Chapter Five
Ember
Ilet him think I’m asleep, even though unconsciousness rarely clings to me for more than an hour, unless I’ve crashed.
The redhead made the very stupid mistake of not drugging me—that might’ve had me out a bit longer.
He also didn’t tie my feet together. All of this is to say; the moment he pulls over to the motel he mentioned on the phone, I’m getting the hell out of here. I need to get back to Dagon. Not because I have any desire to, but because I know full well what’s at stake.
I will do anything to protect the last pure bit of my life. Anything, including killing anyone Dagon tells me to kill. Marrying him, if he ever follows through on that threat. Letting him fuck me, a threat I’m certain he’s eager to follow through on.
I don’t have much of a soul left, but she still does, and the assassin who claims to know me is also the man who’s unknowingly threatening her. I have to kill him and escape.
A few hours pass before Max pulls into a nearly-abandoned parking lot of a shitty motel and parks the car.
I watch through a barely-open eye, until I feel him turn to face me, at which point I let my eyes completely flutter shut and keep still.
I can feel his eyes on me, sense him discerning whether or not I’m still in a deep sleep, passed out from some pressure on my carotid.
He gazes at me for several endlessly long beats, then seems to decide I’m not a threat, and exits the car. I listen to the tap-tap-tap of his footsteps echoing across the parking lot, and that’s when I open one eye, just a crack.
He’s disappearing into the lobby of the motel I glimpsed.
I open both eyes fully and sit up, cracking my neck.
Then, I take a few beats to appraise my hands.
They’re tied well—there’s no slipping out of these knots, unfortunately for me.
My lips thin with irritation, but a thread of admiration courses through me.
Whoever Max really is, he handled himself well. Admirably well. He’s strong, he’s composed, and while what he did at the casino was unbelievably reckless, it was also brave.
I have no clue what he wants me for—probably to torture me for information about Dagon—but I do know that I’m not sticking around to find out.
I reach forward with my bound hands, unlock the door, and slip out of it. It’ll be awkward, running in high heels with my hands bound, but it’s doable… if I get rid of the heels. So that’s what I do.
Broken glass tears through my hose and pricks the calloused the soles of my feet as I start jogging across the parking lot, but I ignore the pain.
If there’s anything the last five years have done for me, it’s instill a pain tolerance that makes me pretty much useless to any captors during torture.
I’d sooner kill myself than give up information that endangers her…
but, unfortunately, suicide would violate the deal Dagon offered me.
I live to serve him. I keep myself alive and always return to him, and she’s safe.
I fail, die, or escape, and she’s dead.
That’s all I need to know.
It’s dark out, and the farther I get from the motel, the less I can see.
My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but not well enough for me to see everything.
My feet sting and burn. My breaths saw in and out of me—despite my life the last few years, I’m still shit at cardio—but I force myself to persevere.
Then, I hear an animalistic roar of fury behind me, booming from the motel’s parking lot. Looks like pretty-boy assassin realized I’m gone.
And that’s when my brisk jog turns into a full-on sprint. I don’t know where I’m going—this motel is just off the highway, and it’s in a scarce area, but I see lights ahead. Maybe from a strip mall. If I can make it, I can find a way to free my hands, and—
His footsteps pound the pavement behind me. He shouts, “Ember! Get your fucking ass back here!”
If he thinks I’m good at listening to instructions, he’s in for a rude awakening. I only speed up, desperately praying to escape him. If he gets his hands on me again, he won’t make the mistake of leaving me conscious and my feet unbound twice. I don’t know if I’ll get another chance. I don’t—
A car swoops by me, swiveling violently on the road. Drunk driver. The shitty Toyota veers in my direction, tires squeaking.
I freeze, cold washing over me. My limbs are frozen. My entire body aches with pain. My life—whatever meager life I live—flashes before my eyes, followed by her. I can see her so clearly, a bullet in her head, Dagon standing above her body. Sharing a private joke with himself at my expense.
A strong weight slams into me, but it’s not the metal of the car.
It’s Max. His force sends both of us hurtling onto a patch of soggy, wilted grass nearby.
The car screeches to a stop mere inches away from us.
The driver, a boy with glazed eyes and lips parted in shock, stares at me for ten seconds. Then, he shifts gears, and zooms away.
Max flips me onto my back and bares his teeth at me. “You fucking—”
I do the only thing I can right now to distract him; I spit in his face. He recoils with a scowl, and I try to wriggle out from beneath him, but he doesn’t allow it. He straddles me, full force of his weight pinning my hips to the grass. Dampness from the rain-sprinkled ground seeps into my dress.
Max glares down at me with rage-filled eyes. “Are you stupid?” he shouts.
I laugh. “To get captured by a novice like you? Probably.”
He blinks. “You’re calling me a novice?”
“Sorry, was that too big a word for you? How about idiot? Are you familiar with that one?” I don’t know where my attitude comes from. It got beaten out of me years ago—I learned that silence is safer than speech, proving the old Epictetus teaching true.
So why the hell am I talking right now? It’s certainly not because I’m comfortable around this stranger—I’m not.
I guess near-death experiences have a way of loosening my lips.
“Ember,” Max breathes out. His eyes scan my face, and his eyebrows draw together. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Would you like that list alphabetically or numerically?”
My issues are probably miles long. At the top? Chronic stress. Second down? PTSD like a motherfucker. Third? Headaches that threaten to kill me from pain alone.
Max goes still, worry flashing across his eyes.
He really seems to think he knows me, and since I have a gaping hole in my memories, it’s possible he does.
I don’t know if we were friends or enemies—I’m leaning towards friends, considering the way he speaks to me and looks at me. Were we romantically involved?
Doubt it. I remember the day my hymen broke, and it happened after the event that left me with crippling headaches and amnesia.
“Ember,” he repeats, quieter. “It’s me.”
Judging by his tone, we were definitely something to each other. His eyes are vaguely familiar, though I can’t place them, and I’m not interested in trying. But he seems to want me to remember him—maybe enough to make him stupid.
I can work with that.
I make an effort to soften my features and widen my eyes. I try to mimic the expression of adoration that women wear on TV.
“Max?” I breathe.
Elation fills his gaze. He leans forward. “It’s me,” he repeats quietly.
As soon as he’s close enough, I smash my forehead into his nose.
He recoils with a shout of pain, which turns to a groan of sheer fury.
Blood sprays on the grass from his hopefully-broken nose.
His hips lift just enough for me to swiftly slide out from under him, but before I can get to my feet, his hand wraps around my ankle and yanks me beneath him, this time face-down.
His hand presses down between my shoulder blade, and then…
I feel his erection pressing into my ass. Everything inside me freezes. Fear stuns me into place, but there’s something else.
He’s big.
Huge sort of big.
ER trip for a punctured lung sort of big.
“Bad fucking choice,” he hisses into my ear. “We’re going to have to work on your attitude.”
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “I’m in a bad mood, and I’m extremely tempted to take it out on you. Don’t provoke me anymore than you already have. It won’t end well for you.” Then, he’s hauling me up by my waist, and throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Help!” I screech at the top of my lungs. I don’t like playing the damsel in distress, but if I’m forced to, I will. “Somebody, he—”
I hear a tearing sound, and pressure on my dress. Did he rip it? My stomach drops as he sets me back on my feet, only long enough to shove the torn fabric from the hem of my dress into my mouth and tie it around the back of my head. He fucking gagged me.
Whoever this Max is, he’s fucking insane, and far too good at binding and subduing a woman for my comfort. He’s a beast.
“If anyone sees us like this and tries to come to your aid, you should know I’ll kill them,” he says casually. “Therefore, if you have any regard for human life, you’ll tell them we’re into some kinky shit.”
“Fuck you!” I shout, but it comes out as uk oo. He still seems to understand me, because the fucking bastard chuckles.
I have never wanted to murder someone more than I do now.
A little-known secret about me these days is that I don’t like killing people.
Most wouldn’t be able to discern that, considering my methods and the trail of bodies I leave in my wake.
I only do what I’m ordered to do, and I take no pleasure in it.
I’ve killed dozens of Dagon’s enemies, but I’ve never once enjoyed it.
Max, however? I’d love to kill him.