Chapter Thirty-One
Ember
Max watches me for several long, wordless moments. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to breathe; he simply stares at me, long and hard, as if he’s trying to burn a hole into my soul.
He steps forward, then squats down in front of me. His expression is serious, but not severe; his posture is tense, but not angry. He just looks… intent.
“I came through on my end of our bargain,” he enunciates slowly, searching my eyes. “You know what that means?”
I lick my lips, and his eyes drop to them, flaring with interest. “My service has transferred from Dagon to you.” Not my preferred outcome—going from one master to another—but at least this one treats me decently enough, minus the depraved sexual acts.
Or is that a plus?
“Wrong.” He fists my hair, angling my head. “I’m not interested in your service or what you can do for me, Ember. I’m interested in you, and everything that makes you who you are. I want every inch, cell, molecule of you to belong to me—and I want you to want that as desperately as I do.”
I lower my gaze. I can’t give him that. I’m fucking sick of being owned—only the fact that I’m a woman of my word is keeping me from finding an escape plan. I made a deal and Max came through; now it’s my turn to come through, no matter what my sentiments on the matter are.
“I’m not expecting you to want that right this moment, but I am expecting—no, demanding—that you stay put. You do not try to run away. Your sister is safe, and should that change, you’ll be the first to know about it. You’re mine. I won. Got it?”
I nod. He softens his hold in my hair and runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “It won’t be bad. I won’t go easy on you, and I’ll punish any indiscretions accordingly, but I won’t be needlessly cruel. I’ll look after you, Flame. You have my word on that.”
He rises up to his height, and it’s suddenly so imposing.
He’s well over a foot taller than me when I’m standing, but kneeling, he seems monstrously big.
Muscles straining the material of his plain black shirt.
Posture tall and set, like the commander he is.
Gaze hard and pointed, fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the world worthy of his attention.
It makes me feel so small, yet so seen. I don’t remember the last time I felt truly seen by someone; I’ve always just been… present, yet disregarded. That’s not the case with Max. His attention is so pronounced, so pointed, it feels like it’s a heat-seeking missile and I’m the target.
Sweat gathers along the back of my neck when he trails his fingertip over my shoulder, and a fine shudder works its way through my body.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Flame. Do you want that?”
Yes—
No.
Yes.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“That’s alright,” he assures me. “I’ll make the decisions. I have the control. You don’t need to worry about doing anything except what I tell you, and trusting that anything I do will never be intended to harm you.”
A sardonic smile spreads on my lips. “Is that what you tell yourself when you punish me? That it’s not harmful?”
“I play the long game, Flame. Something that might hurt a little in the moment but does more good than harm in the long run is, in fact, a good thing. You don’t respond to lectures or a stern talking to—you never have—so the only real option remaining is to show you why you should avoid certain behaviors. But that’s not what tonight is about.”
“What is tonight about?”
He stops in front of me, jaw tense. “Claiming you and putting me out of my fucking misery. Now.” He pauses, seeming to consider something.
“I’ll cut you a deal. You have a lot of restless energy making you vibrate right now, and I have a big fucking apartment.
So, I’m going to tuck Greg away so he isn’t underfoot, and when I return, you’re going to run.
I’m going to chase you. Feel free to fight me—you won’t be punished for that.
But when I catch you, I’m going to fuck you however I want to fuck you, and you are going to scream for me. ”
My breath catches. My heart stutters. The visual his words conjure is unexpectedly and insanely arousing.
It pulls on the truest part of me, one that always existed in the background but was fully forged under the fires of Dagon’s cruelty; the warrior.
If Max manages to subdue my fight and catch me, he’ll have won me.
That isn’t just something I can live with, it’s something I crave.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.” After a pause, I tack on, “I’m not calling you sir unless you win.”
“Until I win.” He grins. “I’ll be right back.
Stay right there. When I get back and tell you to go, you have free reign of the kitchen, the office, the two spare rooms, the living room—I’ll open all the doors.
Go wherever you want. And be prepared to have the soul fucked out of your body when you lose. ”
He walks away. Anticipation strings me tight, making my skin ache with the urge to run and my core tingle with the thought of a fight.
I might not like killing—I’ll do it, I just don’t enjoy it—but one of my dirty secrets is that I love fighting. I love winning. I love turning the world’s expectations of me—a pretty, small woman—on their head.
And, when it’s well-earned, I can even enjoy losing.
I just haven’t lost a fight in at least three years—not a fair fight, anyways. My fights with Dagon’s men were never fair. I always had one hand metaphorically or physically bound behind my back, but now, I’m free and able-bodied.
Max returns, slowly walks over to the bed, and takes a seat.
“You have ten seconds,” he says quietly. “Go.”
I take off like a bullet launched from a gun, heedless that I’m naked.
I bolt through the living room, pause, and look around.
This isn’t a game of hide-and-seek, exactly, it’s really a game of fighting—and to fight, I need to be armed.
Max never gave me any rules that precluded me finding a weapon.
I dart straight to the kitchen and scan the counter top for any makeshift weapons. Unless I intend to use a roll of fucking paper towels to beat Max, nothing there.
“Three seconds!” Max calls out.
I open a drawer, close my hand around the first metal item I pull out—a fucking ladle—and whir around in time for Max’s part of the chase to start.
He doesn’t run like I did; his footsteps are slow and casual as they carry him out of the bedroom.
His hands are folded in his pockets, but he’s lost his shirt and his belt.
The sight of his bare abs rippling almost distracts me—almost, but not quite.
He even whistles under his breath as he walks, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if he’s already won.
Cocky bastard.
When he sees my weapon, he laughs. “Really?”
I launch forward and swing at his head. His hands remain in his pockets as he ducks beneath the blow and sidesteps, then hip-checks me with enough force to send me sprawling into the countertop.
“Is that all you’ve got?” his hands are still in his pockets, and he resumes whistling.
I go at him again, this time aiming a blow to his knee. He dances out of reach, but I’m faster; I switch hands and bring the spoon crashing into his shoulder.
The effect is comically underwhelming. The metal is lightweight; he doesn’t even flinch.
“There’s a knife in the third drawer down,” he says causally, nodding behind me. “Grab it.”
“What?”
“Do you want to keep coming at me with a fucking spoon, Flame? You don’t even have a fighting chance with that.”
I rake my gaze over him. “You’re unarmed.”
“I’m well aware, thank you. I don’t need to be armed to beat you.” He jerks his chin at the drawer in question again. “Grab it now, or I’m assuming you’ve forfeit, and I’m going to bend you over the counter and fuck the hell out of you.”
“Are you going to come at me when my back’s turned to you?”
He scoffs. “Please. This is a clean fight. I’m a gentleman.” I arch a dubious eyebrow; he chuckles. “I’ll be a gentleman for you. Go ahead.”
The knife’s in my grip five seconds later, and this time, I come at him hard.
He dodges my first, second, and third blows, all in rapid succession.
His posture is loose and fluid. He’s flexible, nimble, and his footwork is fucking immaculate.
For the first time in maybe ever, I feel like I’m finally facing my match.
And it turns. Me. On.
Unbearable heat sweeps through my body, hardening my nipples and making the place between my thighs ache.
I swipe at Max’s shoulder; he throws a light elbow to my side.
Not hard enough to hurt or even bruise, just enough to successfully divert me.
His hands remain in his pockets as he dances around me, bumping me away every now and again, waiting patiently for me to tire myself out.
We’re at a stalemate. I’m not fighting to kill him, which is my expertise, and that puts me at a disadvantage. I have no active fear for my or my sister’s life. This is for fun, for practice instead of the real thing, which is a novelty I’ve never before experienced.
I sort of love it.
Still, I’m not one to tire out or give up easily, so I resort to fighting dirty. I manage a kick to Max’s knees that makes them buckle, smash the hilt of the knife into his jaw, and sprint past him.
I’m not sure where I’m going. A mixture of instinct and curiosity guides me into one of the spare bedrooms, which is minimally decorated with a bed, a dresser, and a shuttered window.
Max is hot on my heels. There’s a bright red patch on his jaw from where I hit him, and his eyes are alight with exhilaration.
The length of his cock presses insistently against the front of his pants, demanding my attention.
I try not to stare at it, but fuck it’s hot.
He’s hot, and hard, and so damn capable—
He launches at me. I employ some footwork of my own, dancing behind him and landing an elbow to the base of his spine, making him waver.
Then, the hilt of the knife goes into the back of his neck in a harsh blow.
That’s what finally gets his hands to come out of his pockets, and that’s when I know I’m completely fucked.
He spins, eyes blazing, fingers twitching, posture no longer relaxed yet still not too tense to move.
I gaze over the set of his body, the stance of his feet, the readiness in his eyes…
and I realize he’s been toying with me. My body is coated in sweat, while he doesn’t even have a sheen on his forehead.
He’s been warming up while I’ve been tiring out.
“Ready to lose, Flame?” he asks.
I bare my teeth at him. “Give it your best fucking shot.”
And he does.