Page 37 of Brass
I open my mouth, then close it.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice holds no triumph, just confirmation of a fact he already knew.
“I’ve been driving since I was sixteen,” I counter, refusing to yield the point.
“So have most people. Doesn’t mean they’re qualified to drive in a high-risk extraction scenario.”
“High-risk extraction scenario?” I repeat, incredulous. “Listen to yourself. We’re driving to Seattle, not escaping a war zone.”
His eyes flick to me, cold and assessing. “Need I remind you,again,those men on the platform weren’t amateurs. They were trained operators with tactical experience and resources. They’ve likely identified the hotel by now and are expanding their search grid. Every minute we’re on the road is another minute they’re not closing the gap.”
The clinical precision of his assessment sends a chill through me. He’s not exaggerating for effect or being dramatic. He genuinely believes we’re being hunted by professionals with the means and determination to find us.
“So, what am I supposed to do? Sit here uselessly while you handle everything?”
“You’re supposed to stop questioning me and do as I say so we both stay alive.”
The command in his voice ignites something rebellious in me. “Do you get off on this? Telling women what to do? Being in control?”
His eyes darken, gaze cutting toward me for one dangerous second before flicking back to the road.
“We’re not talking about what gets me off,” he says, voice pitched low enough to make heat crawl over my skin. “But if we were…” A pause, deliberate, thick with promise. “I’d tell you I crave control. I demand obedience given without hesitation. And when it’s not…” his mouth curves, slow and merciless, “I take my time making sure my punishment is felt—thoroughly.”
The blatant confirmation ignites something low and molten inside me, heat flooding through my veins and pooling between my thighs. His voice etches vivid, indecent images across my mind—Ryan’s commands delivered in that lethal tone, my body bending beneath the weight of his restraint, his hands locking mine to the mattress, his strength stripping me bare of choice until all I can do is yield.
My breath catches, betraying me. A flush scorches my cheeks, racing down my throat, and I hate the way my body responds—hungry, trembling, desperate—when I should be furious.
“That’s not what I meant,” I choke out, the words thin and ragged, as if oxygen itself has turned traitor.
“Wasn’t it?” His voice stays dangerously soft, threaded with a knowing that steals the ground from under me. “You’ve been pushing since the moment we met. Testing boundaries. Looking for cracks. Almost like you want to see what happens when I snap.”
His words slide under my skin like a touch, intimate and damning, leaving me raw with the terrifying truth: he’s right.
THIRTEEN
Celeste
Images linger,unshakable—his voice low and commanding, the way he said punishing disobedience, thoroughly. The words replay like a brand seared into my skin. Heat coils low and relentlessly, spreading until my thighs clench on instinct. I can’t stop picturing it: his weight holding me down, his mouth at my ear as he decides exactly how long I’ll beg before he gives me relief.
The thought is reckless. Dangerous. And it terrifies me almost as much as it tempts me.
I drag in a breath, desperate to shove those images into the dark where they belong. I need distance. Deflection. Anything to stop imagining what he’d do if I actually pushed him too far.
“I don’t blindly follow orders,” I blurt, sharper than intended.
“Clearly.” His lips curve, not quite a smile—more an acknowledgment, the kind a predator gives when prey shows unexpected teeth. “But this isn’t about blindly following orders. It’s about expertise. I wouldn’t tell you how to structure an investigative piece or which questions to ask a source. Those are your areas of expertise.”
“And controlling everything is yours?”
“Keeping people alive is. Extraction protocols. Security measures. Risk assessment.” He glances at me again. “So yes, in this particular scenario, controlling everything is exactly my expertise.”
The rational part of my brain acknowledges his point. The independent journalist in me still bristles at the restriction, the confinement, the complete surrender of autonomy.
“Fine,” I concede, not graciously. “But I need some parameters here. How long do I sit quietly and comply? What’s the end game?”
“Seattle. Cerberus headquarters. We get you there safely, then figure out what’s on that flash drive and who wants you dead because of it.” His gaze returns to the road. “After that, we develop a more permanent solution.”
“Permanent solution? That sounds ominous.”
