Page 23 of Dark Surrender

“Ah.” I bob my head in understanding. If she has no team, there is obviously still someone else or multiple someones involved in her elaborate scheme to get us here. “Your sister’s the one who likes to make them scream,” I guess.

Ava nods. “Yes.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“That she likes to make them scream?” Her lip twitches as if she wants to laugh. “Should it?”

“I dunno. You tell me.”

“I just did.”

“Mmm,” I hum, trying to figure this woman out. “Do you do this often?” I nod to the shackles around my ankles.

“Not here. But killing piece-of-shit men. Yeah. We do that often.”

“Is it always men?”

“Yes, with the occasional exception.”

“Like Penelope.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Ava nods just once. No wavering. No remorse. Just straight facts.

My cock perks right back up.

In a world where I lie and manipulate every moment of my life and never truly know someone’s intentions, it’s a breath of fresh air not having to read between the lines and piece together fragments of the truth. Nobody’s ever this candid with me. Not even my ex-wife, my father, or my club brothers. Sure, there’s a level of honesty, but it’s always covered in a shiny layer of bullshit. Whether that’s to spare my feelings or protect someone else, it’s never as simple as laying it all on the table.

“Thank you,” I find myself blurting as I stare into Ava’s stunning eyes.

They widen in surprise, and a little crease forms between her brows. “What for?”

“Being honest with me.”

Getting up from the stool, Ava returns it to the corner before turning to face me as she heads for the door. “You’re a strange man,” is the last thing she says before locking me back in my prison.

I suppose that’s at least a little true.

Penelope bangs on the wall. “Maxim,” she croaks, desperate for an update.

Not ready to have this conversation, knowing where it’ll lead, I ignore Penelope in favor of stretching my legs out. The shackles clank against the concrete. With a thick, tired groan, I take my cock in hand and stroke myself root to tip, slowly. A bead of precum bubbles at the tip, and I swirl it around with my thumb. The pleasure’s dull as I jack off in a stuffy room with the dregs of daylight to guide me. For a few minutes, I ignore where I am and what’s sure to happen tomorrow, and I savor the faceless woman who haunts my dreams. She moans my name as I sink into her soft, wet heat. My heart beats for her. She’s everything. Past. Present. Future. When I spill all over my fist, it’s just us, and for a breath of time, I’m desired, loved, and free.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rocking on the porch, a plate of campfire breakfast on my lap—eggs, beans, hot sauce, and sausage tossed into a cast-iron pan and fried up— I sigh as the first bite settles on my tongue and the delicious rush of nostalgia hits. I’m starving, but more than anything, I miss the simplicity of life.

Dee sets a mug of hot coffee on the floorboard beside my chair before claiming hers. We don’t speak while we eat. It’s too early for that, given how bone-tired I am. It’s been a long couple of days, and I hate sleeping here. It’s never restful. The cot is too hard, and the air is too thick with humidity, so it’s miserable, especially at night. You can’t sleep in anything you don’t want soaked through, and the air feels like breathing water. The cool shower I took this morning helped some, but standing in a makeshift shower stall with an old hose dangling from a hook isn’t ideal. It wasn’t when I was a child, and it’s even less so now that I’ve experienced modern amenities like indoor plumbing.

Last night, after Dee finished dissecting her kill, we returned to the cabin with Peanut. She fed her creatures their fresh snacks, then showered. I fell asleep before she turned in. Whatever time that was.

We polish off our breakfast and slowly sip our black cup of joe as the sun makes her full appearance, and the world wakes for the day. I love this time of morning. The fresh air. The newness. The birds’ happy chirps. There’s something magical about dawn. Dee and I have loved it our whole lives. It probably has to do with hunting. Dad always had us up early for that. Now that neither of us hunts anymore, not for animals, anyhow, we enjoy it for other reasons. Quiet time with my sister, for one.

Any minute now, I need to break the seal of silence so we can discuss today’s plans. We haven’t talked much since we dragged our drugged captives out the back door of the Hampton house, to the beach, where we loaded them onto sleds and pulled them behind a quad to the boat Harold moors at a private dock. There wasn’t time to chat while we were dripping in sweat, terrified someone would come along and find us hefting six unconscious people onto a boat. In case you were wondering, no, I would never do it this way again. But we didn’t have much of a choice. Given the location, cameras, and all the stuff rich people have in place to keep this kind of thing from happening, we made it work with what we had. It was hell, but we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.

Setting my empty plate on the porch to wash later, I glance over at my sister, her feet on the rocker, knees up, in cotton shorts and a tank top. She flashes me a big, beautiful smile. It’s light and carefree, as if the weight she carries is temporarily gone.

“Who are you working over today?” I ask, secretly hoping it isn’t Maxim. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but I can’t help it. There’s just something about him that I find fascinating. Our conversation from last night keeps running through my head on repeat.

That earnest thank you.