Chapter Ten
Greyson
I’m still shaking with fury when I knock on Max’s door, holding the pet carrier in one hand.
Lucifer spits and hisses and growls from within, rattling the cage, but I ignore the demonic furball.
He was meant as a gesture of kindness for Scarlett, but that little bitch needs to learn manners before she earns any sort of kindness from me.
Max opens up only a few seconds after I knock. A quiet woof comes from the apartment—Greg is seated a few feet behind him, gazing right at the pet carrier, his tail wagging eagerly.
Max looks from the pet carrier to my face, and takes a moment to examine me. “Well, that didn’t last long,” he mutters, swinging the door open. “This isn’t a fucking animal shelter, Grey. You can’t just bring strays here—”
“How many favors have I done for you this last year?” I question sharply. “I’m asking you to look after a cat. That’s all. You owe me this much at the very least.”
Max sighs and steps aside. “Fair enough.”
I join him on the couch—our usual setup when I come over to bitch to him about something, which has been happening far too often since Scarlett came into my life. Max was the one who stepped up and helped pull me out of the spirals I had when she escaped.
In the short time I knew her, Scarlett had become integral to me. She’s the one who calmed me in my sea of grief, acted as a safe harbor and a beacon of light in the endless darkness.
When she disappeared, any stability I had managed to gain disappeared, and I was left in a state even worse than I was before I met her—because I was no longer just suffering from the loss of my brother.
I was suffering from the double blow of my brother’s death, and losing the only woman I ever loved.
“What is it this time?” Max asks, popping two beers and handing me one.
I stare at the bottle for a while. I had a big drinking issue after my twin’s death, so I went cold turkey—and then I gradually returned to drinking in moderation.
Now, I’ll have a couple of beers or a glass or two of the hard stuff, but never more than that.
Even when the urge to drink to the point of oblivion hits, I curb it… and right now the urge is hitting hard.
I set my beer on the table and flex my hands. “It’s Scarlett.”
“Obviously. What happened specifically?”
“She’s incapable of playing nice,” I say bluntly. “She provokes me and lashes out at every turn. She is completely closed off to the idea of me, of us as a unit, and would rather kill both of us than live her life with me.” Something that irritates me to no fucking end.
“Can you really blame her?” Max asks. His German Shepherd lopes over and buries his face in Max’s legs.
Max puts a hand on his head and starts scratching behind his ear.
“I mean… Grey, you did torture her. And then did a 180 and decided to keep her. And, when she escaped, you dragged her back to this place. A fortress that probably incites some serious PTSD responses in her.” He shakes his head.
“I’d be lashing out in her position—and so would you.
That’s an expected part of the process. I’ll give you the same advice I gave you the first time around; be patient with her.
Rebellion and lashing out doesn’t always need to amount to a harsh punishment—a lot of the time, subduing her struggle would be punishment enough. ”
Such as holding her face-down on her bed until she tires herself out and then chaining her by her collar.
“Have you done any scenes with her?” Max asks.
“Yeah.” Two of the hottest experiences of my life. Despite not being an avid fan of anal, I’m now very much looking forward to taking Scarlett’s ass. As for having her spread out on the table for me earlier… well. That’s a fantasy I’d happily repeat with any hard surface imaginable.
“And aftercare?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A few hours for the first one, an hour for the second one.”
Max’s brows touch. “You’ve done two scenes with her in the…
” he checks his watch. “Two days you’ve had her here?
You don’t think that’s a bit much… that it might give the wrong impression?
Scarlett was already terrified of being reduced to a sex slave—which probably has something to do with growing up in Luther fucking Sharpe’s house—and now, two scenes in less than two days… that’s a lot.”
“One was a punishment,” I defend.
Max sighs. “And you think a normal scene should follow closely after a punishment? Fuck, Grey, do you just not listen when I talk to you about BDSM? Most of it comes down to psychology and mental games exerted in a physical way. Let me go over this again; punishment is serious, and it should be treated as such. In this case, regular playtime should not follow on the heels of punishment time. Both are sacred and they go into their own categories.”
I frown as I mull over his words. It probably was a bit much to do the table today…
but I see Scarlett’s suffering whenever she glimpses it, her panic, and I want to override those horrible memories with ones of pleasure.
I’d much rather she recall being chained to that table, edged, and forced into a leg-shaking orgasm rather than remember the stabbing…
or the waterboarding… or all the cruel shit Cain did to her.
“I just… want her to want me,” I admit quietly. “I fucking need her, Max, and she can’t stand me.”
“Sex isn’t the only way to overcome that.
It plays a big role, yes, but emotional connection is the best. You need to learn her inside out—her past, her likes, her dislikes.
Her favorite movies and books. Her favorite foods.
You’ve talked about wanting to spoil the hell out of her; I’m pretty sure she’s the type of girl to be far more excited about her favorite book or a new potted plant than diamonds or extravagant gifts. ”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I’ll work on it.”
“Good.” Max’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket. His eyes narrow as he reads over something on the screen, then mutters, “fuck.”
“What?” I question.
“We’ve been summoned to Cain. There’s a conference call with Eric in twenty minutes. Apparently, something’s gone wrong with our upcoming op—there’s a kink in the road somewhere.”
Our upcoming op is an infiltration and takeover of the Widowers—something that’s taken close to a year of plotting and planning.
It’s set to happen in a few months, and most of the finer details have already been ironed out.
Luther Sharpe tends to travel between homes, so attacking their HQ while he’s there is imperative.
Taking out all of the operatives and leaders at once is vital to curb retaliatory strikes.
I sigh. “Alright.” I glance at the pet carrier as it rattles again. “I’ll let out that demonic thing, and then we can go.”
Cain’s completely reconstructed the sixth floor of HQ—after taking over, he tore everything out and rebuilt. What was once a man-cave is now an apartment space.
The precision of his apartment strikes me anew each time I come here.
The entry gives way to a living room arranged like a briefing space—sofa squared with a glass table, shelves lined in neat order.
No clutter, but touches of softness with the off-white walls and knickknacks covering the mantel over the fireplace.
Past the living room lies an office space, where Max and I immediately head.
We’re the only two people in the compound with a code to enter Cain’s apartment during his working hours, and I know this should be seen as a privilege… but, it’s really a burden. We can be summoned any time at Cain’s whim, and there’s no option for refusal.
Cain’s office is darker, a bit heavier on the senses.
A mahogany desk dominates the room, its surface lined with multiple computer screens casting a cold glow across the wood.
Behind it, shelves that bracket a window rise to the ceiling, packed tight with books—military histories, strategy manuals, and the occasional volume of classic literature.
The whole space feels like command central, every piece placed for use, not for show.
Order is everywhere, but the room isn’t completely bare.
A brass lamp casts a warm glow at one corner of the desk, softening the severity.
To the side, a low leather couch sits against the wall, angular and precise, the kind you sit on only when invited.
A glass-topped side table holds a decanter and two crystal glasses, the only concessions to comfort.
The whole space feels like a command post dressed in refinement—every item serving a purpose, every detail measured, nothing wasted.
Cain greets us from behind his desk, nursing a tumbler of liquor. He flicks a blank gaze over me and Max, gestures for us to sit in the armchairs across the desk, then returns his gaze to one of the many computer monitors.
“The Widowers are moving,” he says, not bothering with small talk.
“Their headquarters are moving to a different state. The good news is, Eric managed to dig up their new location and shared that info with me—the new spot doesn’t have the same security measures as the original headquarters, so it’ll be easier to hit. The bad news—”
“They’d only move operational base if they knew we were coming for them,” I finish for him. “Where was the leak?”
“We’re about to find out from Eric. Be forewarned that he’s in a foul fucking mood, so it’s probably best if the two of you keep quiet—but I want you in on the call. We need to remake plans.”
I share a glance with Max, then nod at Cain. “Ready whenever you are.”
Cain picks up his phone from his desk, taps around on it, and a moment later, ringing fills the otherwise silent office. The line only rings three or four times before Eric picks up.
“Cain.”
“Eric. I appreciate you taking the time to speak. I’m here with my two generals.”
Eric pauses. “Fine. Let’s get to it. The new Widowers HQ will be set up in rural Montana, in the depths of the mountains.
There’s only one road to and from the headquarters, and no space for a helicopter or plane to land.
Luther found and killed one of my sources, which is why they’re making the move…
but I have more sources to squeeze. It looks like Luther’s going to try to disguise the move as best as possible, because he suspects I’ve got eyes on his current HQ.
He'll leave the majority of his force there, take a select few to the new location, and start setting up security measures with them. Our operation will now have to be split between two places at once.” He clears his throat. “Which means we require more manpower.”
“When will the move take place?”
“Not sure yet. Estimations are in the next two or three months.”
“Why can’t we hit the current HQ in that time?” I ask.
Eric grunts. “Personnel will probably be scattered—Luther’s sending more groups of men out on missions. We won’t be able to get even half of the force at once, which means it’s not worth it to strike and waste resources. We’re back to this fucking waiting game.”
Cain glances at me briefly. “Is everything alright with your own business?” he asks Eric. “You sound… out-of-sorts.”
A pause ensues. “Family issues,” Eric grunts. “None of your concern.”
“I see,” Cain responds affably. “Well, if you require any assistance resolving those issues, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
Eric doesn’t respond to that, which tells me where we stand. He might trust us enough to run an operation with us, but I don’t know if he trusts anyone enough to tell them about his personal business. The guy is guarding a lot of secrets. But then again, we all are.
“Let’s meet next week, once I have more information,” Eric says.
“You got it,” Cain replies, and hangs up the phone.
He looks between me and Max with a contemplative expression.
“Luther’s scared. That’s a good thing.” He clears his throat.
“We’ll keep all operations running as usual, but I want every Nighthawk on hair-trigger alert.
Everyone needs to be ready to go on this op at a moment’s notice. ”
“I’ll take care of it,” Max says with a nod.
“See that you do,” Cain replies, then turns to look at me. “How are things with your chosen?”
“Progress is steady.”
“But slow,” Cain assumes. “You’ve got three months, Grey. I’ve made no secret that I’d prefer it if the girl were dead—”
“That’d set a bad example,” Max interjects on my behalf.
“The guys are starting to get accustomed to the idea of having Chosen ones, but they need something to look up to, look forward to. Greyson and Scarlett overcoming their bad history would set a standard. If they can do it, everyone else can do it. Despite your insistent fervor that Chosen ones are the right move for the Nighthawks, there are mixed opinions. The guys here fight sex slavery; they don’t want to become part of it. ”
“It’s not slavery,” Cain says with an eye roll. “The chosen will be honored members of our ranks.”
“How can anyone believe you when they haven’t seen proof?” Max questions.
Cain’s gaze turns deadly as he senses a hint of challenge in the air. “I don’t give a fuck if they believe me. I care that they obey. Anyone who doesn’t is worthless to me.”
“Obedience is earned,” I pipe up. “Don’t become Boyce.”
“Do not question my authority.” Cain’s words are hauntingly quiet and threatening. He has no issue killing anyone who stands against him, including me and Max—his right and left hands. He really is a complete fucking psychopath.
“Your authority is beyond question. The point here is that killing Scarlett is not an option, unless you want to then have to exterminate half of the Nighthawks… right before an op that requires every single one of us.”
Cain works his jaw. Shakes his head. Points a finger at me. “Three months. Figure it out, or I’ll figure it out for you.”