Pretty-boy assassin might actually be smart. That’s an unfortunate complication. The dumb ones are easier to fool and kill, and I get the sense that Max won’t be an easy target.
I don’t respond. It’s enough that Dagon has leverage on me; I won’t give it to this guy, as well. For all I know, he’ll make the same threats, and then I’lltrulyhave a shitstorm on my hands.
“Alright,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s get to the fun part.”
“What—” my words cut off in a gasp when hetears the front of my dress.
Chapter Six
Ember
Iopen my mouth to let out a shriek of sheer outrage, but Max anticipates my move before I can make it. Another tear later, and I’m once again being gaggedby my own dress. This man is a fucking psychopath.
And this psychopath is probably about to rape me,afterhe’s done whipping me bloody.
Genuine fear takes root in my soul. One of Dagon’s conditions was not allowing any other man to touch me—something that was difficult, since he’d hand me over to his other soldiers. It was always a taunt. If they succeeded in raping me, I’d lose my virtueandthe only thing I care about. If they didn’t, I’d suffer a beating.
The first person I ever killed was Dagon’s soldier. Dagon beat me to a pulp, and then congratulated me.
After I killed four more would-be rapists, he finally relented and put out the order that his men were no longer permitted to try forcing themselves on me.
They still tried, of course, but Dagon ceased beating me when I killed them. In fact, he started giving me gifts. Jewelry. Dresses. Pictures ofher—thinly-veiled threats.
True fear doesn’t make me scream or rage. It makes me shiver and go still as a statue, which is why I make it my business to avoid fear whenever I can.
I don’t feel fear when I kill someone. I don’t feel fear when Dagon beats me half to death, or orders one of his men to do it.
Right now, I feel fear, and it makes me freeze. I go still as a statue, with my only movement being the fine tremble in my bones. Max doesn’t notice the way I stop moving or stop breathing as he methodically rips away my dress, leaving me only in my bra and panties.
My vision goes blurry as he drops down to the bed beside me, and pulls me over his lap, face down, ass up. I desperately try to retreat to the corner of my mind where I usually go when it’s time for a beating, but I can’t. Shock and horror firmly root me into reality.
“Flame,” he says, using his apparent nickname for me. It barely penetrates the fog, but then his hand wraps around my shoulder, and I flinch so violently he nearly loses his grip on me. He goes still. “Flame,” he repeats. “I need you to breathe.”
I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t—
“Ember.” One word—my name—said in a deep, commanding tone forces my chest to expand with a violent breath. I hold it for a beat before it shudders out of me. “Ember,” he says once again, this time much softer. His hand moves from my shoulder, and I feel his fingers tracing my back. It takes me a beat to realize that he’s tracing my scars. “What happened to you, Flame?”
My back is a map of scars. I expect, at this point, there’s more scar tissue than normal skin. I wouldn’t know for sure—I started avoiding mirrors years ago. I’m not actually sure what my face looks like anymore. I assume I’m pretty because men stare at my face and body—becauseDagonregularly tells me how beautiful I am. He doesn’t sayit with kindness, however—instead, he says it with possession. ‘My beauty.’
Once again, I say, “Life.” This time, however, the word comes out as a terrified whisper, betraying me. Betraying the little girl trapped under years of trauma and steel forged in the harshest flames.
The life I remember has been one long trial by fire. I don’twantto remember the life before that, because it could make me weak. The remnants of my childhood weaknesses still cling to me like a rancid smell. No matter how much I wash, scrub, and try to change myself, I can’t get rid of it.
“I’m going to tell you this upfront,” Max says. “When I saypunishment,I’m not referring to shredding your back or breaking your bones. I mean something far more straight forward and fewer long-reaching effects. And it won’t always have to do with pain.”
He sounds like he believes himself, but that doesn’t inspiremeto believe him. It doesn’t inspire anything within me aside from sheer terror.
“You can’t touch me,” I whisper. “You don’t understand. If he finds out you’ve touched me…” my shivering deepens.
“Ember,” Max repeats. “You were neverhisto touch. You werealwaysmine.” His hand travels over partially-numbed scar tissue, tracing the canvas of pain that my body has morphed into. “And I will kill himslowlyfor doing this to you—if he isn’t already dead.”
“He isn’t,” I whisper. “He’s deathless. He’s like a cockroach. And when he gets his hands on me,I’llwish I were dead.” He’ll hurtherjust to make a point. “Max,please.Whatever you’re doing,don’t.”
“No,” he says, tone turning business-like. “You need to learn. If you tell me what he has on you, I’ll take care of it. Otherwise, I’m going to proceed as planned.”
Planned.
Planned?
