Chapter Fifteen
Ember
My teeth grind together as I stare at him, considering. Pushing back will only damage his trust and make my circumstances more difficult, but submitting too quickly will make him suspicious.
“Flame,” Max says quietly. “Either do it, or I’ll force you.
I think we’ve established that you won’t succeed in killing me, and that if you try, I’ll punish you—hard.
You already have quite the punishment coming your way for trying to kill me last night and crashing my car.
Don’t make it any worse on yourself. If you comply now, you might even earn some leniency. ”
I shift from foot to foot. “What are you going to do?”
“Wash you,” Max says simply. “Get acquainted with every inch of you.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
I worry my bottom lip, still not moving.
I’m more accustomed than anyone should ever be to warding off rape attempts, but whatever this is with Max feels different.
He’s forceful, but not the sort of forceful I’m used to fighting.
He’s more… manipulative. He uses coercive persuasion rather than outright brute strength.
And he’s compelling in a way I’ve never before experienced.
“What are you afraid of?” he tilts his head to the side.
My spine snaps straight. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Right.” Is he smiling? Why is he smiling? “What are you worried is going to happen?”
His tone is calm and steady, not at all overeager or cruel. Again, nothing like what I’m accustomed to.
“Something other than what you’re saying.”
“Okay.” Max nods easily. “In the time since we’ve met again—or, from your perspective, just met—have I lied to you or deceived you?”
I take a beat to think about it. “No.”
“Have I made my intentions perfectly clear before doing something?”
“Yes.”
“Would it in any way benefit me to lie to you and be inconsistent?”
“Yes.”
His brows furrow. “How so?”
“You could get off on it,” I say with a shrug. “Building up fragile trust, shattering it, then laughing at me for being stupid enough to believe you.”
Max’s eyes soften with sympathy. “Flame,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “One day, you’re going to tell me what happened to you, and I’m going to torture every person who’s hurt you to death.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’m not big on heart-to-hearts.”
Max exhales a long breath. Gazes at the floor and shakes his head. Finally, he meets my eyes again. “I’m not trying to trick you or play a prank on you. It infuriates me that you’d even go there, because that means it’s happened to you before. Was it Dagon?”
“Among others.”
“If you get me their names, I’ll bring you their heads.”
“Silly boy.” I force a smile. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor to avenge me. All I need to achieve vengeance is a sword. And maybe an AK.”
“Then consider me your blacksmith and squire. In the future. For now, shower. Strip, and give me your hands.”
“I’d prefer to have my hands free.”
“I’d prefer to avoid another assassination attempt from you. This time around, my preferences trump yours. Strip now, or I will do it for you.”
Very few living men have seen me naked. Only Dagon, actually—anyone else who tried to be a peeping tom or forcibly undressed me died, painfully.
Plenty of dead men know what my body looks like, and that’s how I prefer it.
I’m not in the business of putting myself in vulnerable positions, and being naked is the most vulnerable position imaginable.
“I can’t,” I whisper. I can’t freely give up my dignity. I know it’ll happen in any case—Max has proven that, in hand-to-hand, he’ll beat me. He’s an extremely good fighter. I’ll need a weapon if I want to beat him.
Max cocks his head to the side. “Do you want me to do it for you?”
“Not particularly.”
“But you won’t do it yourself, and you understand I’ll do it for you if you refuse.” He takes a step toward me, and my ass hits the counter. Christ, I’m stooping low enough to retreat. “Admit you want my help and I won’t punish you for refusing.”
My temper flares. “I don’t want anyone’s help.”
“Ember.” His tone is low. “I already have several unholy things planned for when you get out of this shower. The spanking I gave you was just a warmup. Don’t test me.”
I swallow. Gaze at the floor.
“I want you to help me,” I mumble.
“What was that?” he arches a brow.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck, this is embarrassing. “I want you to help me,” I say, louder.
“And I’m most happy to.”
He hoists me up on the counter, spreads my legs, and steps between them.
My breath hitches at his proximity. He might be an asshole I’m going to kill, but he’s undeniably hot.
He dips his head, nose skimming up the side of my neck, and my toes curl.
God, he’s potent. And obviously experienced in making women melt into puddles.
His palms slide over my waist, and he fingers the hem of my borrowed shirt. “Arms up.”
I slowly lift my arms. He rewards me with a pearly smile, tugging my shirt over my head.
“Lean forward.”
My breathing’s quickened now, set at a brisk staccato pace, and I feel faintly like I’m in a trance. God, he’s attractive. Probably the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I want to see him naked, too.
I follow instructions, and Max unclips my bra, sliding the straps down my shoulders and tossing it aside. I instinctively raise my arms to cover my breasts, but he catches my hands, holds them in front of me, and snaps them into the leather cuffs before I even think to struggle.
My lips part as I stare at them, then stare at him. Max is completely preoccupied with gazing at my breasts as if they’re his first meal in a thousand years. I think he’s a heartbeat away from drooling.
Damn, that makes me feel powerful.
He steps back and pulls me down from the counter, still ogling my breasts, even as he unties the drawstring on the sweatpants, pushing them and my panties to the floor. He hisses out a low breath, shaking his head.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Literally,” I agree.
His lips tick up. He shakes his head. “You should see yourself, Flame. Do you know how fucking stunning you are?”
“I stopped looking in mirrors a few years ago,” I reply offhandedly.
His eyes snap up, flaring in surprise, meeting mine. “Why?”
“It’s not necessary.”
Max blinks slowly. Then, he whirls me around to face the mirror. My eyes immediately drop to the counter.
“Look at yourself,” he prompts.
I shake my head, glaring holes at the counter. “No, thank you.”
“It wasn’t an offer.” He presses on my upper back, bending me over the counter. I brace my bound hands on it, dropping to my elbows, and choose to study the cuffs to deduce how to escape them in the future rather than look at myself.
I don’t want to see the monster I’ve turned into. I don’t want to see whatever it is that makes men ogle me—it’s irrelevant. I certainly don’t want to see the many scars on my body and the countless sins staining my soul.
I am a bad person; I know this. I’ve come to terms with it. But having to stare at myself and acknowledge that fact is simply too much. I’m strong, but I’m not invulnerable.
“Ember.” Max fists my hair—something I’m starting to think is a kink of his—and uses it to turn my head up. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“When was the last time you looked in a mirror?” he asks, sounding a mixture of curious and concerned.
“A while.”
“How do you quantify a while?”
“Years. I don’t know how many. Maybe two or three.” Probably closer to four. My kill count was still in the single digits when I stopped.
“Open your eyes, Flame,” Max says. “You’re beautiful. Drink yourself in.”
“I can’t,” I say. “Please don’t make me.”
He pauses. Whatever he hears in my tone makes him sigh and release me, spinning me back around to face him.
I open my eyes, staring at his shirt. “Alright,” he says, quickly stripping out of his clothes.
The urge to look lower and get an eyeful of his cock is strong, but my self-flagellation is stronger.
I shouldn’t be attracted to my captor, but there’s no denying he’s objectively gorgeous.
He picks up the chain connecting my wrists and leads me to the shower, propping open the door and turning on the water.
After testing the temperature, he pulls me inside.
I barely get a chance to look around before he flattens me against a wall, lifts my hands so high over my head I’m forced to stand on my tiptoes, and hooks the chain over a metal half-ring on the wall.
The hot water beats down on me from above, and my chest heaves at the vulnerable position. Not only am I naked, I’m bound. When Max flips a clasp on the hunk of metal holding me to the wall, I understand that I’m not getting out until he lets me out.
“Max—”
“Shh. Let me enjoy this.” His hands clasp my waist. Slowly travel up my spine and to the back of my neck.
He gives it a squeeze, and then, his touch disappears.
For a moment, I almost feel bereft. I turn my head sideways in time to see him uncap a bottle, squirt a generous amount of shampoo into his hand, and walk over to me.
I feel overstimulated, hypersensitive, and horrifically off-balance.
I have no experience with something like this—having a man touch me without the intent to deliver pain—and it’s almost more frightening than getting punishments from Dagon or one of his underlings.
I know what to expect then; I’m quite used to the inevitable pain. This is new and completely unwelcome.
“Breathe,” Max says calmly, sliding his shampoo-covered fingers through my scalp. “I’m just washing your hair.”
“I can do it myself.” My voice is shrill.
“Can you?” he sounds amused. “You seem a bit constrained right now. But, if you manage to free yourself, be my guest.”
I take that challenge at face-value and jerk violently at the chains. The link connecting my wrists is sturdy, but the hook on the tile might not be. I might be able to crack it with enough pressure—
It doesn’t budge. All I succeed in is straining my arm. I yank again, harder, when I hear a chuckle rumble from Max. He works the shampoo through my hair like I’m not fighting and writhing.
"That hook can withstand up to a thousand pounds of pressure,” he says cheerfully. “Pull all you want, Flame. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Urgh!” I yank and yank and yank until my limbs burn with exertion. “Why are you doing this to me?” I demand angrily.
“Because you’re mine,” he responds simply. “You always were, even when I assumed you’d died.”
I stop tugging, fury humming at my breastbone. I hate being helpless—I can’t protect myself if I can’t move.
“You done?” he asks, tipping my head back to let the shower spray wash the shampoo from my hair.
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“All in good time, Flame. I don’t mind if you keep struggling. It makes your ass bounce.”
I go still as a statue immediately, and Max laughs. “You’re adorable.”
I make a face of disgust. “I’m menacing.”
“Sure you are,” he says soothingly.
“I am,” I insist louder. “Do you know how many pretty-boys I’ve killed, motherfucker?”
“None as pretty as me.” He works a woodsy-smelling conditioner through the ends of my hair. “Your efforts were kinda hot, though. I think if it was a fair fight, you could’ve won.”
“Don’t pacify me!” I snap.
“Calm down.”
“I am fucking calm!” I shout.
“Uh-huh.” I can hear the smug smile in his stupid, infuriating voice.
My nostrils flare with anger as he finishes up with my hair. Then comes a musky body wash that he squirts directly on my back and rubs in with his hands. His fingers are strong and deft. He digs his thumbs into my shoulder muscles, massaging them, and a slight moan escapes my lips.
I hear his breath catch. He slides his hands down to my ass, cupping the globes firmly, and leans forward until his lips are right by my ear. My nipples are as hard as diamonds; my core feels strangely warm and… wet. Not just from the water.
“You should probably know this now, Ember,” he breathes.
“I am very good with my hands.” He spins me around abruptly, dazing me.
I stare up at him, feeling small and vulnerable yet not necessarily unsafe.
I don’t know what to think or how to feel.
He’s twisting every expectation I have set in place for dealing with men.
“I’m going to touch the parts of your body you keep shielded from the world now,” he tells me bluntly. “It’s not meant to hurt or embarrass you. It is because I literally cannot keep my hands off you.”
I cannot keep my hands off you. Again, a rush of power flows to my head.
That power is dispersed by uncertainty as he soaps up his palms. He starts at an innocuous place, reaching up to soap down my arms, shoulders, and neck. His gaze drops to my breasts, brightening with interest.
Typical man.
Only he’s not typical. He washes my breasts gently, almost clinically, though he does stop to brush his thumbs back and forward over my nipples. Heat pools between my thighs, and each touch feels like it’s shooting electrical currents straight to my clit.
“So fucking perky,” he murmurs, before moving lower. He finishes with my torso, then kneels in front of me.
The sight nearly undoes me. This man, who’s probably one of the strongest I’ve come across—certainly the most pesky to kill—is kneeling before me of his own volition.
He lifts up my feet, one at a time, to wash me, then goes to my calves, my thighs, and finally, his head lifts. His gaze locks on mine as he nudges my feet apart and cups my center.
I gasp; a devilish smirk slants his lips.
He doesn’t wash me with clinical precision there. He explores. His fingers spread my folds, his thumb brushes over my clit. My eyes close and my head falls back, and that’s when he lands a sharp, painful slap over my pussy.
“Eyes on me,” he commands.
I have no choice but to comply.
“I’m going to be inside this pussy often,” he tells me. “Daily. Probably at least three times a day.”
Trepidation snaps me back to reality. I shrink back into the wall.
“You’ll beg me for it,” he assures me. “I’m that good.”
“You’re that arrogant.”
“Fine line between arrogance and confidence.”
“Funny you should mention that, since you seem to have no idea where it lies.”
He chuckles and rises to his full height, releasing me.
His hands get to work on his own body, quickly and succinctly.
I manage to keep my eyes above his waist, but only just. I’m really tempted to sneak a glance at his cock, and considering the amount of time he spends washing it, he wants me to look, too.
I don’t. I still have my pride.
“Alright,” he says once he’s done. “I think it’s time to get to the fun part of the evening.”