Chapter Fourteen
Ember
As it turns out, where I belong is a man-cave that feels less like a home and more like a command center dressed up as one.
Clean lines, muted colors of charcoal, deep navy, and warm wood decorate the space.
The open living room is centered around a low sectional and a heavy coffee table, its surface spotless except for a crystal decanter and two glasses.
Narrow, reinforced windows slice along the far wall, letting in slivers of the forest beyond the fortress.
The kitchen bleeds into the living space, all black stone counters and stainless steel, built for function instead of comfort.
The appliances are high-end and expensive but barely used.
Down a short hallway, I spot three doors lining one side. Across from them is another, single door, heavier and reinforced. Something tells me that’s either his office or command center.
My hands are still tied behind my back as I appraise Max’s apartment, so when a dog comes barreling down the hall, I gasp and stumble back so violently I trip over my own feet.
I used to feel a distant fondness for dogs… until Dagon put me in a crate with his cruelest mutts as a punishment. One of them nearly tore my arm off. I had to get surgery on my shoulder, and Dagon complained that I’d cost him tens of thousands.
Max’s arms circle my waist to prevent me from falling. My heartbeat quickens as fear takes hold of me, and flashbacks of sharp teeth tearing into my delicate flesh—
“Greg, stay,” Max snaps.
The blur of brown-black fur halts in the center of the room.
“Sit,” Max instructs.
The dog’s ass meets the floor. I exhale a slow, shuddering breath.
“You’re afraid of dogs,” Max realizes. His tone is steeped in wonder. He carefully helps steady me, then turns me around to face him. “You have a fear.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is your astoundingly poor name-choosing. Who the fuck calls a German shepherd Greg?”
“I was hungover.” Max traces my jaw. “What did Dagon do to make you afraid of dogs?”
“Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything.” I can’t afford to have fears.
The only reason I slipped up is because I’m overstimulated, exhausted, and exceptionally close to crashing.
The sedative-induced sleep didn’t seem to break my crashing cycle—only herald me closer.
I can feel the telltale droopiness of my eyes and fogginess of my mind.
I give myself a maximum of six hours before I pass out.
Max’s eyebrows rise. “Sure about that, Flame?”
I steady myself and affect the bored, empty persona that’s shielded me since I learned to adopt it. “Obviously,” I drawl.
“Well, then.” Max whistles, still holding my gaze. “Greg. Come here, boy.” A slight snap sounds, and the ropes fall from around my wrist. Max cut them. I lift my hands, rubbing my wrists to return bloodflow to my fingers.
I force myself to keep a straight face as I hear the dog eagerly padding closer, as his scent and energy washes over me.
Dagon’s mutts barking in my face, tearing at my clothes, ripping into my skin—
I don’t blink, move, or flinch. I shove away the wave of memories, but even I can feel the color draining from my face, detect the way my breaths start to speed by the faintest margin.
Greg’s nose butts into my leg, and I gasp, unable to hold a wince.
“Not afraid, my ass,” Max says, studying me closely. “You’re human, Flame. You have fears. We all do.”
“I don’t.” I can’t. Any fear will be weaponized against me. Fear is the chain that leads me to doom, over and over again. I’ve learned to avoid or ignore it.
But this curious fucking dog is making me afraid. It’s making my pulse hammer, my skin dampen with sweat, and my hairs stand on end. It’s making me remember my mangled shoulder and the fear that I might need to get my arm amputated. It’s—
“Flame.” Max’s words are soft. “I can help you.”
“You might want to help yourself first. Your delusions are becoming severely problematic.”
Max exhales a frustrated breath. I almost smile. Grating on his nerves might become my favorite pastime while I plot my way out of here.
“Greg is extremely well-trained, and he likes you.”
I swallow. “How do you know?” my words come out weaker than intended.
“His posture and body language,” Max says. “The fact that he’s sniffing you and licking your leg. His eyes are alert, but not wide. His ears are at attention—not pinned back. His tail is thumping. If you looked at him, you’d see.”
I don’t remove my gaze from Max’s chest.
“Ember,” he says softly. “Look at him.” He gently grips my chin and guides my head toward the dog. My eyes fall on the bundle of fur, and I swallow hard again, caught between vague interest and debilitating terror. If this dog mauls me, it’ll hinder my escape plans. It’ll—
The dog drops to the ground. Not in a crouch but in a soft, lying down position. A low whine escapes him, and then he rolls to his back, proudly presenting his light-furred belly.
“He wants you to pet him,” Max says. “Give him some scratches.”
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t let fear rule you, Flame. Whatever happened to make you afraid of dogs won’t happen again. Give him some scratches. See for yourself that he won’t harm you.”
“Are you saying that a wild beast is harmless?”
“He’s not a wild beast, and I never said he’s harmless. I did say he’s well-trained, and seems to like you. He’s friendly, but not usually this friendly. Go on, give him a stroke.”
Greg whines again, punctuating Max’s point. I steel myself, straightening my posture. It’s just a dog. I already showed fear; now I have to rectify it by following through. If Greg bites me, I’ll just snap his n—
No. On the tail of the thought is a violent wave of guilt. I suspect I might’ve had a fondness for animals in my youth, because I always remember liking them… until the mutts and the cage.
Dagon systematically destroyed all of my pleasures and enjoyments in the world. Maybe I can reclaim just one of them.
I slowly crouch down to the ground. Greg wiggles his butt, tongue lolling out, staring at me with expectation.
When I hesitate, he yips; I flinch; Max snaps, “Quiet.”
Greg falls silent, apart from another impatient whine.
I slowly close the distance between my fingers and his fur.
The dog is warm—his fur is soft, fluffy, and pleasant to touch.
The feeling of his little heart pitter-pattering beneath my hand is oddly satisfying.
He stares at me; I stare at him. He wriggles again, encouraging me to scratch, so I do.
He lets out a grunt of enjoyment. Some part of me melts. It’s a simple thing, connecting with a dog, touching a dog after what happened to me… but it’s profoundly satisfying. I’m doing this, in spite of Dagon.
But I still have to go back to him. The thought is sobering. I pull my hand away from Greg and stand again. Greg rolls over, gets to his legs, and butts his big head against my knee before turning to Max. Max scratches his head and pats his back before taking my wrist in his hand.
“I haven’t had adequate time to prepare my place for your arrival,” Max says, glancing around.
“I did, however, know I was next in the lineup for a chosen, so there have been some adjustments. You’ll notice a couple of things.
First; most of the furniture is outfitted for bondage.
It can be used for fun purposes, or it can be used if you’re being a nuisance and I need to keep you in place. ”
As he speaks, I catch sight of systematic hooks drilled into the floor.
My assassin brain tells me that’s where a serial killer would chain their victims; my slowly-building understanding of the Nighthawks and Max tells me something else altogether.
Greyson mentioned Max living the BDSM lifestyle—while I have little personal experience with it, I’ve read plenty of BDSM erotica, and that’s enough to make my skin tingle with something that should be fear… but isn’t.
Max’s bedroom is the epitome of a military bachelor pad.
It’s extremely clean, almost to the point of being OCD.
The walls are a deep, smoky gray, the color of storm clouds right before they break.
The floor is dark wood, warm under my bare feet.
The bed is massive, low, and dressed in charcoal sheets and a heavy black duvet that looks soft enough to drown in.
A single reading lamp glows on the nightstand.
An open door gives me a peek of the walk-in closet, which is more like a private armory disguised as storage.
Shelves of shirts, drawers closed and labeled, rows of polished boots, and above them, locked cabinets that don’t look like they’re hiding clothes.
There’s a space cleared on one side, empty hangers waiting, as if Max has been planning for me.
The assumption of permanence makes my stomach lurch.
The bathroom is another world entirely, colder and sharper.
The shower is glass-enclosed, and when I spot more strategically placed hooks on the tile floors and walls, I stiffen.
Being chained in uncomfortable positions in a freezing-cold shower is an effective form of torture—I’ve both done it to others and had it done to me, enough times to know how much it sucks.
Max pulls open a drawer and withdraws a pair of leather-bound handcuffs. I suck in a sharp breath.
“You’ve proven that, for the time being, I literally cannot leave you alone for a moment.
That’s difficult since I have shit to do, duties to perform, and daily rounds to make, which leaves me with no option but making sure you can’t cause trouble while I’m gone.
That won’t be forever; just until you prove that you’ll stop trying to kill me or escape every time I turn my back for a moment. ”
I swallow hard, jaw tightening. I have to get out of here for reasons Max can’t possibly fathom.
The longer I delay, the greater risk she’s in.
I have maybe a week of wiggle room before Dagon sets to work on her—the average time he gives me to come back to him—and I’ve already wasted nearly two days.
I have to get out of here and get on a phone call with him in the next five days to inform him that I didn’t voluntarily leave him and I’m on my way back to him.
While I have zero desire to return to him, the alternative is unthinkable.
I’ll take a thousand punishments from Dagon before letting any harm come to her.
I’ll get engaged to him, marry him, let him have sex with me if it’s what keeps her safe.
But there’s no use in telling Max that. In fact, now is the time to become compliant, to make him think I’m bending. I need him to give me room so I can formulate and execute an escape plan.
“Strip and give me your hands,” Max commands.