“From your expression, I’ll assume that’s a yes,” Max says with a nod. “Do you know whoIam?”
I have an idea.
“A Nighthawk,” I whisper. A man in one of the most renowned assassin organizations in the world—an organization known for being secretive, reclusive, and insanely successful. Tales have it that Nighthawks have a near-perfect operation rate. They contract with millionaires, billionaires, mob bosses, all sorts of criminals… if Dagon didn’t have his own private army, and me as his personal assassin, I expect he’d have utilized their services once or twice.
“Yup. Any idea what this place is?”
I swallow, considering the armed guards, electric fence, buildings in the distance… “Base of operations.” I’ve heard rumors that the Nighthawks have a base where all their operatives live. I didn’t know it was true until this moment.
“Correct. Now, I am going to tie your wrists, and you are going to walk beside me like a good girl.” Preemptively, he winds a strip of rope around my wrists, securing them behind my back, easily overpowering my protests and ignoring my scream of anger. “If you flail around or try to make a scene, I will spank you in front of whoever happens to stumble across us, and I won’t stop until I’m drawing blood. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I whisper, even as my gaze darts toward the fence.
“Don’t bother running. It won’t work. Keep your mouth shut and for once, follow my fucking instructions without beating me with a shower rod or crashing my car. I am your only point of safety here.” The small smirk that steals across his lips tells me just how happy this makes him.
He wraps his fingers around the back of my neck and starts steering me forward. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m just wearing socks anymore—I reallyhavepissed him off.
He steers me carefully, and every step forward feels like a step closer to my demise, as if I’m walking to the gallows.
The indistinguishable blurs of buildings in the distance quickly take the shape of three buildings, broken up by stone pathways. There are also several buildings a bit farther away that are in the midst of construction, though I’m not entirely sure what they’re meant to be.
“That’s the annex,” Max says, pointing at a building made up of reinforced grey concrete, with a metal front door and only thin slits serving as windows. I notice security cameras perched all around it, and even more hanging on every lamp post. This entire place is heavily monitored. “It’s for prisoners,” Max explains. “If things go well, that’s where Dagon will spend a few years being my torture-toy.”
I only credit that statement with a snort. Many people have tried to kill Dagon or take him hostage—I killed several of them, and all the others also met their untimely demise.
“That’s the training facility.” Max nods at another building. This one has stretches of grass littered with equipment around it, thick glass, and more concrete walls. “And up front is Headquarters.” I move my gaze to a six-story behemoth of a building. “All the Nighthawks live there. My—our—apartment is on the fifth floor.”
“You’re deluding yourself if you think I won’t find a way to kill you and escape.”
Max chuckles. “You’re adorable.”
A group of men stumble out of the annex, talking boisterously amongst each other and laughing. It’s such an oddlynormalscene for a world-renowned secret society. They stop as soon as they glimpse me and Max, and one by one, their postures straighten and they stand at attention.
“Sir,” one of them steps forward. His eyes flick to me, look up and down, and—
“If you don’t remove your eyes from my chosen, I’ll gouge them out of your skull.” Max’s tone has shifted from the playful, relatively soft one he uses with me to one that’s steeped with dominance and thick with authority. Whoever he is, he’s significant here.
“Of course. I didn’t mean any offense—”
“Put out the word,” Max clips. “I’ve found my Chosen. Anyone who looks at her for a beat too long will lose precious body parts.”
My jaw clenches. I whirl my head to face him, feeling my cheeks heat with fury. “I’m not—”
“Stop talking,” he growls.
The temper I managed to hold in check heresnaps.I shift my stance and awkwardly throw an elbow right into his side—over the bruise I left when I went at him with a shower rod last night. Max grunts in pain, but he doesn’t budge, doesn’t flinch, and before I can make another move, his hand’s back to fisting my hair.
I need to cut it off. The length makes it entirely too easy for him to use against me.
“Bad choice, yetagain,” he says, though his tone has noticeably lightened from the one he used with the others. “I’m going to have my work cut out for me with you.”
“You fucking—”
My words cut off when he yanks me to him and draws a strip of fabric out of his pocket. I know where he’s going with it before he makes his move—he yanks me into his chest, spinning me around. I try to smash my foot down on his boot, but he anticipates my move and kicks my legs out from under me, sending my knees crashing to the hard ground. A few mumbles sound from the men in front of the annex, but Max ignores them—he gives my hair a vicious wrench, snapping my head back, and fastens the fabric around my head before I can fight him off.
“Take it off, and you won’t sit for a fuckingmonth,” he says cheerfully, using my hair as a handle to force me back to my feet.
I know he’ll make good on his threat. I know I’m trapped, and that continuing to piss him off will only harmme.For now, my best bet is to pipe down, be quiet, be still and compliant, andobserve. Get headcounts, assess any space I’m given access to, and gather data before formulating a plan.
