Page 47 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

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I spend the afternoon working in my office, raking over our accounts, clients, and checking over the hits I’ve delegated.

I absorb progress reports from every Nighthawk, and send anything of note up the ladder to Cain.

All the while, one of my computer monitors showcases the live feed of the bedroom, where Scarlett is tied up, waiting for me to return and free her.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move all that much, simply lays on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

I don’t know whether she’s in shock or she’s still caught in sub drop, but either way, I don’t interfere—despite my growing desire to.

I want to go back into the bedroom and fuck her pussy raw.

I came harder in her mouth than I ever have, save for last night when I got to feel the sheer heaven of her pussy.

The early afternoon quickly morphs into the evening.

Despite my burning need to fuck Scarlett, I manage to stay absorbed in work for most of the day.

I know she’s probably starving and her bladder’s bursting—if she called out to me, I’d come to her, feed her, and let her use the bathroom.

I’m not a complete monster. But she stays silent, so I don’t interfere .

When late evening comes knocking, I wrap up my shit for the day and finally allow myself the privilege of heading back into the bedroom. Scarlett’s eyes lock on me as soon as I enter, and she watches me warily, as if I’m a predator waiting to pounce on her.

“I’m going to let you go for long enough to use the restroom, eat, and hydrate,” I inform her. “Then, you’re back in the chains. I have to get to a meeting.”

She swallows and winces, but doesn’t respond.

She might be trying the silent treatment on me again—but I’m still too pissed to care.

The injuries she inflicted on me were minor, so insignificant I don’t feel any lingering affects, and I’m self-aware enough to understand that I probably deserved every single hit and scratch.

Under different circumstances, I don’t think I’d mind her scratching me up, but not out of fear, and never in retaliation.

If she has a problem, she’s going to learn to talk instead of act.

I release her from the cuffs and stand back. She rises to her feet unsteadily, crossing her arms over her chest to try to shield her nakedness. “Arms down,” I tell her. “I’ve seen everything there is to see, Scarlett. There’s no use being bashful, not anymore.”

Resentment seeps over her expression, but she doesn’t respond. She lowers her arms, posture hunched, and scurries her way to the bathroom.

“Door open,” I warn her. Despite her punishment, I don’t think she’s over what transpired this morning—the interrogation that ended up breaking her. I’m not going to trust her for a little while, certainly not while she continues to keep silent.

She flashes me a hard look, jaw clenching, but says nothing. Once she’s cleaned up and washed her hands, she hovers in the doorway of the bathroom, hands fidgeting .

“Kitchen,” I tell her. “Sit at the table. Food will be brought up shortly.”

While I usually prefer to place orders in-person at the downstairs kitchen, I’m not leaving Scarlett alone and free to roam right now, so I send a quick text to the chef, ordering them to bring up whatever they’re serving for dinner.

Scarlett doesn’t look pleased at my orders, but she’s either too afraid or too sensible to disobey me. She might still be pissed, but so am I. In our dynamic, my anger holds a lot more weight than hers.

It’s unfair; I know that much. But it’s also the stark reality of our situation. If she’s a good girl, she’ll get a lot of latitude from me, but if she decides to act like an animal, I’ll treat her like an unruly pet.

We sit at the kitchen table in silence, waiting for the food to arrive.

I scroll through messages on my phone while she gazes at the wooden table top, eyes occasionally flicking over to the chair where she spent her morning.

Each time she looks in that direction, her cheeks flush with arousal, and her gaze flashes with anger.

“So, is this the silent treatment? Or have I finally found an effective way to get you to shut the fuck up?” As soon as the words are out, I regret them.

I might be mad, but picking a fight isn’t what I want to do right now.

It won’t do either of us any favors. We’re both stuck with a life sentence.

While she might’ve gotten the short end of the stick, I never intended to claim a woman, let alone a sex slave to care for and tie myself to.

Scarlett gives me a long, tired look, then shakes her head.

“What is there to say?” Her voice is raspy and scratchy, and she winces as she speaks.

I didn’t take it easier on her earlier, and I feel a flash of guilt that’s only exacerbated when she swallows and musters her expression.

She’s so used to enduring pain and discomfort, she doesn’t even complain about it.

I shouldn’t be feeding into that, I should be retraining her.

I still have so much I need to get figured out with her.

One thing is clear, though. I like her. Even though I have no right to, I like her, and I can acknowledge that I’m beginning to grow attached to her.

I’ve been protective of her from the moment I realized she was innocent, but recently…

that protective fire has shifted and morphed.

I’ve always been attracted to her, but attraction doesn’t necessarily lead to care in my mind—only rough sex.

Her determination, her stubbornness, and her way of enduring things that would break most people…

it isn’t just attractive and worthy of notice, it’s worth a lot more.

I think we have more similarities than she’d ever be willing to admit.

I think in some ways, she’s far stronger than I am—which is… a jarring realization.

When she flicks a wary gaze at me, I realize that I haven’t responded to her, and I’m simply staring. I could push her into a conversation, but I think I’ve pushed her enough today. “Fair enough.”

The food arrives a few minutes later. A three-course meal made up of soup for appetizer, steak for main course, and some sort of pastry for dessert.

For all his faults, I will say that I appreciate Boyce’s dedication to making sure the Nighthawks eat well.

I know the move is primarily selfish, but I don’t mind benefitting from it.

We eat in silence. I do Scarlett the kindness of letting her feed herself.

She doesn’t thank me for the privilege, simply picks at her food until it’s half-gone, and after a while, I start to grow worried.

She’s a quiet person, but there’s a tension in the air that unsettles me.

No, tension isn’t the right word for it…

more like dejection. Her gaze is empty, her posture is drawn inward, and her eyes are glassy.

Fuck, did I really push her too far ?

When an alarm on my phone goes off, I realize I don’t have time to hash this out right now.

As seems to be the standard, I’ve probably screwed up again.

Last night was rough, and today was no easier.

If I’m looking at the day in hindsight… I definitely should’ve offered at least some form of aftercare before getting to work, and I probably shouldn’t have left her tied up for an entire workday.

I probably shouldn’t leave her tied up now, either, but I don’t trust that she won’t do something rash.

Scarlett’s mood swings aren’t as commonplace as my own, they’re rarer, but they hit harder.

She might be exhausted now, but if I leave her untied, I’ll probably return to a wrecked apartment.

A pang of concern echoes in my chest when she goes back to the bedroom and gets on the bed without complaint. She isn’t struggling. She isn’t fighting. She isn’t even questioning my actions—her sass and witty comebacks are completely gone.

I’m almost dismayed to bind her, while otherwise, I’d be ecstatic.

Something’s going on here, and I don’t have the time to assess what it is.

I really need to rearrange my priorities and start delegating the time I have with her.

This morning was almost a good start to her training, but as ever, shit went sideways.

“I’ll be back in a few hours and I’ll let you go,” I tell her once I’ve bound her.

She releases a tired hum in response. No protest in sight. She’s been more compliant recently, but never this complacent.

“Try to rest,” I say. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

No response. Dead silence. I feel compelled to poke at her, see if I can provoke some sort of reaction from her.

Pushing her to admit she has a brother would’ve been rough on her mental state, but could it have been this rough?

I don’t know. I don’t know enough about her life, which is something that needs to be fixed .

“Tell me, Scarlett, why were you punished?” I ask her.

Her eyes flutter shut and her lips pinch. That’s something, at least. “Because I attacked you.”

“And who owns you?”

Her eyes open. Instead of staring at me, she stares at the ceiling. “Nobody,” she says quietly. “Nobody owns me.” A short, humorless chuckle stirs her chest. “Not even me.”

A secondary alarm sounds on my phone. I need to meet Cain in the garage right now. If I don’t go, I’ll get into shit with him.

“We’ll discuss that more when I return.”

Cain drives us again, taking us to the same ghost town where we met with Eric last time.

I watch the live feed of my bedroom the entire time, staring at Scarlett on my phone screen, trying to mull things over.

Something’s wrong—probably the shock of last night and today descending on her.

She didn’t really get time to process the events of last night.

I intended to help her with that after my morning session, but that didn’t exactly pan out.

Now, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.