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, ofusas 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’talwaysneed 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 fuckingneedher, Max, and she can’t stand me.”
“Sex isn’t the only way to overcome that. It plays a big role, yes, butemotional connectionis 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.
