9. Ember
CHAPTER 9
EMBER
POISON – brENT FAIYAZ
“How old was Gracie?”
By my second day of being interviewed, my raw throat is about ready to give up on me. I haven’t spoken this much since before I was taken. I’m completely drained.
Tom intervened yesterday when I couldn’t form words anymore, escorting me back to his spare room so I could decompress. Secretly, I think he was struggling too.
It couldn’t have been easy to hear the gory details of being drugged, restrained and deposited in a shipping container, let alone the subterranean hell that followed. Recounting those blurred days was difficult enough for me.
“She told me sixteen,” I choke out.
Warner jots that down. “Bloody hell.”
“She was young enough that she had to be taken for tests to determine if she was a virgin.”
Features crumpling in a disgusted look, he continues to take fast notes. “What kind of tests?”
“There was a doctor. He worked for the cartel.”
My eyes remain fixed to the conference table. Beads of water condensate on my glass, rolling down the clear surface to pool on the table. Each rivulet sparkles like an individual teardrop.
Warner audibly clears his throat. “Were you tested?”
“Not for… that.”
The entire room seems to draw in a collective breath.
“But all of us had examinations, measurements taken, questions asked. They wanted to know anything they could use to market us to their buyers.”
“They did that to you?” Warner clarifies.
All I can do is nod, my voice failing.
“Em…”
“Don’t say anything.” I look up to cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“That’s fine, Em. Take a breath for me.”
Fingers anxiously twisting together, I fight back flashes of the doctor’s thin lips, beady eyes and hooked nose. He looked like a rat. A revolting, invasive rat. The kind that bites to kill.
Giving me a few moments to steady myself, Warner ceases notetaking so he can watch me breathe. I struggle to lift the water glass in my trembling hand to sip, but thankfully, no one mentions it.
“Okay,” I grit out. “Let’s continue.”
“We will track down Gracie’s identity and get in touch with her family.” Warner quickly moves on. “It won’t be hard to correlate missing persons reports with your intel.”
“I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
“I’m sure they will want an update regardless.”
All I have to offer is another nod. If I speak, I’m scared every last shameful taunt my mind is whispering at me will come flooding out. How I failed Gracie. Left her to be ripped apart by animals. And never returned.
It doesn’t matter that I spent all that time fighting my own war. She needed someone to keep her safe, and I promised to do that. I promised I wouldn’t leave her alone. Now I have to live with the knowledge that I abandoned her.
“Em?” Tom murmurs to me. “Do you need to stop?”
“No. Keep going.”
Reaching for the water again, I take several more gulps. The distant thuds of where Axel’s feet knock into the ground as his legs jiggle fills the silence. He can never seem to sit still.
“Tell us about Blaine Madden,” Warner redirects to safer ground.
“You already know what happened.”
Warner gestures towards the voice recorder between us. “For the record.”
Placing my glass down, I lace my fingers together then drop my chin on top to hold my head up. “Fine.”
Tom continues jotting notes in a legal notepad between worried glances in my direction. He’s on his third black coffee already. Hyland has remained silent from his perch in the corner, staring at his scuffed boots.
Sabre’s newest recruit—bald-headed Archer with his intense silence and cutting gaze—joined us yesterday. I’m relieved he isn’t here today to study my every move. He’s an odd guy.
“Blaine intercepted me in the changing room after my last fight.” I lick my dry lips. “His team had taken out my trainer, Carlos. They paid off security to allow us to slip away from the club.”
“Carlos?” Warner tilts his head.
“Morello. He’s high-ranking in the cartel.”
Nodding, I watch Warner write his name down then circle it several times. He’s been scribbling thoughts at random on top of recording the interviews as he pieces my tale together.
Axel squeezes a bright-yellow stress ball between his hands. “How many in Madden’s team?”
“Um… Three. Two male, one female. She was called Raye. Short blue hair, lots of piercings, real shitty attitude. I can’t really remember what the men looked like.”
“Tom?” Warner looks up at my brother.
“Yeah, got it,” he replies while writing fast. “I’ll check it out, but from memory, I don’t recall a Raye from our criminal case.”
“Check anyway. He found allies from somewhere, and the Madden empire was reduced to rubble. I want to know how he’s paying for their loyalty.”
“Who is this guy?” I look between them.
Pinching the bridge of his strong nose, Warner sighs. “Someone with a grudge against Sabre and our team. We put him away for his family’s crimes. I don’t know what his angle is now.”
“I helped build an airtight legal case against his family before Madden was arrested.” Tom places his fountain pen down. “He was convicted and serving a hefty sentence when he escaped custody.”
“Who escapes prison that easily? And isn’t found?”
“Someone with inside help,” he answers.
“You think he’s that well connected?”
Tom nods solemnly. “I know he is.”
“How?”
“The Madden family has ties to London’s criminal underworld dating back a whole century. In their heyday, they ran this city and every illegal import inside it. They’re bad news.”
“The point is…” Warner easily controls the conversation. “Madden helped you to ingratiate himself to us despite hating our guts. We need to know why.”
“I already told you everything I know. He didn’t hurt me. Hell, he even cut the tracker out of my arm before he gave me the phone then chucked me out.”
A short, surprised silence follows until it’s broken.
“A tracker?” Axel strangles his stress ball.
Warner has stilled, his attention fixed on me. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“You saw my bandage.”
“They put a tracker in you?” Tom demands.
Wincing, I look down at the table. “It was surgically implanted by Gael’s physician.”
“Fuck!” Axel spits a curse.
“Raye sliced it out of my arm. They took it with them to throw Gael’s men off the scent.”
“What the hell?” Warner rakes a hand through his hair. “That is just so screwed up.”
Rolling up the sleeve of my loose, blue dress shirt, I try not to focus on the thin scars that encircle my wrist. The adhesive bandage I stole from Tom’s medicine cabinet is stark against my forearm.
Peeling back the edges, I tilt my arm to show them the raised, stitched wound. It’s healing well. Madden’s stitches are neat and regimented in perfect, symmetrical lines.
“Gael couldn’t have his property wandering off, right?” I say bitterly. “Had to keep it chipped and tagged like a mutt.”
“What’s that?” Axel grinds out.
Feeling the weight of his agitation fixed on me, I realise he’s referring to the ugly burn mark near the wound. It’s been concealed so far, but now the lumpy scar is on full display.
768.
It’s odd how three little numbers can define your entire existence. Chip away at your identity and damn near rewrite your entire life story. To remain Ember, I had to preserve my mind. I had to block it all out. I had to compartmentalise. Bury the pain. Then fight.
“My name.”
“Looks like numbers,” he replies pointedly.
“Well, it’s my asset number. That’s the only name I was allowed.”
“An asset number?” Warner parrots.
“We all had them. Every last woman he bought or sold.”
A sudden, loud smash causes my head to snap up. Across the room, a framed piece of abstract art has been flung onto the floor. The frame scatters all around Hyland’s vibrating frame.
“Breather,” Warner barks at him. “Now.”
“I’m going to destroy that motherfu?—”
“Now! Out!”
Slamming a hand against the wall, Hyland doesn’t look at any of us while storming from the room. The door crashes shut behind him, creating a loud reverberation.
“I’m sorry.” Warner fixes a forced smile in place. “He’s protective. Even with people he doesn’t know well.”
I want to laugh. Protective. More like a prying, confusing, hot and cold asshole.
“Let’s refocus.” He clears his throat. “We need descriptions of all the clubs you fought in. We’ve already moved Mexican authorities in to close the locations we were scouting out.”
“A lot of it is super blurry. I wasn’t given much information.”
“Whatever you have is better than nothing. We also need a description of Gael’s estate so we can begin looking. I’m not waiting for him to track you down first.”
The implication sends chills down my spine. We all know that Gael is already searching for me. I was told about the online chatter that followed my grand escape.
He’ll be out there right now, turning over every last grain of sand to find me. Gael has connections that extend beyond his homeland. His poisonous roots reach South America and even across the globe.
I’m not safe here.
I’m not fucking safe anywhere.
“Hyland will remain assigned as your personal security,” Warner continues crisply. “You’re to remain under our protection as a cooperating witness.”
“Great. More imprisonment.”
“We’re trying to help, Em.”
“I know.” I wrestle with the rising frustration inside me. “How did you even end up in Mexico? You never explained what led you there.”
Pausing, Warner looks at my brother. “A suspect in your kidnapping was identified early on. He left the country not long after you. We arrested him about eight months ago when he returned to the UK.”
Frigid cold flushes over me. “Charles?”
From his seat, Axel snickers. “That’s such a shitty fake name.”
“Seconded,” Tom agrees.
“How did you find him?” I ask curiously.
“CCTV footage from the docks,” Warner answers. “He’s a trained professional—fast, efficient and damn near invisible. It’s pure luck that we later caught images of his team leaving.”
“But you couldn’t track us down?”
“That dock exports half a million shipping containers every year.” He massages his creased forehead. “We searched for months but couldn’t narrow it down.”
Head buzzing, I try to recall my date that night. We went to a cheap pub in Liverpool, far from the student-orientated clubs and bars.
It was nondescript, perhaps a little rough. But I didn’t care about niceties. When Charles offered a nightcap at his place, it didn’t occur to me that I was walking into a dangerous situation.
Opening up a manilla folder, Warner rifles through thick stacks of paperwork. He flourishes a glossy photograph then slides it across the table towards me.
“Does he look familiar?”
“Oh my God. Yes.”
Nausea crawls up my throat at the ghost staring back at me. It’s boring Charles but not. The tightly-buttoned, strait-laced bore I dated looks vastly different in jeans and a slouchy t-shirt.
I don’t recognise the three thugs with him. There were others that night, transporting us to the docks to be offloaded. Between the terror, drugs, and six traumatic years since then, their faces are a blur to me.
“Tanner Stillwell,” Warner reveals. “Thirty-five years old. Spent the last six years bouncing around South America, judging by his passport.”
“It’s him.”
“We partnered with international law enforcement to track him down, but the man vanished for years. This was clearly not his first rodeo. You were just the final delivery before he split.”
My hand shakes as I lift the photograph. “I knew it. He’s some kind of honeypot, isn’t he? That’s his role in this whole charade.”
“Appears so. Lucky for us, he’s a loose-lipped honeypot. It didn’t take long to get enough information to trace you to Mexico. But his intel was limited beyond the basics.”
“Loose-lipped?” I reiterate.
“They loosened with some encouragement.” Axel playfully winks at me. “That was a fun two weeks. I didn’t know that a man could shit himself in fear so many…”
“Ax,” Warner scolds.
Pouting, he resumes massaging his stress ball. “Spoilsport.”
Slapping the photograph down, I smash my clenched fist above the bastard’s face. “Gracie was taken from her family because of him. I hope you tore him apart, limb from limb.”
“I can give you the details.” Axel smirks.
“I’d appreciate a play-by-play reenactment.”
“Mmm, sadistic. My kinda woman.”
Scrolling on his phone, Tom halts our exchange with a sharp inhale. All eyes turn to him.
“I found an old news report.” He taps the screen several times. “Gracie Livingstone. Disappeared shortly before Ember, from Bolton. Presumed dead.”
When he passes me his phone, a hot burst of sickness rises in my oesophagus. The report features a school portrait with a smiling, uninjured version of the young girl I tried to protect.
If Stillwell were here, I wouldn’t need Axel’s description of his agony. I’d fucking inflict it myself. That evil piece of shit fed Gracie into a system of exploitation and abuse. One she’s still lost in.
“Where is he?”
“Prison,” Tom replies. “Where we put him.”
“He should be dead and buried!”
“Stillwell is one cog in a large, sophisticated machine.” Warner steeples his fingers. “Gael’s cartel could have any number of honeytraps operating across the globe. His operation is beyond vast.”
Each bleak word breezes over me unacknowledged. All I can do is stare at Gracie’s young face. The same face that I last saw warped and misshapen to the point that she was unrecognisable as this sweet, carefree girl.
I tried so hard to escape Gael and his men before I was carried away. Even when I was re-cuffed and stabbed with a hypodermic needle while Luis negotiated my price.
It still wasn’t enough to escape their bondage. The last thing I saw before the room faded into nothingness was Gracie’s terrified face, mouth frozen in an ‘O’ as she screamed my name.
“We need everything you have on those involved in your captivity.” Warner doesn’t realise I’ve checked out. “Don’t leave a single person out, Ember.”
“Stillwell is still in HMP Wakefield,” Tom chips in. “The place is a shit hole. We could run Ember’s intel past him, try a little bribery. See who he’ll verify as key players.”
“Send the interview request.”
“He’s just a foot soldier.” Axel stands up to begin pacing the room. “Stillwell won’t know shit.”
“We have to start somewhere,” Warner reasons.
“No, we need to identify who’s organising the shipments from the UK to Mexico. Someone official who knows what’s in those containers.”
“We tried that angle years ago,” Warner dismisses his suggestion. “Spent months interrogating freight workers, dockyard bosses and even executives from the shipping firms. We didn’t find a scrap of evidence.”
“Then who is being paid to keep quiet?” He throws up his hands.
Between their back and forth, no one has stopped to realise that I’ve inched my chair backwards from the conference table. The longer I sit there, the louder Gracie’s photo screams at me.
When I abruptly stand up, Tom turns to me. “Em? You okay?”
My tongue feels thick and heavy in my mouth. “I… N-Need to get out of here.”
“Okay, trouble. We can be finished for today. I’ll take you home.”
“No… Not there. Not… Fuck!”
Words mixing and jumbling, I can’t vocalise the riotous confusion running through my mind. My thoughts have scattered in the rising winds of fury, sending me into a free fall.
The moment I lay down in his spare bed, I see women being brutalised all around me again. I can still hear their sobs when I remain awake at night. The begging and pleading. Agonised wails. Fists pummelling flesh.
Even at Gael’s estate, the onslaught was relentless. Evil lurked around every corner. If it wasn’t in the fights I was forced to endure, it was the sight of others being controlled and degraded while I remained untouchable.
“One date!” I lash out. “One fucking date, and I lost my entire life. Everything! And Gracie… She… She never even got to…”
Grabbing the back of my chair, I angrily fling it across the room. The metal legs crash into the wall, leaving a large dent. It still isn’t enough to quell the fury corroding my insides.
“Em…”
When I feel Tom’s hands landing on my arms, I recoil so fast, he stumbles backwards. My first instinct is to slam my fist into his face in case he’s trying to attack me.
“No!”
“Okay.” He backs off, hands calmly raised. “Just take a breath for me.”
“I don’t need to breathe… I need those animals burned alive! I need to know if Gracie is still out there so I can go find her and save her!”
“Ember.” Warner circles the table to approach us. “I know you’re angry?—”
“Angry? Fucking angry?”
Grabbing my half-full water glass, I send it sailing into the wall next. The wet explosion satisfies me for half a second, then the red-tinged rage comes rushing back at full speed.
“I’m beyond angry! I need to do something!”
“You have to let us do our jobs,” Warner attempts to explain. “It’s what we’re trained for. Give us all the information you can. We’ll take it from there.”
“Like you’ve been doing for the last six years?” I growl at him. “You didn’t even find me first! Blaine fucking Madden did!”
Heartbreaking pain and regret flashes over his face. Regardless of Warner’s role in keeping my case alive when the odds seemed insurmountable, I want to rage at him now.
Focused on him and my brother, I don’t notice Axel’s quiet approach behind me. He moves like a stealthy predator before resting a hand on top of my shoulder.
“Easy, Ember.”
“Fuck off!” I hiss at him.
“Why don’t you come with me?”
Shrugging off his inked hand, I glower at him.
“Or you can stay here and scream at people who don’t deserve it.” He cocks his head in question. “Your choice. But I have something that may help.”
“Like what?”
“You’ve spent all this time fighting, right?” His usual grin is nowhere to be found. “That’s what your body is craving right now.”
The thought of kicking the living daylights out of something, anything, is enough to pique my interest.
“So I thought.” Apparently, he read something on my face. “Come on.”
Axel stretches out an inked hand, giving me a glimpse of his thick, layered tattoos up close. Two ornate timepieces are etched onto the backs of his hands, packed full of intricate details.
He wriggles his fingers in invitation. “You trusted me before, right?”
Reluctantly, I nod.
“Then trust me again. If there’s one thing I know about, it’s what you’re feeling right now.”
Not even the other two worriedly whispering to each other can break the strange emotion pulsing between us. It feels like a kind of kinship. An understanding. He recognises that I’m blinded by wrath.
My hand slips into his, my movements controlled by sheer desperation. I don’t want to hurt Tom or anyone else, but I need to fucking hurt someone .
“We’re just going to step outside while you two chat,” Axel advises them. “Back soon.”
“You aren’t taking my sister anywhere!” Tom bellows.
“Last I checked, she’s a grown woman. We’ll be back.”
“Not a chance!”
“Tom.” Warner drops a hand on his shoulder. “Sit down. Let Ember take a breather while we review what we’ve got so far, yeah?”
“That man is a psychopath, and if you think I’m going to?—”
“Bye, then!” Axel chirps loudly.
Turning his back on Warner attempting to hold a still-ranting Tom at bay, Axel steers me from the conference room. I can’t even look at Warner. Not after what I said to him.
Exiting the room, the corridor is a haze all around me. I’m thankful that at least Hyland hasn’t stuck around and can’t interfere. I don’t know if I can lie to him again right now.
Axel keeps a tight hold on my hand, pulling me alongside him. We pass several offices and wind around the corner before coming to a stop outside a door labelled Axel Slaughter — Anaconda Team.
“My office.” He scans the security pass attached to his belt loop. “Follow me.”
Tailing him into the room, I do a double take. Rather than standard office furniture—laptop, desk, perhaps a chair or sofa—the room is dominated by a full-size boxing bag hanging from the ceiling.
“What the fuck?”
Axel shuts the door behind me. “My work doesn’t really require a desk.”
“Is your work beating up a punching bag?”
“Nah. Usually it’s some wanker’s face. Occasionally breaking a leg or two. Maybe an arm or skull. Sometimes dislocating a few joints or a shoulder or perhaps cutting off…”
“Axel!”
With a smirk, he heads towards the red-leather bag, hanging from metal chains. “Too much information again? My bad.”
I walk over to join him by the bag. It’s far enough from the tinted, high-rise window to offer a decent safety zone, though a messily organised bookshelf is in the near vicinity.
“You’re up, dimples. The space is yours.”
“Dimples?” I grunt, touching the supple leather.
“You’ve got a couple that pop out when you smile. I like them.”
Staring into his honey orbs, I try to decide if he’s pulling my leg. “You’re so weird.”
“As advertised.”
The man who just freely admitted that his job role consists of punching people when he isn’t breaking or dislocating their limbs… likes my dimples?
“Show us what you’ve got,” he encourages, clasping the bag in place. “Get all that rage out before it eats you up inside.”
“Why are you helping me?” My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
Axel shrugs, still wearing that curious smirk.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I have my reasons.” He hikes up a shoulder.
“Which are?”
“Truthfully, I’m intrigued by you. I want to see what you can do. Or you can go back to smashing chairs and water glasses, if you’d prefer.”
Looking down at my clenched fists, memories of how I gained each mottled scar across my knuckles fill my mind. Every last vicious, potentially life-ending fight. All the times I limped back to my room, barely able to walk.
I would do it all again if I could save her.
Hell, I’d take every blow twice over to set Gracie free.
“You need hand wraps?”
Shaking my head, I let my fist fly into the solid mass. The impact enrages my still-tender skin, bearing the marks of my last fight. The final bout of violence that did little to satiate my thirst for more.
Axel absorbs the momentum, stopping the bag from swinging too far. I smash my other fist into it. Then again. Again. Again. Each hit delivering another burst of relief to my soaring adrenaline.
Bringing both fists to my chest, I take a measured step forward then shift my weight onto my left leg. My right flies forward in a powerful kick, slamming the ball of my foot into the bag.
“That’s it.” Axel nods, watching my tight form. “Nice.”
After landing several hard kicks, I lunge forward to punch the bag again, landing a rapid combo. Every time the leather kisses my aching skin, the relief increases exponentially.
His head peeking around the bag, Axel appraises me. “Feel good?”
“More.”
“Fuck yeah. I love watching you move like that.”
Stopping for a breath, a dark-purple blur streaks across the room before it crashes into me. The momentum propels me backwards until I land sprawled across the office carpet.
“Axel!”
“What, dimples?” He rolls us so he’s braced above me. “Can’t take a real person?”
“You’re fucking insane!”
“Meh. Old news.”
Bucking my hips, he lurches sideways before I punch him in the gut. Axel grunts in pain, bracing a hand on my right side to stop himself from sliding off my body.
“Get off me!”
“Make me,” he taunts.
“What the hell are you on?”
“I said make me! Fight back!”
Hitting him again, I aim higher to punch him in the patterned sun rays that cover his throat. Axel chokes on a laugh, the sound cut off by his hissing breaths.
His hand flashes out, seizing a handful of my braid. Pain races across my scalp from the harsh tug. The crazy asshole is pulling my hair. Oh, I’m going to fucking kill him.
“Come on!” he goads.
We trade fast blows—my fist connecting with his ridged abdominals, his fingers twisting my hair until tears prick at my eyes, our bodies thrashing and smacking together.
We’re evenly matched as he meets my ferocity blow for blow. I suspect he’s holding back because each time I think I’m getting the edge on him, he deftly cuts off my next move.
When his forehead smacks into mine, causing my teeth to clang together, I see stars for a few seconds. Then I hit back, managing to punch his round jaw hard enough for him to curse.
Rolling us over, I’ve stolen the advantage when Axel comes to his senses and quickly flips us back to our original position. He has more muscle mass than me, though not by much.
“You’re decent,” Axel tries to antagonise me. “But I expected better.”
“You wouldn’t survive my best, dickhead.”
“Oh, ho. Fighting talk.”
“You bet.”
If I had a weapon, I’d be driving it into his throat right about now. I’ll have to settle for fighting dirty instead.
Writhing beneath him again, I force his body to rise up long enough to expose his denim-covered crotch. My knee lifts rapidly, slamming between his legs.
“Bitch.” Axel’s eyes bug out comically.
“Been called worse.”
Hands braced over his crotch, he slumps to the side, allowing me to throw him off. While the crazy bastard half-laughs and half-moans, I sit up to rub my sore head, feeling where he’s rumpled my braid.
“My hair? Seriously?”
“That was a cheap shot,” Axel admits, his legs curled inwards. “So was kneeing me in the dick.”
“Well, it takes one to know one.”
“Fair. It’s a draw.”
Slumping on the carpet once more, we lay side by side, both gasping for air. My limbs are humming with energy, but at least the screaming voice has quietened. For now.
“You want to go again?” He rolls over to face me.
“Nah. I feel better.”
“Like you can think straight and pretend to be a regular human again, right?” He chuckles under his breath. “You know where to find me when it wears off.”
Twisting, I look at him. “How do you know it will?”
“You’re not the only one who was conditioned by violence. I know how that addiction works. This right here is the only rehab people like us will ever get.”
Curiosity loosens my lips.
“What happened to you?”
His Adam’s apple lurching betrays a hidden tale. “I wasn’t always an orphan. And I wasn’t always angry.”
Waiting for him to reveal more, I watch the conflicting emotions filter over his cute features. For once, the jokes and banter have stopped.
“Life had other plans for me, I guess.”
“When did you lose your parents?” I dare to ask.
“I was thirteen.”
“That’s young.”
His long, inked fingers smooth out his purple faux hawk. “And I didn’t lose them. My mother just decided to drive a knife through Dad’s gut while he slept and land herself a life sentence. Hence orphan.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah, that’s most people’s reaction.”
In the quiet solitude of his office, I can finally see past the humour and jesting. Past his incessant playfulness and constant need for stimulation. Past every last defence mechanism he protects himself with.
And I see a kid.
A lost, angry, lonely kid.
“I walked in on her sobbing next to his dead body, knife still in hand.” Axel’s eyes cloud over. “Had to call the police myself. She was taken away in cuffs, and I ended up in foster care.”
“You found them?” I breathe unsteadily.
“Her screaming was hard to ignore. Turns out, he was having an affair for the best part of a decade. That’s why she had a breakdown and killed him in cold blood.”
I’ve seen some harrowing shit, but this is next-level traumatising. No wonder his brain is wired differently.
“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t bother. I’ve heard it all from foster parents, bullshit therapists and the know-it-all shrink Warner made me see when I joined the team.”
“I’ve never really gotten on with therapists either,” I empathise. “My mum had multiple sclerosis. I was grown up when she passed away, but Tom convinced me to see a grief counsellor.”
“How’d that go?” Axel snickers.
“Didn’t quite work out.”
“Can’t talk your way out of some things.”
“But I can punch my way out of them?” I counter.
“Is that so crazy? I didn’t have to fight like you did, but after what happened, I sure wanted to.”
Studying his bee-stung lips and youthfully rounded face, it isn’t hard to imagine a younger version of Axel. The child embroiled in a tragedy and left to fend for himself.
“I know that feeling.”
He touches the tip of his index finger to my cheek, a crease between his brows. I can feel his pain-hardened callouses on my skin, the roughness causing tingles to spread.
“Maybe you can find a way to use all that anger,” he suggests.
“Like you have?”
His lips curl in a grin. “Exactly.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Got an idea. May take some convincing.”
His fingertip circles the dips in my cheeks until he’s stroking along my jawline to my parted lips. Axel traces the outline of my mouth, pausing on my split lip, his pupils expanding wide.
Each reverent touch makes my pulse thrum with a feeling I haven’t experienced in a very long time. Something akin to want. Urgent need. Desire. Something I couldn’t allow myself before.
“Convincing who?” My whisper is barely audible.
Axel shifts, his head nearing mine. “Everyone.”
He’s close enough for his breath to swipe across my over-sensitised skin. The rich, earthy smell of coffee blends with his own unique scent—a perfect balance of tantalising musk and enticing spice.
Axel embodies danger. Threat. Calculating strength. Yet the playful curiosity pouring off him creates space for a different side. A partially concealed, vulnerable soul behind his jokes and brutality.
Our noses nudge, bodies lightly brushing on the carpet. The danger flickering in his eyes feels like it’s calling my name. Offering unconditional acceptance and recognition of what the anger that’s taken root inside me desires.
It desires acknowledgement. Release.
And he can see that clear as day.
“If you need to punch something again, I’ll happily volunteer my face. Free of charge.”
A shudder rolls over me. “How thoughtful.”
“What can I say? I’m a giver.”
“Can’t relate,” I reply quietly. “I’m a taker.”
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The gap between us feels like leaping across a deep cavern without hope of reaching the other side. But for the life of me, I don’t care to examine the recklessness of doing exactly that.
Axel’s lips are firm, all-encompassing, the swell covering my mouth and leaving no room to second guess the risk I’ve taken. His kiss betrays no hint of hesitation nor concern for what we’re doing.
The initial kiss dissolves into another, then another, until his mouth is moving confidently against mine. I kiss him back with the same enthusiasm, desperate to relieve the ache inside me.
His fingers thread into my hair, pushing loose tendrils back where they’ve escaped my braid. Fingers press against my skull, holding my head in place as his tongue darts out to swipe across the seam of my mouth.
With a gasp, I relent and grant access. His hot tongue thrusts into my mouth, dancing against mine as he catalogues my taste. Explosions have begun to detonate in my belly, creating intense waves of need.
I bunch my hands in his baggy shirt, the over-washed cotton soft and worn. He has zero regard for Sabre’s smart dress policy. Just like he has no regard for what anyone else thinks about him.
The kiss softens, our lips entangled and breath trading places. Somewhere along the way, my leg has hooked up on his hip, bringing us flush together. The hard press of his muscles send heat flooding straight down south.
“Axel,” I moan languidly.
“Yeah.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I know. We should get back before they come looking for us.”
His raspy voice is barely audible through the roaring in my ears. Distantly, I realise this was probably incredibly stupid. Not to mention crazy after all I’ve seen since a man last touched me like this.
But I don’t care.
Not when I’ve lost so much.
For the first time in so long, I’ve taken something for myself. Something I wanted. And it felt fucking amazing. I want to take more and fill this aching chasm inside my chest.
“I guess so.” I release his t-shirt. “Um, what exactly do you need to convince everyone of?”
Excitement widens his smile.
“You joining Sabre Security.”