Chapter Nineteen
Max
The first thing I feel when Ember literally tips over, nearly falling face-first into a puddle of her own vomit, is crippling fear.
This results in me giving the doctor a black eye, assuming that he did something to her, before he reminds me of her sleep cycle and postulates that this is probably how it usually goes, considering how long she stays awake between resting.
I still make him run every test under the sun—check her heart, her brain, everything.
All of it comes back normal—he even comments that her brain activity indicates that her medial temporal lobe, or whatever the fuck that’s keeping her from remembering me, is showing significantly more activity—as is her prefrontal cortex.
I don’t care about that as much as I should; principally, I care about making sure she’s healthy and fucking awake. Watching her fall limp will go down as one of the most terrifying experiences in my life—and I’ve lived through some seriously terrifying shit.
Eventually, the doc tells me I just need to wait this out and that she’s as physically healthy as she can be, given all the damage that’s been done to her.
After threatening him to find a way to help her, I carry her back to our apartment. Strip the sheets, remake the bed, and tuck her safely beneath them.
She looks absolutely angelic as she sleeps.
Midnight-black hair haloing her head, lips slightly parted, eyes fluttering.
I wonder what she’s dreaming about. I wonder when she’ll wake up, when I’ll get to see her eyes again.
I panic that she might not wake up again—then reassure myself that she will. She has to. Nothing else is an option.
Nevertheless, I spend the next hours in a panic-state.
I have rounds of the perimeter to make, unit leaders to talk to, debriefs to attend, but I push all my duties to the back of my mind.
Cain told me earlier that it was acceptable if I pulled back a bit to see to my chosen, considering I needed to have her trained and integrated within three months—something that will be no easy feat, knowing what I know about Ember.
Eventually, Greyson texts me that he’s coming up to talk, which forces me to abandon Ember’s side.
If I were being smart, I’d tie her up to make sure she doesn’t come at me when she awakens, but…
right now, the thought of her trying to kill me is more relieving than frustrating.
After watching her drop over, heaving, I had a moment of sheer terror thinking she might’ve died, and that really took it out of me.
Besides, I’ve removed all the sharp objects that she could use. The furniture is drilled to the floor, the closet and bathroom are locked with a biometrics scanner. She won’t get her hands on anything that actually enables her to kill me.
With great reluctance, I approach the front door and swing it open. Greyson stands there, imperious eyebrow arched, looking me over with an unimpressed look on his face.
“You look like shit,” he greets.
And he looks too fucking relaxed and happy for my tastes, which probably means he was just spending time with Scarlett. Prick.
“It’s not a good time,” I grumble.
“I disagree. Medical told me Ember’s asleep; now’s the perfect time.” He jerks his chin. “Are you gonna let me in?”
“No.” I don’t like the idea of any man aside from me or a doctor being near Ember while she’s vulnerable. When she’s awake, I have no doubt she’ll be able to look after herself if shit goes down. Now, though…
“Cool. I’m pulling rank; let me in.”
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, but step aside anyway. Greg lifts his head from the dog bed in the living room, releases a soft chuff of greeting, then lowers his head again and returns to snoozing. He’s probably the laziest dog I’ve ever met, aside from when he’s on duty.
“Have you gotten any sleep?” Greyson asks, walking inside and scanning the living area.
I shake my head. “Not since I brought her here.”
“That’s the first fuckup you need to fix,” Greyson comments. “Getting at least a few hours of sleep is what kept me sane through Scarlett’s bullshit when I first brought her back. Otherwise, I probably would’ve had even more fuckups than I already did.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, slowly and deliberately. “Greyson, you’re talking to me about your fuckups with Scarlett?” I’m the one he came to for advice on the daily. “You’re lecturing me on difficulties with Chosens?”
“Yup,” Greyson says. “I messed up and you helped me, but you’re not all-knowing. You understand dynamics like ones between us and Chosens theoretically, but not practically. Having Scarlett hasn’t been like having a girlfriend—it’s completely different, and at times, completely exhausting.”
“You’re really selling the whole chosen thing,” I mutter.
Greyson plops down on the couch. Greg takes that as his cue to wake up fully, pad over to Greyson, and give him puppy-eyes.
“Sorry, bud. I don’t have any treats,” Greyson says, reaching forward to scratch Greg’s head.
“Having Scarlett is the best thing that could’ve happened to me.
It literally saved me after losing Sam. But I’d be lying if I told you it’s not a fuckload of responsibility, and stressful responsibility.
The whole dynamic of Chosens is built off the principle of having a human that relies on you for everything.
It’s a power dynamic that will never be fully balanced—even with Scarlett, who runs our agriculture department with an iron fist and gets respect from the guys on account of actually saving this whole place and nearly dying for the trouble. ”
“I have an assassin who’s killed multiple Nighthawks,” I say flatly. “I don’t think she’ll be in need of street cred.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll be in need of your protection nevertheless. We’re operating under the assumption that she killed at least two of the three guys sent to kill Dagon over the last five years, but possibly more,” Greyson says. “Some people might be angry about that.”
I scratch the back of my neck, frowning. He’s right, and I haven’t really considered that I might actually need to protect Ember from the people living in the fortress. Fuck.
“Cain wants to recruit her,” I say quietly. “I won’t let him put her in danger.”
Greyson meets my eyes. “He’s right in assessing that she’s a valuable resource—she is.
She’s also potentially one of the deadliest people here, which is saying something.
If she chooses to take Cain up on his offer of becoming a Nighthawk assassin and you put a stop to it, I can’t imagine she’d forgive you.
The greenhouse is Scarlett’s purpose; it helps her maintain her sanity and gives her a break from me when she needs it.
If she didn’t have that, I don’t know that she’d have settled here. ”
My brows furrow, and I look down at my hands, examining them. He’s right; Ember does need a purpose here, but I don’t want that purpose to put her life in danger.
I need to find something safer to occupy her. I also need to figure out what she’s keeping from me—what leverage Dagon has on her—so I can fix it and ensure her focus lies squarely on me.
“What’s your approach to training?” Greyson asks, switching gears.
I wince. “Haven’t made a plan yet.”
Greyson raises his eyebrows. “Really, Max? After all your talk, pushing me to make a concrete plan with Scarlett, you haven’t made a plan for Ember?”
“I’ve been a bit busy avoiding her attempts on my life. Which, by the way, are fucking constant.” And reluctantly impressive.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. It’s my work phone, which means that either a prospective client or one of my contacts is calling me. It’s poor form to ignore it.
“Hold on,” I say to Greyson, pulling it out of my pocket. Unknown number. Squinting, I swipe to pick up and hold it to my ear.
“Yeah?”
A long, meaningful pause raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Somehow, I know who’s calling even before I hear his familiar, chillingly cool voice. “Maximus of the Nighthawks, I presume.”
How the fuck does Dagon know who I am?
Probably because he has his own connections in the world of organized crime and assassins. He’s uniquely stationed to get a whole lot of information that’s otherwise completely unavailable to the public.
Anger, fear, and uncertainty balloon in my chest until I feel like I’m going to explode. Dagon destroyed my Ember, and now, he has the gall to fucking call me?
“Dagon of the drug trade,” I reply flatly. “What do you want?”
“You have something of mine. I’d like it back.”
He’s referring to Ember as an it. My fist tightens around the phone until I feel it creak. My left eyelid twitches, and my jaw clenches.
“She was mine long before she was yours,” I retort.
“You’re not getting her back, ever. Might as well make your peace with that.
If you come for her, I’ll kill you.” I’ll kill him either way, but there’s no sense in telling him that.
Maybe his arrogance supersedes his confidence to a degree that he thinks I won’t come for him regardless.
“She’s not yours,” Dagon says with an infuriating chuckle. “She’s mine. She’s always been mine. She will always be mine. The last five years have ensured it.” He pauses. “If you had any claim on her, why didn’t she spend those years with you?”
“You really want me to believe that she spent time with you willingly? I’ve seen her back. You fucking abused her.”
“I molded her,” Dagon corrects sharply. “I did precisely what needed to be done to make her into the person she is today. Nothing more, nothing less. At no point was I overzealous—”
“She’s covered in fucking scars because of you!”
“And she’s all the stronger for it.” Dagon lets a long pause linger while I pant like an angry bull, and Greyson leans forward on my sofa, watching me closely.