Page 71 of Reaper
I try to rise, get hit again, and slump to the ground.
One name flashes through my mind before darkness takes over: Ruslan Volkov.
Chapter Thirty-One
Adriana
This is what I get for telling him I love him. I make myself vulnerable, and life reminds me that letting anyone in — especially Reaper — comes with serious consequences. It’s a mistake. And now, it’s cost me everything.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die, killed by a bunch of Russian thugs, because I stuck my nose into a bunch of business it doesn’t belong in, all because I fell in love with my dead sister’s ex. It’s a cold clarity that comes in the depths of the black bag over my head that I realize I’ve very much fucked up my life.
And still… I love Reaper.
The sound of Reaper's grunt of pain cuts through the fabric covering my face like a blade through my chest, and something primal tears loose inside me. Love and rage fuse into pure violence.
I slam my elbow backward, feeling it connect with soft flesh. Someone curses in a deep, balaclava-muffled voice. Good. I twist, throwing my weight into a blind punch that lands solid against what feels like a jaw. The satisfying crack of knuckles against bone sends electricity up my arm.
"Get the fuck off me!" I snarl, thrashing against the hands trying to pin my arms. Another wet thud echoes from where they have Reaper, followed by his ragged breathing, and my heart explodes into shrapnel that tears through my ribcage.
I love him. God help me, I love him so much it's turned me into something feral; As I scream, my knee shoots up, seeking the vulnerable space between legs, and I'm rewarded with a high-pitched wheeze as one of my captors doubles over. The bag shifts, letting in a sliver of light, and I glimpse a concrete floor splattered with dark drops.
"Fucking bitch!"
I don't care. Let them be angry. I can hear Reaper taking hit after hit, and each impact reverberates through my bones like I'm the one being beaten. This man who bakes cookies for abuse survivors, who fixes broken things with gentle hands, who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something dangerous. The man I love.
My fist connects with someone's solar plexus, and I twist again, driving my heel down hard on an instep. Another snarl, another strike, another flash of fear through my chest that, no matter what I do, it won’t be enough to get to him, to help him, to save the man I love, the first man I’ve felt safe letting close. I scream and swing again; the love I feel for him isn't soft or sweet — it's molten metal in my veins, turning me into a weapon.
But there are too many hands, too many bodies pressing in. My wrists are yanked behind my back with brutal efficiency, zip ties cutting into skin. The bag is pulled tighter, stealing what little air I had left.
"Enough," a new voice commands — deep, resonant, powerful.
The beating stops on a dime. In the sudden, shocking quiet, I can hear Reaper's labored breathing, and it's the most beautiful and terrible sound in the world.
That commanding voice and the footsteps with it head to Reaper’s side. I listen, my heart thudding in my chest, as I hear a grunting noise. “You’re lucky, brother.”
Reaper chuckles. It’s a busted, bleeding chuckle, but a chuckle all the same. It ends with a wet cough. “Oh, sure, been feeling lucky a lot lately. This is just one lucky event in a fucking stream of them in my life.”
“Don’t even take that fucking tone with me, Ricky.”
“It’s Reaper now, Tank.”
“Right. Sorry, brother, it’ll take me time to adjust. Idiocy isn’t second nature to me. Not even third. While for you, it’s fucking first.”
“Love you too, brother.”
I finally speak up, because I hear the unmistakable sound of hands slapping against backs. “Are you two hugging? What the fuck is going on?”
“Will someone take the bag and zip ties off that woman?” Tank says.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. She can throw a punch,” says one voice.
“And knows how to really put her knee into my fucking crotch. I may never have kids,” says another voice, strained.
“Oh, are you and Sam really planning on having kids anytime soon, Diesel?" Tank says. After a pause, there’s the sound of snapping fingers. “Mayhem, seriously, set her free. Diesel, go take a fucking nap if you’re going to keep bitching.”
The bag comes off my head, and my hands get free. I keep my fists clenched, ready to throw if I need to. I see Reaper. He’s standing, leaning with one arm around the big man — and big is an understatement; the man is thick like the trunk of an ancient redwood — who must be Tank. Next to me is a man with an unusual hairstyle that looks like it once was a mohawk, but had been mutilated by a machete, and there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me wonder if there’s a mental institution nearby. Standing further away, with one hand still clutching his groin, is a handsome, heavily tattooed man who must be Diesel.He’s giving me a look that isn’t friendly, though not outwardly combative. He might be a threat, but if he is, I know just where to hit him.
