Page 36 of Vicious Betrayal

"Lavender," I whisper, as he carries me to the bench and places me face-down, securing my wrists and ankles in the restraints. He shucks his clothes, leaving me fully dressed with my skirt flipped up around my hips, his cock wet and throbbing against his abdomen.

"Don't forget it," he warns, and a minute later he returns with a crop in his hand.

Fifteen strokes against my ass later, I'm sobbing with pain and arousal, and he's leaking pre-cum all over his abdomen. He reaches down, adjusts the bench so that my ass is higher, and slides into me with a harsh thrust, pausing only to slide a bullet vibrator beneath me before he does.

"Three orgasms," he growls. "And then I'll give you my cum again, since you want it so badly."

By the time he comes inside of me, groaning with pleasure, I've come four times, and I'm crying with the overstimulation and the mix of pain and ecstasy thrumming through my veins. I'm just barely aware enough, as he carries me down the hall afterward to the shower, to see that the office door is still open.

When we're done cleaning up, he goes to make dinner, and I slip into the office. I left my phone in here, and it was knocked off onto the floor when Cormac bent me over the desk, so I have an excuse. But first, I want to snoop.

It very quickly proves to be pointless. His computer is password-protected, and although I quickly try a couple of options, including the make and year of his bike, I don't do it enough to risk getting locked out and him being alerted that someone tried. Everything on his desk is the type of thing I saw earlier; nothing helpful. And the drawers are locked. The only one that's open is the top left, and it's full of office things—pens, stickies, a stapler, empty manila folders. Nothing that I can use.

I hear Cormac's footsteps and quickly come around the side of the desk, grabbing my phone. I hold it up the moment he walks in, quickly arranging my face into a sheepish expression. "I left my phone," I say, and he looks at me for a long moment.

My heart rate picks up. Does he suspect? Am I about to get into trouble?

Finally, he lets out a breath. "Just let me know next time," he says finally. "I work with sensitive things sometimes, Oksana. You shouldn't be in here alone."

I nod quickly. Hopefully not too quickly. "Sorry," I say contritely. "I just didn't want to bother you, since the door was open."

"My fault for not noticing I'd left it that way. You're too distracting."

Not distracting enough, I can't help but think.

—

I can't sleep for the next couple of nights, staring up at my ceiling with a hopeless feeling washing over me. I don't know how I'm going to do this. Reyes called me on a secure line yesterday, asking for updates, and I had nothing. I can feel the noose tightening, and I feel so woefully underequipped to handle any of this. I'm not a spy or a law enforcement agent or even someone who is all that good at manipulation. This is all on my shoulders, and I can't help but feel that I'm going to fail miserably… if not because of how little I know about how to do something like this, then because of the feelings that I can already feel squirming in over Cormac, feelings that I know are nothing but trouble.

I'm not even a little bit surprised when a black car is waiting outside the house the following morning. My father walks me to the door, and when I step outside into the sunlight, I see Reyes standing there with the passenger door of the car open.

"Get in," Reyes says. It's not phrased as an option.

She takes me to what I think might be one of their field offices. It's boring and grey with fluorescent lighting, and it smells like old coffee and industrial cleaner. She walks me into a conference room. No one offers me water or anything else to drink.

Reyes sets a folder on the table and opens it, spreading photographs, printouts, and annotated pages out once again, a litany of threats obvious in front of me. I know what it is. It's everything they have on my father, on my brother, the accounts and the businesses and the people and the money, laid out like a map.

"You've given us nothing useful so far," Reyes says flatly. "It's been a week. Everything you've had to tell us are things we already know. We know what the make and year of his motorcycle are. We have a parking ticket from 2019 with that information on it."

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry, and I desperately want to ask for that water, but for now at least, I still have too much pride. "I'm working on it."

"So you said. You said you needed more time." She leans forward. "We don't have indefinite time, Oksana. Neither does your family."

I look at the photographs, and cold washes over me. "Everything is locked. His personal files, his computer, anything that would actually⁠—"

"Then get access to the things that aren't locked. Conversations. Names. Locations. Who he meets with and when and where. Find ways to listen when he's on calls. Convince him to do his work out in the living room with you so the two of you can spend time together while you watch television. Talk him into taking you places where you might overhear something." She watches me carefully. "You're sleeping with this man. That's the entire point. Use that access."

I don't say anything.

"If you're not able to do this⁠—"

"I can do it." I can hear the breathless fear in my voice. "I said I'm working on it."

"Then work harder." She closes the folder. "One good prosecutor, one favorable judge, and your family's lives are over. Your father, your brother, your mother, and depending on how cooperative the government decides you've been"—she lets that hang in the air for a beat—"for you."

I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "I'll get you something," I say.

I do manage something in the next week. But I know it's not nearly enough. Cormac's on his phone in the hallway of his house while I'm in the kitchen pouring myself a drink, and I hear Warehouse, Thursday, Declan wants it handled before the weekend. I text Reyes from the bathroom a few minutes later.