Chapter 2 Priest
“She’ll live,” the doc grunts as I push through the door, his eyes flicking to mine as I enter the medical room at the Safehouse.
I’m not in the mood for small talk. Every nerve pulsing with frustration and the urge to fucking break something. “Bullet went straight through, missed anything vital,” he goes on, eyes already back on her, “but she’s lost a lot of blood. Dehydrated, too.”
I glance over at the slab. She’s sprawled naked under the unforgiving fluorescents—pale skin streaked with blood and grime.
Dark brown hair, tangled around her shoulders.
She’s smaller than I remember. Definitely younger.
Early twenties, maybe. My eyes drag over her.
Tight body. Lean. Toned. Perky tits. Trimmed cunt.
For someone I’m going to kill, she’s a decent fucking view.
Doc clears his throat, drawing my gaze back to his. “Let’s handle that shoulder,” he says, laying out the tools.
I strip off my shirt, the blood dried stiff against the fabric, and drop onto the table across from her. He doesn’t bother numbing it—just threads the needle and starts stitching.
“You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper,” he mutters. “Should be okay if you take it easy for a few weeks.”
I grunt.
His eyes flick back to her. “So, who is she?” he asks, smirking faintly. “Doesn’t look like the standard Servant. She’s too natural.”
He’s right.
Sovereign Servants are bred for one thing—obedience.
Hand-picked, trained, and broken to serve.
They’re ours to use, to ruin, to fuck into the floor and leave bleeding.
They come from families steeped in Sovereign loyalty or are plucked from gutters.
They take the vow knowing what it means: pain, degradation, destruction.
That’s the cost of luxury. Of protection. Of belonging.
They’re not people. They’re Sluts. Fuck-toys. Property.
My gaze drags over her body—scarred, marked by small tattoos, too rough around the edges to ever pass for Sovereign stock. I clench my jaw, replaying that flash in her eyes—the second before she drove a blade into my shoulder. That wild defiance.
She’ll pay for that.
“She’s not a Slut,” I snap. “Just some feral bitch who’s going to tell me where Eddie Thames is—so I can decorate the concrete with his fucking brains.” I cut a glare toward the doc. “And you’re going to pretend none of this ever happened.”
He holds my stare, then nods. “Understood.”
I rise from the table, blood drying across my skin. Doc’s an Associate—just another asset on Sovereign’s payroll. They’re not soldiers. They’re tools. Useful ones who know better than to ask questions.
A low moan cuts through the room.
I glance over at the other slab, she’s stirring. Head rolling. Lashes fluttering. Skin slick with sweat and dried blood.
The doc shifts beside me. “Better check on her—”
“She’s not your fucking patient,” I snap.
Still, he moves toward her like a dumb bastard.
She flinches the second his hand reaches her arm. Jerks away, weak but sharp. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m trying to help,” he says, but she’s already curling in on herself, eyes locking onto mine.
Her gaze drops to my chest, stopping at the Sovereign brand seared into the skin above my heart. Her lips part, breathing shallows, pupils blown. Pure panic. A flush creeping up her throat.
“You’re…” she breathes, “a Sovereign.”
She scrambles upright, snatching a scalpel from the tray. “Back the fuck off!”
My jaw ticks.
“Where’s Thames?” I step forward.
Her legs hit the floor and buckle. She catches herself on the table, still gripping the blade, her wild eyes darting.
“My stuff…” Her gaze drops. Her face twists in horror. “What the hell—who took my clothes off!?”
The doc clears his throat. “I had to patch—”
She shrieks, shoving off the table, making a break for it. Scalpel flashing in her grip.
I draw and fire.
The shot cracks the room open like thunder. She screams as the scalpel drops and she crumples, clutching her arm, blood spurting through her fingers.
“That’s for stabbing me, you little bitch.” I tap my shoulder. “Next one goes in your fucking skull.”
She’s on the floor, writhing in a growing pool of red, sobbing between clenched teeth. The doc rushes toward her like a goddamn hero. I slam my fist into the tray beside him. Metal crashes to the ground, tools scattering.
“Get the fuck BACK!” I shove him so hard he crashes into the wall, knocking a light fixture loose.
His hands fly up. “Alright, Jesus.”
“Interfere again, and I’ll fucking ventilate your skull.” My gun snaps to him before I turn it back on her. The muzzle shakes with how hard I’m gripping it. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me where Thames is or I paint this room with your brains.”
Her eyes lock on mine. She’s trembling, blood slicking her arm, pooling beneath her.
“The boy…” she gasps. “Hudson’s Law. Did he…did he make it?”
“One. Two…”
She coughs, blood smearing her lips. “Thames…ran. To the docks. Warehouse seventy-three. Another hideout…he’s got…he’s got backup there.”
The fucking docks.
I tuck the gun, step over the blood, and crouch beside her.
Her body shakes uncontrollably. But she still looks up at me. That same fucking glint of resistance. I tightly grip her jaw. My fingers dig in until the tendons in her neck flex, her skin darkening under the pressure.
“You lie to me, I’ll flay you alive.”
“I’m not—”
“If I find an empty fucking warehouse, I’ll bring back a carving knife and take you apart. Slowly. Starting with your tongue. You wanna be smart? Be useful. Or I’ll hang what’s left of you from the rafters. I like making men bleed. But women?” I lean closer. “I take my fucking time.”
She whimpers, blood running down her chin. I let go, the crack of her head against the tile echoing off the walls.
I straighten, crack my neck, and grab my gun.
“Get her stitched. And if she passes out, wake her up. I want her conscious when I come back.”
I don’t wait for a response.
The door slams behind me.