It’s a new level of humiliation when Max drags me into the entrance of the headquarters by my hair. It’s even more shameful when he puts me back down on my knees in front of a group of men who were chatting amongst each other—all of whom then turn to look atme. I rake a look over their faces, memorizing features, trying to discern any weaknesses. I have no idea what Max means bychosen, what my purpose here will be, but I don’t intend to be a resident here for long. If I need to kill every single person in this compound to escape, that’s precisely what I’ll do.
Max pulls his phone out of his pocket, presses it to his ear, and makes a phone call. He shares a clipped exchange with whoever’s on the other end of the line, while more and more people gather in front of me, all gawking like I’m an animal at a zoo exhibition.
An elevatordingsnot far off, and then two newcomers join the growing crowd. A man, and the first woman I’ve seen here.
The man is tall, built like a tank, and objectively attractive. He also has tattoos up and down his arms. That’s not what really grabs my attention—it’s thewomannext to him that catches my gaze.
She has fiery red hair, stunning green eyes, and is, objectively, very pretty. Delicate features, milky skin, long legs, fairly short stature.
The Nighthawks are said to be an all-male organization, no exceptions. Outside, Max said something about achosen. There have been rumors recently swirling in the seedy underbelly of the assassin world—that the old leader of the Nighthawks was overtaken by his right-hand man, who became the new leader. And that the new leader was looking at reinstating an archaic tradition of keeping captive women for his operatives.
Fuck,no.
The woman staring at me with wide eyes doesn’t look abused—no visible bruises on her face, neck, and shirt, but the man beside her curls a hand over her wrist. She gently moves his hold to her hand, twining her fingers with his.
Is she a chosen?Has she been Stockholm syndromed?
Or is what I heard utter bullshit?
“What thefuck?” the man beside her snaps.
“Op failed.” I glance at Max as he speaks, and he wipes some blood from under his nose, throwing me a glare.You deserved it, asshole. As if he can hear my thoughts, he shakes his head with a sardonic chuckle before turning to look at the other man once again.“Dagon is still alive, but seriously wounded.”
“Max, I don’t care about the op right now. Presently, I’m wondering who thefuckthe girl is?”
“The woman who almost succeeded in killing me.” Max’s eyes lock with my own, and a shiver courses down my spine at the manic glint in his eyes. “And my chosen.”
Fuck.
“I choose her,” he goes on, sweeping a menacing gaze over the crowd gathered at this ridiculous spectacle. “She’s mine. And anyone who tries to stop me better be ready to die.”
My hands flex and unflex behind my back. I start shaking with the force of my rage at being put on display and publiclyclaimedby a madman. I stare at the only other woman here for a few beats too long, wondering if I should take her with me when I escape this shithole.
“Everybody out,” the guy talking to Max thunders.
The crowd disperses like rats skittering away from a burning pyre. I feel my nostrils flare as I watch the retreating backs of the assassins, assessing their postures, their vulnerabilities.
I could take most of them—save for the one who sent them away.Him, I'm not sure of.
“That goes for you too, Flower,” he says.
“Grey.” The girl—what kind of name is fuckingFlower?—says.
“Scarlett,” he deadpans.
Ah, so her parents don’t completely despise her.
“Greyson, please.” She reaches up to stroke his jaw. He catches her hand and presses a tender kiss to her pulse. I watch with growing disgust as he appears to soften, leaning closer to her and snaking an arm around her waist. “Can I stay?” she asks, blinking up at him.
I feel Max’s eyes burning a hole into the side of my head as I watch the interaction between Scarlett and Greyson. They’re an odd match—he’s double her size, over a foot taller than her, and covered in tattoos… while her skin is clear—aside from a few faded scars—and she has an air of almost sickening innocence about her.
Greyson shakes his head, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair. “No, little Flower. I'm sorry.” He runs a hand through her hair, and Max tightens his hold on mine, making me hiss. Greyson’s head snaps in my direction, and his eyes narrow. “Go,” he tells Scarlett, still staring at me. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Greyson…” she trails off. Shakes her head. Walks away with a drooped posture.
She’s under his control, whether or not she realizes it. I don’t think she’s here of her free will—not really. She could be an accomplice when I make an escape; she has to know this place better than I do, which is valuable. But there was affection between her and Greyson. Getting her to want to leave might take some leg work, or might fuck me over…
“Take out her gag,” Greyson orders, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to face me.
