“Your plan,” he repeats. “You must have one for getting out of here in case I don’t succeed.”
I keep my expression blank, but a harsh realization slams into me, forcing my stomach to churn. I don’t have a plan—not really. And not because I’m unable to make one; this place might have great security, but I’ve escaped from better-guarded places before. I’m the animal that’ll chew off its own leg to shed its shackles.
No, I don’t have a plan because deep down, I trust that Max will save Alina. There’s no rhyme or reason to it—consciously, I trust him about as far as I can throw him, which isn’t very far. Butsubconsciously, I must trust him a whole lot.
And the only reason I can see forthatis some hidden part of me remembers him, and we must’ve been very close. Which begs the question; why did I forget him? I remember bits and pieces of my childhood—the important ones, certainly. I remember the good and bad times with my father. I remember Alina, who I only knew for a few months. I remember when I first met Dagon. I remember some of my friends and enemies at school.
But I don’t remember Maximus. It makes nosense.
“How long did we know each other?” I ask suddenly.
Max raises his eyebrows. “We met when you were ten years old. We were close friends until you were 14 and I went off to college—and we stayed friends then, too. Why do you ask?”
I lift a shoulder. “Curiosity.”Confusion. If we knew each other forthatlong, I should remember him, especially if we were as close as he says we were. Maybe he’s exaggerating?
But I don’t see any hints of deception on his features, and I’m generally pretty good at sniffing out lies. It comes with the territory of being who I am and doing what I do.
“What’s your plan for Alina?” I repeat, changing tracks.
“What’s your plan for escape?” Max challenges.
My nostrils flare. “I asked first.”
Max gives me a look that tells me just how ridiculous he finds my diversion. “And I asked second. You know what they say; first is the worst, second is the best.”
“How does anyone put up with you? You’re so… fucking…annoying.”
Max doesn’t flinch. “I’m a super good fuck.”
“Are you?” I snap. “Because the orgasm I gave myself this morning was much better—”
His arm hooks around my waist, and he yanks me to his chest. “Don’t go there, Flame, or I’ll have to fuck you right here and right now just to prove a point. We both know thatifyou got yourself off, it was a shitty release. I’m the one who gives you A-grade orgasms with my fingers and tongue.” His mouth dips. “Imagine how much better they’ll be with my cock,” he whispers in my ear.
I nearly whimper in response, only just managing to hold back. The visual he paints, of him laying me out right here and fucking me,is enough to make my mouth water, even if it’s so perverselywrong. Maybe I have deviant sexual tastes, too—otherwise, why would being bound and spanked make me leak like a sieve?
“Your ego is truly astounding. If you ever had the good sense to relieve this world of your insufferable presence, you could climb it and jump to your IQ.”
Max chuckles. “Mm.” he steps back. “I’m going to put guards on Alina. They will kill the men Dagon sent to stalk and potentially execute her. My guys will stay on her, out of sight, until Dagon’s dead.”
“When will they get there?”
“In a couple hours. I’ll mobilize the unit after our walk. They’ll get to her soon. She’ll be in good hands.”
My jaw clenches. “If anyone lays a hand on her, they better be prepared to fucking lose it.”
Max’s eyes flash. My chest tightens. “I know,” he says. “C’mon. I have shit to do—and you haveshoppingto do. And if you break my laptop or destroy our apartment while I’m gone, I’m gonna fuck you right over the wreckage when I get back, sans the foreplay.”
“You’re insane.”
“For you, Flame? Yeah. Yes, I am.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Max
Max; 21; Ember, 17
“Max,” Dad says. We’re surrounded by the hustle and bustle of countless of his guests, but he’s not interested in the many wealthy, powerful men and women he’s invited over for a holiday celebration. After all, he has all year to network with them; he has only a few days each year to talk to me, and my interest in speaking with him has long-since faded.
