Chapter Twelve #2
“Op failed.” I glance at Max as he speaks, and he wipes some blood from under his nose, throwing me a glare.
You deserved it, asshole. As if he can hear my thoughts, he shakes his head with a sardonic chuckle before turning to look at the other man once again.
“Dagon is still alive, but seriously wounded.”
“Max, I don’t care about the op right now. Presently, I’m wondering who the fuck the girl is?”
“The woman who almost succeeded in killing me.” Max’s eyes lock with my own, and a shiver courses down my spine at the manic glint in his eyes. “And my chosen.”
Fuck.
“I choose her,” he goes on, sweeping a menacing gaze over the crowd gathered at this ridiculous spectacle. “She’s mine. And anyone who tries to stop me better be ready to die.”
My hands flex and unflex behind my back. I start shaking with the force of my rage at being put on display and publicly claimed by a madman. I stare at the only other woman here for a few beats too long, wondering if I should take her with me when I escape this shithole.
“Everybody out,” the guy talking to Max thunders.
The crowd disperses like rats skittering away from a burning pyre. I feel my nostrils flare as I watch the retreating backs of the assassins, assessing their postures, their vulnerabilities.
I could take most of them—save for the one who sent them away. Him, I'm not sure of.
“That goes for you too, Flower,” he says.
“Grey.” The girl—what kind of name is fucking Flower?—says.
“Scarlett,” he deadpans.
Ah, so her parents don’t completely despise her.
“Greyson, please.” She reaches up to stroke his jaw. He catches her hand and presses a tender kiss to her pulse. I watch with growing disgust as he appears to soften, leaning closer to her and snaking an arm around her waist. “Can I stay?” she asks, blinking up at him.
I feel Max’s eyes burning a hole into the side of my head as I watch the interaction between Scarlett and Greyson.
They’re an odd match—he’s double her size, over a foot taller than her, and covered in tattoos…
while her skin is clear—aside from a few faded scars—and she has an air of almost sickening innocence about her.
Greyson shakes his head, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair.
“No, little Flower. I'm sorry.” He runs a hand through her hair, and Max tightens his hold on mine, making me hiss. Greyson’s head snaps in my direction, and his eyes narrow.
“Go,” he tells Scarlett, still staring at me. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Greyson…” she trails off. Shakes her head. Walks away with a drooped posture.
She’s under his control, whether or not she realizes it.
I don’t think she’s here of her free will—not really.
She could be an accomplice when I make an escape; she has to know this place better than I do, which is valuable.
But there was affection between her and Greyson.
Getting her to want to leave might take some leg work, or might fuck me over…
“Take out her gag,” Greyson orders, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to face me.
“No,” Max says calmly. “Anytime I let her speak, she sasses, bitches, and threatens. She just crashed my car, so I’m not in a charitable mood.”
I give him a glare that silently transmits, you fucking deserved it. He catches my eyes, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t smile or crack a joke.
I really have pushed him to the end of his rope.
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me you were bringing your chosen here?” Greyson snaps. “A heads up would’ve been nice.”
“Figured it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.” Max jerks his head at me. “We have history. It’s complicated.”
Except, whatever history he speaks of is voided by the fact that I don’t remember him. I know Max as the guy who kidnapped me, spanked me, knocked me out more than once, and is putting her in danger without even knowing it. All of this means that I need to find a way to kill him and escape.
Greyson pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks it. “Cain is on his way down here,” he says. “Put her in the annex, in one of the interrogation rooms—”
“No,” Max snarls. “She’s not a prisoner, she’s mine.”
Greyson pockets his phone, giving Max a flat stare. “Are you forgetting what Chosens are? Until she passes trials and accepts you, she is a prisoner. Your prisoner, your captive prize. We need her away from chaos for a thorough debrief. Nobody’s going to lay a hand on her but you.”
Max glares at Greyson for several beats.
I absorb every bit of information that’s slipping out—the chosen rumor isn’t a rumor, but a reality.
The Nighthawks have stooped to the new low of capturing women to keep, probably because their men have neither the charm or the skills needed to acquire fuck-buddies.
Apparently, chosens have to go through some sort of trials, and then their status changes from prisoner to… what? Permanent resident? Nighthawk?
I nearly laugh. They should be so fucking lucky to have me working for them.
“Your word,” Max says. “Your word that nobody lays a finger on her.”
“You have it,” Greyson agrees easily. “At least, I won’t, and Cain…
probably won’t. He’s less likely to if we stick to protocol, anyways.
Get her to the annex. Put her in one of the nicer cells.
I’m going to get Tobias to dig up everything there is to find on her, talk to Cain, and look at next steps.
” He pauses. “Next time, a heads up wouldn’t be amiss. ”
“There will be no next time.” Max stares hard at me. “I’ve found my future in my past.”