Something odd tickles my chest at that. I refuse to think it’s warmth or pride—he’s humiliating me, not building me up.
“When I tell you to kneel, this is what I mean, and I expect for you to listen to me the first time I say it. Any deviation will result in punishment. Do you understand me?”
I dig my nails harder into my legs, until I feel them biting into my skin. “Yes.” I manage to make the word come out flatly, devoid of anger or emotion.
“Yes, sir,” Max corrects.
Mother. Fucker.
“Yes, sir,” I echo.
“Good girl.”
I hear his footsteps traveling closer to me, but I know better than to look up and meet his eyes.
“You were very bratty today,” he says, stopping in front of me. I glare at his shoes, imagining cutting off his toes and listening to him scream in agony.
The mental image is quickly followed up by a strange rush of…guilt?No, it can’t be. I don’t experience guilt—not anymore. I do what I need to in order to survive, nothing more, nothing less. If I felt guilt for everything I’ve done, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Feeling guilt would putherin danger.
“I’d like an apology,” Max says.
“I’m sorry,” I say instantly.
“Let me correct myself; I’d like a meaningful apology.”
“Can’t help you with that.” I pause. “Sir.”
“That’s alright. We’ll get to the part where you’re desperate to apologize.” Something stirs in my core at the devious promise beneath his words. “Stand. Keep your head down. You haven’t earned the right to look at me.”
Just get through it, Ember. I slowly push to my feet, still glaring at Max’s shoes, forcing myself to enjoy the visual of cutting off his toes. Then his feet, and legs. I think I’ll perform a vivisection on him, too.
“Stop thinking about killing me,” he says, sounding vaguely amused and not at all afraid. “Lift up your arms.”
After taking a deep breath, I do so. He fingers the hem of my shirt, then slowly drags it up and over my head, dropping the material to the floor. Next, comes my bra, and then, my pants and panties. He strips me with slow deliberation and silent enjoyment, not saying a word, but practically seething satisfaction. Once he’s done, he tells me to get on the bed.
“Somebody’s being awfully compliant today,” he says. “You must really feel bad… or you’re plotting something. Which is it, Ember?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not particularly. Get on your hands and knees.”
I inhale a deep breath, give my head a shake to calm myself, and assume the position.
“Arch your back a little more.”
My jaw clenches and my hands fist the bedsheets, but I follow through, arching my back and pushing out my ass.
Max’s sharp intake of breath makes me feel something new and not entirely enjoyable. It makes me kinda warm at the notion that he finds me attractive… and it also frustrates me, because I am so beyond sick of being stared at like a piece of juicy meat by men.
“You are so fuckingstunning,” he says, tone gravelly. “A masterpiece.”
My body tenses. Dagon often calls mehis masterpiece, which is the ultimate devaluation of who I am and everything I’ve survived.
Max rounds the bed until he’s standing beside me. “Look at me.”
If I look at him right now, I might claw his fucking eyes out. “No, thank you.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
