Heartless Lover by Faith Summers

6

Summer

It’s morning now.

Another day has dawned.

Another day has passed since my sister was killed.

I haven’t been to L.A. in over a year, and this state of grief and despair wasn’t how I hoped to come back. I never imagined being here without Scarlett either or living in a world where she was no more.

Wearily, I sit up and gaze through the window. In the daylight, the scenic view of the city looks the same way it did in the darkness.

I’ve been looking for some sort of change in the world. Something to acknowledge it’s lost one of its best, kindest souls, but everything is the same. The sun still comes up in the morning and the moon at night.

I rub my hand over my puffy eyes, which feel more swollen today than they did yesterday. I can imagine how I must look. I hardly slept last night.

Sleep was the furthest thing from my mind after I spoke to Eric.

I only made the bed and lay down because I got so drained from the weight of my worries. I must have drifted off a few times but not deep enough to be considered actual sleep.

In my wide-awake moments, I thought about Dad and seeing him.

When I closed my eyes, I saw Scarlett on that morgue slab. Then I imagined Robert shooting her and what she must have gone through. I imagined the pain and agony of knowing it was her final moment.

I know I took my sister for granted. I took her love for granted because a part of me felt entitled to it.

I spent my life trying to keep her safe, so when the shit hit the fan after Mom died and Scarlett tried to reach out, I thought I was owed something.

I wasn’t. That’s not how love works. My sister tried so many times to show me she loved me, especially when I told her the truth about our asshole stepfather.

I miss her so much, and my heart keeps shattering every time I try to accept she’s not coming back.

I can’t even grieve properly because I have to figure out what I’m doing with

my here and now.

Although I have no choice, I still haven’t settled my mind on a plan of action.

Last night I decided I was going to see Dad. Not today, though. I need time to prepare. Seeing Dad is going to be hard. It’s going to stir up memories from the past I’ll never be able to lay to rest.

How I would love to run away.

It would be like when I went to Monaco.

This time I’d run further and change my entire being. I’d do whatever I had to become someone else. I wouldn’t be Summer Reeves anymore, and I’d make sure no one could find me.

That, however, is just a dream of escape. Even if I could run, the reality is I wouldn’t get very far. Not with Eric Markov’s watchful eyes on me.

There have only been two times in my life I’ve felt this conflicted and worthless. The first was on the eve of my sixteenth birthday. Mom kicked me out of the house when she found out I was pregnant with her husband’s child.

The next time was when I lost my baby.

Both times were as life-changing for me as this current situation.

Marquees’ words keep ringing through my mind.

Don’t let your sister die in vain.

I can’t. I made it this far, and she’d want me to live. She wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to me.

My natural instinct is to do whatever I have to, to protect myself and survive. I have to keep that reminder no matter how much I blame myself when I remember the bullet that killed her should have been for me.

With that in mind, I can’t be the fool and not seize whatever protection I can get from Eric for as long as I can. But whenever the shit hits the fan, I have to find a way out.

I can’t die because I played the bait.

I learned from a very young age that the only person I can trust is myself. So, my life needs to be in my hands when it comes to the point where it’s every man for themselves. When that happens, I need to make sure I’m safe and not the pawn or the bait or whatever the fuck Eric wants to make me.

I feel like I’ve been tossed into the Hunger Games, right in the arena where I have to fight to survive, but I don’t know what to expect.

Everything about what I do next is going to be hard, so I need to know what I’m up against.

Pulling in a breath, I slide off the bed and leave the room.

Even though the door was open last night, I didn’t leave the room. The last time I went through those doors was when I tried to escape.

The concrete floor feels cool against my feet as I put one foot in front of the other.

I don’t know what to expect from today. Or Eric.

Men like him make me nervous, but if I’m honest, I have to admit that at least you know to never expect anything good from them. Not like Ted, who wore a mask for the world to see but was something else behind closed doors.

The place is quiet, and no one seems to be around. Last night it sounded like there were several men here.

I walk in the opposite direction to where I’d gone last night, and that takes me into the living room.

That’s where I find Eric Markov sitting shirtless on the leather sofa with a cup of coffee in his hands.

His chest is covered in tattoos. The most prominent is the face of a wolf with red eyes on his left pec. Most of the others, like the inky black stars on his shoulder, look like a few of the Russian tattoos I’ve seen before. I know they have some meaning, but I can’t remember. Marquees clued me in on most of the types of criminals you could find in Monaco.

Now that I’m looking at Eric, I’m wondering what type he is. He’d said last night that the group he belonged to contacted Dad. From the look of him, I can’t pinpoint what group that could be.

This look, though, gives him more of a dangerous edge, so does his ruffled hair.

I’m about to say something to him when the door opens, and a dark-haired Russian-looking man comes in.

He looks to be about the same age as Eric, or maybe older. He has the same wide, muscular build too.

His gaze lands on me—at my bare legs—and I remember that I’m just wearing Eric’s shirt that stops at the tops of my thighs.

“Get out,” Eric orders the man, the authoritative tone of his voice making me jump.

“Sorry, Boss,” the man replies, turning around to go back through the door.

When Eric looks back at me and sets his cup on the coffee table, I straighten up and move closer, acting like I’m not afraid of him.

I am, and I think he can see through the shitty façade I’m trying to portray.

“Good morning,” I say, bringing my hands together.

“Hello.” He gazes at me like he can see straight through me. I hope he can’t. I don’t want anyone to see the pitiful mess I am inside.

“I want to clarify a few things.” I steel my spine as he studies me.

“What do you want to clarify, Babydoll?”

I really wish he wouldn’t call me that. Hearing it again today makes me realize why I don’t like the term.

It’s not the word itself.

It’s him.

What grates on my nerves is how he looks at me when he says it and the endearing manner he uses. It shouldn’t sound anything close to endearing. So it feels like a joke to me.

I’m not sure if he’s going to like any of my questions, but I’m asking them anyway. His answer to the first will set the tone for the rest.

“What are you?” I say, keeping my voice under control.

The corner of his mouth curls into a sexy smile.

“A man.” The charm in his smile echoes in his voice and captivates me as he looks me up and down.

“I can see that. You know that’s not what I meant.” Be firm, be strong. That is my mantra when dealing with power-hungry men like him who try to control others. “You said you belong to a group; I’m guessing some kind of mafia. What’s screwing with my analysis is the M.I.T. sweatshirt. Unless it’s not yours.”

“It is mine.”

“So, what are you?” I ask again.

“By day, I’m Eric Markov, owner and C.E.O. of Markov Tech. I design software and weapons for national security.” He pauses for a moment, and he must notice I’m impressed because I am. I didn’t expect him to own a company like that. He’s not finished yet, though. There’s more to him, and the tattoos tell all.

“There has to be more.”

“There is. I’m in the Bratva,” he declares, and the chill already in my spine turns to icicles. I’ve come across men from the Russian Mafia before and knew to stay the fuck away. “I’m the Obshchak in my Brotherhood.”

That’s still part of the leadership.

“Oh,” I breathe. This time, I know I’m showing my caution.

“Does that scare you, Babydoll?” He gives me a wolfish grin.

“No,” I lie, and when that grin turns into a mocking smirk, I know he knows I’m lying.

At least now I know what he is. It doesn’t help much, though.

“Did the information I gave you help?” I ask.

“It did.”

That’s good. “Will you be able to find them?”

“I’m trying. Leave that worry to me.”

That means he won’t tell me anything.

“What will happen when this is all over? You will let me go, won’t you?” That’s the biggest thing I need to clarify—an end date—a time for this to be over.

“Yes.”

The tension in my body eases a little. All I can wish for now is for this to be over quickly. That’s how I have to look at this and what I need to keep at the forefront of my mind.

If he gets to them, it kills several birds with one stone. It gets some justice for my sister’s death and gives me a chance to live without running and looking over my shoulder again.

That’s freedom. True freedom. All that will be missing from my life is my sister. I fight back the tears that are never far away. The same way she’s always in my

mind.

He told me about the recording of Scarlett’s death. If he has a copy, I want to see it. It will hurt to watch, but if Dad watched it, I need to watch it too.

“You mentioned the recording of what happened to my sister. Do you happen to have a copy of it?”

The grin on his face fades and is replaced with seriousness. “Yes.”

“Is it possible for me to watch it?”

He bites the inside of his lip then sighs. “It is possible, but I’m not going to let you do that.”

My brows knit together. “I’m sure you can understand that I want to know what happened to my sister.”

It’s more than just knowing. I want the full responsibility of the guilt. I don’t want to be shielded from it.

“You already know what you need to know, and I filled in the blanks. Seeing what happened to your sister isn’t going to help you in any shape or form. Not with the guilt you feel.”

I might be mistaken, but it almost appears as if he wants to protect me from feeling worse. He might also be right, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know.

“My father saw it.”

“I don’t give a fuck who saw it. I’m telling you, you aren’t, and that’s the end of that discussion,” he informs me like he’s some fucking dictator. “Have you thought about seeing your father yet?”

I’m not ready for the change of subject, but something tells me not to push him. This is just day one. I don’t want to make things worse for myself.

“I have.”

“When do you want to see him?”

“At some point. I need a little time to wrap my head around a few things before I see him.”

His jaw tenses, and he sets the coffee mug down on the table. “We’ll go on Sunday.”

“But—”

“No, no buts. Sunday gives you seven days. That’s plenty of time. I’m a busy man; I don’t have time for vagueness. So, we’ll go Sunday. All right?”

I think for a moment, then nod. “Okay.” I just have to be okay with it.

“Give him a call today, though. When you’re ready to call, speak to my staff or me.”

I hate being told what to do, especially by those who know nothing of my past. The past doesn’t matter, though, when someone is dying.

Eric must think so badly of me for not wanting to run to my father straightaway on hearing he’s dying. I think badly of myself for not being the daughter who would do that because I’m the girl who would do anything for the people she loves. I’m just broken, and I swear my father was the last person to crack me open. I haven’t been the same since we last saw each other.

“Okay, I’ll call him later.” I think of Marquees too and wonder if Eric will let me call him. “I have a friend that I’d like to call. His name is—”

“No,” he says even before I can say another word. “Not the cop friend. He will be briefed when the time is right.”

Geez. What the hell?He knows about Marquees too.

“Fine. I just wanted him to know I was safe.”

“He’s the least of your problems right now. I’m allowing you to speak to your father alone and see him. That’s it.”

What the hell can I do besides do as I’m told? “Okay. You know I’m going to need clothes before I go anywhere. I can’t wear your shirt for seven days.”

“I’ll get you some stuff at the store later.”

“I have clothes at the cottage and some other things I need to get.” I have some very important things there—the last of what means something to me.

Thanks to Marquees, I didn’t have to leave them in Monaco. It would be crazy for me to leave them at the cottage.

“I’ll arrange to collect your things at the cottage too.”

My brows knit together. “Can’t I go?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not? Surely it’ll be quicker if I can grab the things I need.”

“The answer is no.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

God, what a prick. “That’s sounding like I’m not going to be allowed to do anything. What about things to do with my sister? Now that I’m here, I was hoping to help sort out her belongings.”

“That’s being taken care of.”

“By whom?”

“I’ll be working with your father to sort out her things and arrange the funeral so everything will be as discreet and private as possible. There is no need for you to get involved. According to your original plan, I’m sure you didn’t plan to be sorting your sister’s things out.”

My shoulders sag. “No, I didn’t. I just thought that I could do it now.”

I know what Dad is like. I didn’t stick around after Mom died, but Scarlett told me he threw all her things away. I don’t want that happening to Scarlett’s stuff.

“I’m not asking for much,” I add. “She was my sister. I don’t want her things thrown away. That’s what my dad will do. Her things were special to the two of us.”

When he looks like he’s at least considering it, I feel hopeful.

“I’ll think about it.”

Before I can protest, he dismisses me by walking away, ending our conversation with an abrupt halt.

I stare after him as he heads into the open kitchen and I surprise myself when I decide to follow.

I know I might be overstepping the boundaries, but I need to know how long it will take for him to think. He’s said no to me watching the video and not going to the cottage and the store. Now it’s a no to going to sort out Scarlett’s things. The only thing he’s agreed to is allowing me to see Dad, and I never specifically asked for that.

I loathe feeling trapped and I don’t want to feel like a prisoner here—although I am.

He glares at me when I approach.

“What are you doing?”

“How long is it going to take for you to think?” I ask, ignoring his question.

He simply stares back at me. The silent moments which pass feel like eons to me.

“I want a specific answer,” I add when he continues the silent stare fest.

The smirk comes back to his face, and I’m not sure which I prefer. The serious version of him or this one.

“Woman, you have some fucking balls making demands of a man like me,” he states, and that shiver I felt before comes back.

“Am I supposed to just stay here cooped up doing as I’m told?”

He leans in close like last night, but this time I step back. He takes one more step forward, and I take another step back. We repeat like we’re dancing, and I feel like he’s the predator and I’m the prey. When my back hits the wall, he sets one arm above my head and the other next to my arms to block my escape. That’s when a lump the size of Texas forms in my throat.

“Summer Reeves, you already have two strikes against you, baby, and now I’m thinking that threat to claw my eyes out should be a third.” He speaks in a low even tone and moves closer, complimenting the predatory vibe I felt moments ago.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He laughs. “Jesus, so you don’t think trying to shoot me was wrong? Let me tell you how this arrangement of ours is going to work.” He pauses for a beat. “With all those strikes against you; you’re going to have to earn whatever it is you want from me.”

My muscles go rigid. “Earn?”

“Yes, Babydoll, earn.”

When he gives my body a bold sweeping gaze, and his eyes darken with desire, I know exactly what he means by earn, and my heart stills. I can’t play the part of the decent woman I wish I could have been when I all but confessed I was a whore last night. Not just any whore either. I’m the kind who works in a sex club and gives it up for money.

“What do you want me to do to earn what I want?” I seethe. My temper, however, doesn’t faze him in the least. In fact, it makes him smile wider.

“You worked at Club Montage, so I’m sure you can figure out what I want you to do. But let me give you some ideas.” Pure sex shines in his eyes, and I curse myself when moisture beads between my legs. “I like blowjobs, hand jobs, eating pussy, and my kink is tasting.”

My mouth goes dry. I can’t say that I’m not used to men talking to me like this.

What I’m not used to is a man like him. Once again, the aspect of differentiation is him, and I’ve never come across anyone who named their kink before.

His is tasting. His gaze drops to my neck, and my vein pulses in response. It jars me, and suddenly I feel more afraid than I did before.

He gives me a toothy grin when I swallow hard and chuckles like I said something funny. Or maybe it’s more that he finds my reaction humorous.

“Most of all, though, Babydoll, I like fucking. Hardcore fucking. And just for the record, I would really like to fuck you.”

His words send a combination of panic and arousal surging through me. The deadly cocktail makes my heart thump against my ribcage, and I harden my face to mask whatever the fuck is happening inside me.

I don’t know how this guy has managed to stir such feelings in me, but I check myself and decide to check him too.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” I tell him, but as the words fall from my lips, they sound more like something I’m trying to tell myself. “I’m not going to be some fuck toy or plaything just because you’re holding me here.”

“It’s funny. I swear I can practically see you thinking about what it might feel like if I decided to rip off your panties and fuck you against this wall.”

I wasn’t thinking that. But now I am. I am, and I’m not sure what woman wouldn’t with a man like him looking at her like she’s some rare exotic dish.

Just that look alone shatters my senses, and the heat that streaks through me makes every inch of my body awaken with an energy I’m not sure I’ve felt before. Maybe that’s because I’ve always closed myself off to feeling anything.

Regardless, I don’t want to feel anything right now aside from grief. I certainly don’t want to feel the lure of temptation rippling from this man. So, the first thing I think of doing is the thing I’m best at. Lying.

“My thoughts couldn’t have been any different, Mr. Markov.”

“Well, it will be very interesting to see what you come up with to earn what you want, Babydoll. It looks like you and I are in for one wild ride.”

He backs away from me, and I feel like I can breathe again.

As he walks out of the kitchen, striding with the authority and strength of a warrior, I watch his tattooed back until he turns the corner, and I can’t see him anymore.

The only question that rings through my head is:

What the hell am I going to do?

Seriously, what am I going to do? I have no idea how long I‘m going to be here, and all I want to do is go somewhere and cry forever.

I don’t understand him. Anybody else would be careful with me because of the loss of my sister. Anyone else would express condolences. Not him, though.

He jumped straight into business then on to sex.