Chapter 3 A
Fluorescent lights stab through my skull the second my eyes crack open.
The sterile burn of antiseptic lingers in the air, sharp enough to make my stomach roll. My arm feels like it’s on fire, my side aches with every shallow breath, and the rest of me—bruised, cut, broken—doesn’t feel much better.
Then it all comes crashing back.
The warehouse.
Liam.
Gunfire.
Heat.
That bastard’s voice right before the bullet tore through my arm. Fucking prick. A Sovereign fucking prick.
Even thinking the word makes my chest tighten.
They ruined everything.
They took my life, burned what was left of it, and pissed on the ashes.
And now I’m lying on a slab in one of their facilities, stripped bare, stitched up, and breathing the same air as monsters.
A cold sheet barely separates me from the metal underneath, and when I finally manage to lift my head, I spot the IV jammed into my arm. The sight makes my skin crawl. I reach up, fingers trembling, and rip it out. Blood bubbles, then trails down my wrist in slow thin lines.
I let my head fall back with a thud. Everything hurts.
But I need to move.
Bracing my good arm on the slab, I swing my legs over the edge and push. The floor rises fast, slamming into me as I drop. I gasp and bite down hard to keep from screaming as a fresh wave of pain explodes through my side. Copper floods my mouth—I swallow it.
It’s not the first time I’ve taken a bullet. But two in one night? New personal best.
I crawl to the corner where my clothes lie in a ruined heap.
Blood-soaked, torn, and completely useless.
Just great. I shove them aside and drag myself upright using the edge of the counter, my reflection in the glass cabinet catching my eye for half a second—pale, cracked lips, blood dried at the corner of my mouth. I don’t even recognize myself.
I rifle through the drawers, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side, until I find a black hoodie and a pair of joggers. They’re oversized, probably meant for one of the bastards who works here, but they’ll do. I tug them on, slow and stiff, every movement pulling at the bandage.
Warmth seeps through the gauze again, blood already drenching the fabric. I clench my teeth and keep going.
My fingers find my small gold necklace tangled in the mess. The old clasp sticks, but I force it shut and let it settle against my collarbone. It’s one of the last pieces of me I have left.
Drawer by drawer, I collect any random shit that might be useful and shove it into the hoodie pocket.
And then I’m at the door.
My hand hovers over the knob, the metal cool against my fingertips. Behind it could be another monster. More blood. More Sovereigns.
Or maybe it’s just the same thing I’ve always faced.
Pain. Loss. Survival.
I close my hand around the handle, draw in a breath that tastes like antiseptic and blood, and push the door open.
The hallway stretches in front of me, dim and silent, overhead lights buzzing faintly.
“Going somewhere?”
The unmistakable voice scrapes down my spine.
Before I can move, rough hands clamp down. I’m yanked back hard, my spine slamming into the wall. Fog clings to my brain, the drugs they pumped into me slowing my reflexes. His hard body cages me in, crushing my wounds until white-hot pain tears through me.
“Get the fuck off me, you piece of shit!” I snarl, shoving at him uselessly.
I glare up, as he towers over me. Catching his emotionless face, jet-black hair, and dead, blue eyes. He’s a goddamn mountain, at least 6’6. He’s built like a fucking house. How in the hell did I miss when I shot at him?
“I asked you a question. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Wherever the hell I want. Now get your goddamn hands off me.”
His brutal grip tightens. “You think I’m just going to let you walk after the shit you pulled? You blew up a Sovereign operation. My operation. You’re not going anywhere.”
My fingers find the scalpel I stole, hidden in my pocket. I don’t hesitate. I jam it into his side and twist.
His body jerks, and for one second—one beautiful second—he actually looks human.
Then his fist connects with my bullet wound.
Pain detonates through me, ripping me apart. I hit the floor, clutching at my side, the stitches tearing open. He wrenches the scalpel free and tosses it, then crouches, grabbing my throat with one blood-slicked hand.
“I was going to kill you quick. But now I’m gonna make you wish you died in that explosion.”
His grip tightens. My vision darkens at the edges. I thrash, clawing at him, but it’s useless.
Somewhere down the hall, someone clears their throat. His hand loosens just enough for me to suck in a broken gasp.
“Priest, you need to take this call,” a nervous voice says.
Priest? This asshole’s name is Priest? You’ve got to be kidding me.
Priest sighs, stretching his shoulders like dealing with me is a chore.
“Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” he sneers, nudging the bloody scalpel across the floor with his boot. It skitters away, spinning out of reach. “Especially when they’re already half-dead.”
“Fuck off.” I force myself upright even as the room spins.
His fingers brush the wound on his side, coming away red, and a dark glint flickers in his eyes. He crouches again, close enough that the scent of him—gunpowder, blood, mint—chokes the air between us.
“You think you’re a fighter?” His tone drips with disdain. “You’re not. You’re prey. Weak, stupid, worthless prey. And you, kitten, are going to bleed so fucking pretty for me.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But that’s exactly what you are. Soft. Weak. Pathetic. Fucking nothing.” He straightens and spits on me. The glob of saliva hits my cheek, sliding down my skin.
“Stay put, kitten,” he says, already turning away, his footsteps fading down the hall.
The doctor groans, “Get back in the damn room, or you’ll bleed out right here.
That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
Do you know who he is?” His eyes are wide with shock, maybe a little pity.
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing. Make him angry again, and the city will be finding your body parts for the next five years. ”
“I don’t care who he is.” My fingers clench around the car keys I swiped from Priest’s pocket while he was busy strangling me.
I shove them into my waistband and push up slowly from the floor, my side throbbing and my arm screaming.
“I just need something for the pain. I can handle the stitches myself,” I manage through gritted teeth, wiping his spit off my neck and chest.
The doctor glances at my bleeding side and shakes his head. “You really don’t know when to quit.” He leaves me propped against the wall as blood soaks my clothes.
He returns with a bottle of oxy and a small kit for stitches. I snatch them out of his hands without a word and start limping down the hall, ignoring whatever he’s trying to say. Every step is excruciating, but I’m focused on one thing: getting as far away from the Sovereign as possible.
Finally, I spot the exit and bolt through the door. The thick and damp New Orleans air slams into me, a drizzle curling through the early fog. Just past dawn, the streets are deserted.
There’s only one vehicle parked out front—an obnoxiously lifted Ford truck, matte black and built like it’s overcompensating for something. It looks ridiculous next to the crumbling buildings and cracked pavement.
I limp toward it, every step dragging pain up my side. The second I reach the door, I realize the problem: it’s stupidly tall. Fuck me. I’m five-one, bleeding, and doped to hell, and this bastard drives a damn monster truck.
I eye the handle, then the height. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, gripping the door.
The first try’s a joke—my foot slips, my stitches burn, and I nearly eat asphalt.
“Son of a dickless titwaffle.” I grit my teeth.
The second try, I brace harder, ignoring the fresh tear in my side. My hand slips, then catches. My boot scrapes. Somehow, with sheer spite and another string of creative profanity “Gas-guzzling, sky-humping-piece-of-shit”—I haul myself up.
By the time I slam the door shut, I’m sweating, lightheaded, and fully pissed off.
I pop a couple of oxy dry and fire up the engine, peeling away from the curb.
My heart pounds as the world blurs past, pain wrapping tight around every breath. I keep one eye on the road, the other scanning the interior. A pickup’s a weird-ass choice for a Sovereign—most of them favor sleek luxury rides. This thing screams backwoods apocalypse…with money.
The back seat’s loaded. Guns. Ammo. Knives. Compartments stacked with enough firepower to start a war.
This isn’t just transportation It’s a rolling arsenal.
Jackpot.
I need to unload this for cash—fast.
Navigating the city streets, I keep it together just long enough to reach the chop shop on the outskirts. The oxy’s kicking in, dulling the sharp edges of pain as I jump out, stumbling over to the door and shoving it open.
Dmitry’s head pops up from behind the hood of a car. He grins, wiping his grease-stained hands on his overalls. “A, what kind of mess did you get into now?” His thick Russian accent cuts through the shop noise, his gaze flicking to the truck behind me.
“Obychnyy,” I shrug, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge in the corner and guzzling it.
He laughs. “You’re lucky I like you, girl. But nothing ordinary about the messes you drag in.” He strolls over to the black truck, circling and inspecting every inch. “A Shelby Baja Raptor, nice ride. Whose is this?”
I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my side feels like it’s being ripped apart. “You don’t want to know. I want forty percent for the truck. And another fifty for the guns.”
“Twenty. And only because we go way back.”
“No. And you’d better move fast, or I’ll just take it to Yuri.”
“You always bring trouble, A.” His gaze drops to my blood-darkened clothes. He shakes his head, muttering in Russian before heading towards another car bay. A few orders are barked at his crew, then he turns back to me, shaking his head. “Fine. But that’s because I like you.”
He grabs a set of keys off the wall, tossing them my way. “Don’t bring the cops,” he pauses, “or worse, to my shop.”
“Spasibo,” I mumble, already walking toward the old, beat-up car he’s pointed out. “I’ll be working at Ivan’s this week. Send the money there.”
He nods without looking at me, already shouting more orders in rapid Russian as I start the engine and drive to my apartment.
I collapse onto the bed, muscles screaming despite the scalding shower I just took. The sheets are cool against my overheated, battered skin.
I saved Liam. Nearly died for it. Then woke up in a Sovereign safehouse with one of them looming over me.
Un-fucking-believable.
I should’ve been smarter. Faster. My father didn’t put me through hell so I’d end up shot and caught by the worst of them like some rookie. I pop another oxy, letting the sharp edge of the pain dull to a low, throbbing ache.
And Priest—if I ever see that bastard again, I’m shooting him in the face. And if he calls me “kitten” again, I’ll cut his balls off first.
I shut my eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. If I think too long, I’ll tear myself apart over what I should’ve done—where I screwed up.
So I don’t.
I just let sleep drag me under—deep and dreamless.