Chapter Twenty-Three
Ember
Max almost takes me to the gym in HQ—when he sees a few guys there, working out, he sharply steers me away and takes me to the training facilities instead.
“Scared that they’ll attack me?” I ask mildly as he opens the facilities’ door for me.
“Scared that you’ll rile them up until they try, then kill them,” Max replies easily. “I’ve looked into your work, Flame. You might be cocky, but it’s well-earned. You’re one of the best of our time.”
I blink, heart thudding against my ribcage. His praise of my abilities almost feels nice, especially since Scarlett told me just how good of an assassin Max is.
Scarlett. Even the thought of her is enough to sour my mood.
The girl that Max is a little too fond of, who he decided to set up a playdate with me for.
I’m still pissed off about that—more so with him than her.
I don’t dislike Scarlett, and I certainly admire her work on the greenhouse.
She didn’t choose for Max to get hung up on her.
He, however, chose to kidnap and bring me here while still pining after her—probably as a distraction.
It adds insult to injury. He tore me away from my life and servitude, threatening the one thing I hold dear, only to bring me here as a way to forget the one that got away.
“What’d you and Scarlett discuss?” he asks. “You seemed deep into conversation.”
“Oh, this and that,” I say airily, appraising the available training tools.
There’s an adult version of a jungle gym on one side of the space that catches my eye—it looks like a combat course.
“You know, her work, her life, the fact that Greyson stole her away from said life, and you had intentions to steal her away from Grey.” I smile. “Super intriguing stuff, you know.”
“Oh, shit,” Max mutters under his breath. “Flame—”
“Don’t call me that, and don’t feel the need to explain yourself. I’m gonna work out until I no longer feel the urge to bash your head into every available surface.”
He offers me a shiny grin. “Are you jealous, Flame?”
I scoff. “In your dreams, Maximus.”
I navigate my way over to the training course.
It looks simple enough—a brisk jog up to a ladder suspended five feet over the ground, monkey bars followed by a net I’m supposed to climb over, then a steep descent over a precariously balanced plank on the other side.
That leads to a small throwing range, headed by a table covered with throwing knives, with a target about twenty feet away.
Then, there’s another ladder to climb, a rope bridge to scale, and a single rope leading from the end of the bridge to a finishing platform—one I’ll have to climb up.
“You probably shouldn’t start out there,” Max says, setting up a deadlift.
“It’s pretty advanced endurance and combat training.
I know you’re good, but—” His words die out when I jump up, catching the bottom rung of the ladder.
My strength has never been my greatest asset—I’m weaker than most of my targets—but I get away fine with my agility and small stature. It lets me move pretty much silently.
My arms burn as I make my way up the first several rungs with nothing but my upper body strength, then swing up my feet to catch a rung, and speed-climb the rest of the way up.
There’s no platform at the top; just a stretch of space separating the ladder from the monkey bars.
I steel myself, find my balance, and leap for the monkey bars.
I miss them with one hand but catch with the other—I nearly lose my grip and fall, which would be a six-foot drop to a thin mat.
No thanks. My palm burns from the unforgiving metal, but I ignore it, getting my second hand up and swiftly making my way between the bars.
My body is already burning with exertion and a fine sheen of sweat is developing on my forehead.
The laborious pain sets me alight. It means I’m still alive, and still human—two things that I’ve spent every day of the last five years warring with.
The edge of the net is only a foot away from the last monkey bar, so I manage to grab onto it easily enough.
Instantly, the net flips over, sagging with my weight, leaving me nearly upside-down.
My feet scramble for purchase, finding nothing but air, while my fingers clutch the rough rope with all my strength.
“Ember,” Max calls. “Be careful—”
I ignore him. Lodge my feet into the holes in the net, and use my weight to swing myself over into the right position.
The gesture only manages to flip me over in a circle, leaving the net tangled, and almost forcing me to drop to the ground.
I hang onto the ropes with a death-grip, and decide to just climb upside down.
It’s challenging and exerting, but not impossible.
The plank at the end presents a different issue. I can’t safely get onto it while upside down, so I need to flip over until I’m on top of the net… even though the net seems to like to go in circles.
Somehow, I manage to wriggle until I’m on top of it, then step onto the plank.
Balance has occasionally been an issue for me ever since my head injury, but it plays nicely with me today.
The key is to keep moving forward without thinking about it too much.
The plank is steep, wobbly, but takes me right to the table outfitted with knives.
Max seems to realize that he’s in danger when I pick up one of the knives, testing the weight and balance in my hand, and turn to face him.
“Ember—”
I throw the knife over my shoulder, listening to it slice through the air and bury into the target with a loud thud.
My message is clear; I could’ve impaled him, I should’ve, but I chose not to.
I have no escape plan in place, so killing Max now would only make a mess of things.
It actually might be best if I don’t kill him at all—otherwise, I’ll have the Nighthawks chasing after me for the rest of my career. That’d be hazardous to my health.
“Holy fuck.” Max stares at the target from across the room.
I stare at him for another moment before turning to admire my handiwork; the knife buried into the target’s head.
I have five more knives at my disposal, and I distribute them evenly on the target.
Two in the center of the head, two in the chest, and two in the groin.
I give myself thirty seconds to catch my breath and steady my body before resuming the course. The next ladder starts only two feet up the ground, so it’s far easier, but the rope-bridge has several parts missing or gaping. It’s designed for failure.
I don’t fail.
Since the footholds in the center are largely absent, I grip one of the side rails, and decide to scale it, stepping sideways until I reach the end. The bridge trembles and threatens to flip, but I manage to balance it by distributing my bodyweight and taking wide steps.
Somehow, the physical exertion only makes me angrier at Max rather than cooling me off.
I want to destroy him for bringing me here when he already has Scarlett to think about.
It’s not that I’m jealous—I don’t get jealous—it’s the principle of the matter.
Max shouldn’t have nabbed me when he’s focused on someone else—it’s disrespectful to me.
The last obstacle—the single hanging rope to climb to get to the end platform—is probably the toughest. The rope is smooth nylon rather than the rough, braided rope making up the rest of the obstacles, and it has no knots for me to hold to with my feet.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt and grip the end of it.
My upper body strength is enough to support my own weight through twenty or thirty pullups, but my muscles are already burning with exhaustion.
I’m definitely going to be sore tomorrow.
I manage to put one hand above the other until I can get a toe on the last platform. Then, I get on it fully, and use the comfortable final ladder to get back onto the ground.
“Shit,” Max breathes. “That was… really fucking hot.”
I turn to face him, fury turning my vision red. “I’m sure Scarlett looked just as good doing it.”
Max pauses in his reps, lowering his weights to the ground to face me. “What?”
“Why would you bring me here?” I demand.
“If you already had her, why would you do this to me? Every day I’m here endangers the only good thing in my life, and you already have someone to fixate on.
Why the fuck would you upend the last five years of your life just to have me here, Max?
Is this all an ego thing? You can’t get Scarlett, so you focus on a different one that got away? ”
“Hold on, what the fuck are you talking about?” he demands. He crosses the gym until he’s only a few feet away from me, brows drawn and posture tense.
“I’m talking about Scarlett!” I repeat, louder. “I’m talking about how you’ve ruined everything for me!” My voice continues to rise in pitch. “When you were insisting that we knew and cared for each other in our youths, that was fine. But now? When I’m just the second-place award? What the fuck!”
“Ember, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. I have no designs on Scarlett—”
“Really?” I release an angry laugh. “Because, according to her, you wanted to take her away from Greyson when you saw trouble in paradise.”
Max blinks. “Holy fuck, you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous!” I shout. “I’m feeling disrespected!”
“Unless that’s a synonym for jealous, you’re lying.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Ember.” Max takes a step forward. “Scarlett is my friend, and that’s all. I care about her the way I would care about any of my friends, including Greyson. I don’t know what gave you the impression that I have any interest in her—”
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that you yelled at me for upsetting her? That you jumped to her defense?”
“You were being a bitch, and we both know it. I set you straight because, again, I fucking care about Scarlett—”
“It sounds like you care about her too much.” I pant angrily. “You need to let me go.”
His face goes blank. “Absolutely not.”
“That wasn’t a fucking question! You need to let me go.”
“You need to tell me why you’re so eager to get back to Dagon,” he counters.
I let out a groan of sheer fury. “You were always like this! Acting first, thinking later!”
Max goes perfectly still, at the same time I do. My brows slam down. Where the hell did that come from? I don’t remember Max—at least, not consciously.
But little snippets arise in my mind. Emotion-based memories of fights that might’ve been with him, over his impulse control, which has clearly seen no improvement.
What the hell is happening to me? I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Repeat that,” Max says, suddenly quiet.
I shake my head. “I don’t know where that came from—”
“You do.” He crosses the distance between us, gripping my arms in his hands. “Say it again, Ember.”
“Stop telling me what I do and don’t know!” I yell. “You’re fucking with my head!”
“No, Flame. I’m fixing it. Have you had any more memories?”
“We’re not talking about my memories right now! We’re talking about your obsession with Scarlett—”
“There’s only one girl I’ve been obsessed with, ever. And she’s standing right in front of me.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit, Ember. It’s the fucking truth, whether or not you want to acknowledge it. Now, tell me what’s the deal between you and Dagon so I can fix it, and we can move on.”
“Move on?” I repeat with a bitter laugh.
“Move on from what? To what? What are you hoping to achieve here, Max? Do you think we’ll have some sort of sick happily ever after like Scarlett and Greyson?
Not going to happen. A happily ever after isn’t in the cards for me—only indentured servitude leading to my early death is.
I’ve made my peace with that. But your selfishness won’t even let me have that. ”
“I am selfish when it comes to you,” Max agrees with a nod. “But I’m not uncaring. Once again, Ember, tell me what he fucking has on you.”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Tell me, or whatever bomb he’s holding is going to detonate.
You’re not getting out of here on your own, and I’m certainly not going to hand you over to Dagon, so fucking tell me before he does whatever it is you’re desperate to keep him from doing.
He told me you have four days to get back to him yesterday—that leaves three days for me to help you before everything goes to shit—”
“What?!” I screech. My eyes go wide as saucers, and I shove Max away with all my strength. He actually stumbles back a step, blinking. “You… you spoke to him and didn’t tell me?”
“Wait a second.” Max holds up a hand. “I was going to tell you—”
“No, you fucking weren’t! Otherwise, you already would have. Just like you weren’t going to tell me about Scarlett.” I could skin Max alive right now. “What did he say?” Other than putting a countdown on her life.
“Nothing.”
“What did he fucking say?” I demand. “This is everything to me, Maximus. If you don’t tell me word for word right now, I will kill you the first chance I get. If you’re right, and I’m never getting out of here, then I’ll die happy knowing I killed you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking frazzled and irritated. “It wasn’t like that, Ember. Seriously.”
“Then explain to me what it was like,” I hiss.
“He called to demand I give you back to him. I said no. He told me I have seventy-two hours to release you, and you have four days to go back to him before he does whatever your indentured servitude keeps him from doing.”
I take a step back. My mind reels at a million miles per minute, and it feels like the whole world bears down on my shoulders, forcing them to sag.
I have no real escape plan—the compound is far too well armed and planned for me to get out of here without months of planning. And, since Maximus is too fucking self-involved to let me go, that means she’s going to die.
She’ll be dead. And it’ll be my fault.
“Goddamnit, Ember,” he hisses, gripping my arms again. He gives me a vicious shake. “Tell me what he has on you!”
All the fury, helplessness, and anger coalesce within me, making the words tear up my throat and through my mouth. “My sister!”