silly, but music—music is life, yes? I love Teresa Teng, but also Madonna, Whitney Houston... What about you?"
"I'm all over the place," Mayhem says, grinning. "Classic rock, pop, some country when I'm feeling brave enough to do Dolly’s ‘Jolene’ justice. But I don’t want to sing alone tonight. Have you ever done 'Bohemian Rhapsody'?"
Mrs. Eng gasps and grabs his arm. "That is my dream song! But it is so hard, so long..."
"We could do it together," Mayhem suggests. "Tag team the different parts. I’d love to tag-team with you tonight. None of these other guys… they don’t appreciate the art of karaoke."
“I will tag-team you, Mayhem,” Mrs. Eng says with a nod. “We will tag-team everybody.”
I can't help laughing at Mrs. Eng's earnest declaration. There's something endearing about her enthusiasm, and the way Mayhem's face lights up like Christmas morning makes the whole surreal situation almost normal. Almost.
The limo glides through Sacramento's streets as the two of them chatter about vocal ranges and song choices and forgotten artists who definitely deserve a karaoke revival. Tank stares out the window with resigned acceptance, while Diesel checks his phone and Reaper sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space. The contact sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside a dive called Lucky Dragon Karaoke. The neon sign flickers erratically, casting pink and green shadows across the cracked sidewalk. The building looks like it's been here since the seventies and hasn't seen a renovation since.
As we climb out of the limo, I glimpse movement in my peripheral vision. A guy in a baseball cap leans against a lamppost across the street, his attention focused squarely on our group. Something about his posture sets my nerves on edge—too still, too watchful. I turn to get a better look and maybe alert Reaper, but when I glance back, the spot is empty.
"Reaper," I start, but Mrs. Eng has already linked arms with me and Mayhem, practically bouncing as she drags us toward the entrance.
"Come, come! We don't want to miss the good songs!"
The interior hits us like a wall of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and spilled beer. Red velvet booths line the walls, most occupied by groups of friends or couples sharing pitchers of questionable-looking cocktails. A small stage dominates one corner, where a middle-aged woman in sequins murders "My Heart Will Go On" while her friends cheer her on.
Mrs. Eng makes a beeline for the song request booth, Mayhem trailing behind her like an eager puppy. The rest of us claim a large corner booth with a clear view of both the stage and the exits — old habits.
"First round's on me," Tank announces, flagging down a server who looks like she's been working here since the Carter administration.
I settle in next to Reaper, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. His arm rests along the back of the booth behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. When he leans over to order a whiskey, his breath tickles my ear.
"You okay?" he asks quietly. "You seem jumpy."
I shake my head. "Just tired. Long day."
It's not entirely a lie, but I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched. I scan the room again, cataloging faces and exit routes, but nothing seems out of place.
The sequined woman finally puts "My Heart Will Go On” out of its misery, and the DJ calls out, "Next up, we have Mayhem singing 'I Want It That Way' by the Backstreet Boys!"
Mayhem bounds onto the stage with more enthusiasm than I've ever seen from someone heading into a firefight. He grabs the microphone like it's a lifeline, and when the opening notes start, he doesn't just sing—he performs. His voice is surprisingly good, hitting the harmonies with unexpected precision while he works the small crowd like he's playing Madison Square Garden.
"Tell me why!" he belts out, pointing dramatically at Mrs. Eng, who claps and sways in her seat. "Ain't nothing but a heartache!"
Tank shakes his head, but I catch him tapping his fingers against his beer bottle. Even Diesel cracks a smile when Mayhem hits the high notes without his voice cracking. I laugh as Mayhem attempts some sort of choreographed dance move that looks more like he's having a seizure.
When he finishes to genuine applause, Mrs. Eng practically floats onto the stage. The opening chords of "Dancing Queen" fill the smoky air, and suddenly this tiny, elegant woman transforms into a force of nature. She owns every note, every gesture, her voice strong and clear as she belts out the chorus. The entire bar sings along.
"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!"
I watch her command the stage and feel something loosen in my chest. When was the last time I just... enjoyed something? When did I last sit in a dive bar and laugh at my friends being ridiculous? The weight of Vanessa's death, of Volkov's threats, of everything hanging over us — it all feels distant right now.
Reaper's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers intertwining with mine. The touch sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I don't pull away. For once, I don't analyze it or worry about what it means. I just let myself feel the connection.
"Having fun?" he asks, leaning close so I can hear him over Mrs. Eng's triumphant finale.
"Yeah," I admit, surprised by how true it is. "I am."
Maybe we can have more moments like this. Maybe after we deal with Volkov, we can figure out what this thing between us really is. Maybe I can let myself want something good for once. Maybe we can make it last.
Mrs. Eng takes her bow to thunderous applause, then rushes back to our table, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"That was wonderful!" she exclaims, settling back into the booth. "Now, Mayhem, are you ready for our big number?"
"Born ready, Mrs. E."
The DJ's voice crackles over the speakers. "All right, folks, we've got something special coming up. Mayhem and Mrs. Eng are going to tackle 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' This should be interesting!"
I stand up, the beer finally catching up with me. "I'll be right back," I tell the table, squeezing by Reaper, who pinches my ass as I do so. I grin at him, then turn from the table and head toward the dark hallway that leads to the bathrooms that I hope are cleaner than the rest of this place.
The hallway is dimmer than I expected, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts dancing shadows on the grimy walls. Behind me, I can hear the opening piano notes of "Bohemian Rhapsody" starting up, followed by Mayhem's voice launching into the first verse. The sound feels distant now, muffled by the narrow corridor.
I’ll need to hurry. I don’t want to miss the entire performance.
I'm halfway to the bathroom door when a hand clamps over my mouth from behind, another arm snaking around my waist and yanking me backward against a solid chest. My training kicks in immediately—I try to stomp down on my attacker's instep, but he anticipates the move and shifts his weight and slams me hard into the wall.
A voice fills my ears. Hot, dirty, and heavily accented — Russian.
"You didn't think you could hide from us forever, did you?”
Chapter Forty
Reaper
Something isn’t right. I’ve never had much of a sixth sense for danger — hell, my senses all led me straight into danger and addiction — so maybe what I’m feeling isn’t so much that something’s wrong, but that I need to be with Adriana right now. Maybe it’s from her touch, her smile, or maybe it’s that the idea of having her here, now — even skipping Mayhem and Mrs. Eng’s fucking amazing rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ to fuck Adriana in the bathroom at this dirty karaoke club — is so powerful it’s less something that I want and more something that I need as much as I need to breathe.
“I’m going to go check on her,” I say as I stand.
Tank rolls his eyes at me. “It’s not even been a minute. You really going to skip Mayhem and Mrs. Eng’s song to go help your lady take a piss?”
“You know that’s not what I’m doing.”
Diesel laughs and chimes in. “We wouldn’t judge you if you were. Water sports are no big deal, just make sure you clean up after yourself. This is a public place, and we don’t want to be rude.”
“I’m not going back there to pee on my lady.”
