Max is back, and he’samusedat watching this torture. I’m not sure what I want more—to torture him to death, or to get him to make me orgasm. In either case, I just need this torment to be over, even if it doesn’t end in satisfaction. Ireallycan’t take much more.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says casually. “Are you ready to talk?”
I don’t even remember what he wants to talk about—I’m not sure I could recite the alphabet right now, even at gunpoint. I’ll say virtually anything for this to be over. “Yes,” I gasp.
“Good,” he replies easily. He rounds the bed. Takes a seat beside me. His fingers fist my hair, sharply jerking my head to the side, forcing me to face him.
“Do you want me to give you an orgasm?”
Desperately, but I shake my head. I won’t give in. I won’t lose that self-respect by bending. “Take them out,please.” My words are a whispered plea.
Max arches an eyebrow, seeming mildly surprised. “Let’s talk.” He pulls something out of his pocket—I think it’s a remote—and clicks a button. Nothing happens, so I assume he’s turned off the torturous vibrator, and my body sags with relief. A small smirk steals across his lips.
“Why are you being punished?” he asks.
I search my brain for an acceptable answer. “For being a brat.”
“How so? I’d like specifics, Ember.”
He’s not calling meFlame, his odd term of endearment. I think that goes to show how serious he is.
“For being a brat by…”asking a captive some relevant self-reflection questions.“Being mean to Scarlett.”
“Hmm. And what about Tobias?”
“That wasn’t me being a brat. It was me being who I am.”As were my questions to Scarlett… though I guess I could’ve been a bit gentler with her.
Still, if my simple questions were enough to cause insecurity in her, maybe she should reflect on why that is and whether there’s any merit to those insecurities. After seeing the greenhouse, her creations, and hearing her story, Idothink I ought to have been more gentle… but for her to flinch when I barely pressed on a soft spot is indicative of underlying issues, which aren’t my fault.
“Could you have been a bit more respectful with Tobias?” Max wonders.
“Could I have? Sure.ShouldI have? No. He was out of line, asking for an apology and demanding I get punished.”
Max considers this for several moments before nodding. “I suppose he was.”
I relax at that. Part of me was expecting a fight over what should be common sense. Then again, me questioning Scarlett is common sense—I donotdeserve this punishment over that—but it seems Max cares about Scarlett.
I have no idea why that irritates me.
“What made you get angry earlier?” he asks calmly, stroking his free hand over my back.
He’s so deliberate, so in control, it’s difficult not to hand over all my power and go with whatever he says,especiallynow while I’m as vulnerable as a person can be. Naked, bound, stuffed in both my holes, and still suffering from what feels like an eternity of denied orgasms.
Still, I mumble, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Max shrugs. “Alright. I can leave you here for another while, see if that loosens your tongue—”
“No!”I yelp.
Max arches an eyebrow, hold in my hair tightening.
I swallow. Then, I mumble, “You called me a masterpiece.”
He blinks, confused. “Youare.”
“I’m not an object to be admired,” I snap. “I’m not a thing. I’m not a piece of art molded by an artist, I’m a fuckingperson. Something that the world seems to have forgotten.”
Recognition dawns in Max’s eyes. “Ah. Dagon called you that, didn’t he? Alright—I’ll never say it again. In the future, if you simply tell me as much, this hassle can be avoided.”
