Chapter 4 Priest
“So this is where you ran off to?” Raze’s voice cuts clean through the wet, wheezing whimpers echoing off the concrete walls. “Figured you’d be front and center to watch Thames get his skull turned inside out when we dragged him in.”
I don’t look up. Just wrench the tooth free and let it drop into the tin below with a soft clink.
“Think you missed one.” He huffs a laugh, kicking at the blood-slicked floor before leaning against the wall. He nods at the man strapped to the chair. What’s left of him, anyway.
Swollen eyes. Lips split wide. Teeth shattered. Blood crusts across his chest, his knees buckling against the leather straps holding him upright. But he’s still breathing.
Which is the point.
I roll my wrist, stretch out the cramp in my fingers, then pick up the pliers again—already coated with blood and bits of gum tissue.
“You’re in a mood.”
I pause mid-motion. My grip tightens on the handle.
“Is there a fucking reason you’re down here?” I shove the pliers into the traitor’s mouth and yank sideways. His scream rips through the room. I drop another molar into the tray and step back, wiping my hands with a stained rag.
Raze’s smirk widens. “Sterling wants to speak with you.”
Of course he does. That coward never reaches out unless he’s already pissed or planning to dump some shit job in my lap. I spit on the floor, the blood-flecked mess pooling near the traitor’s bare feet.
“So you’re errand boy now? High Chancellor’s little bitch?”
“Better me than the old man showing up and putting a leash around your neck.” He jerks his chin toward the traitor. “You done playing dentist, or do I need to tell Sterling that your ego’s bleeding more than your shoulder wound?”
I ignore him, turning my attention back to the man in the chair. His head lolls, face a bloody mess. I crouch in front of him, leveling my gaze with his swollen, leaking eyes.
“You’re going to tell me how you conveniently lost one of our weapon shipments. Because if you don’t, I’m going to move on from teeth and start cracking fingers next. And I won’t stop until you vomit bone.”
The man tries to speak, gargling nonsense through a ruined mouth. I gently pat his cheek.
“I’ve got time. You don’t.”
I head toward the steel door, and Raze pushes off the wall and follows behind me.
Our boots echo down the corridor—concrete walls soaked in blood, memory, and screams. The Vault stretches twelve levels beneath New Orleans, carved into the bones of the city like a buried infection.
It’s the Sovereign headquarters for the South Section; high-tech and heavily fortified.
No one knows it exists. And if they did, they’d wish they didn’t.
It’s a compound filled with living quarters, combat pits, medical facilities, and armories stocked heavier than military bases. It runs on order. On blood. On rank.
When I’m not in the field on missions, I spend most of my time in the Depths—the lowest level—where screams never reach the surface. The traitors, the cowards, the ones who disobey orders—they all go down there eventually. It’s the only place that makes this miserable fucking life worth something.
The elevator dings. I punch the button for the upper floor.
The mint gum between my teeth is dead. All that’s left is the bitter aftertaste of adrenaline and someone else’s blood. I need a goddamn shower. And a fuck.
“So,” Raze drawls behind me as we step into the corridor, “what’d you do to the little stray?”
Before I can tell him to shut the fuck up, the stench of cologne and entitlement hits me.
Alistair and Dalton.
“Christ, Priest,” Alistair scoffs, his designer boots clicking against the polished floor as he gives me a disgusted once-over. “You bathe in that shit now?”
“Get fucked.” I walk past him.
Alistair Whitney and Dalton Mercer. The other two heirs to the South Section. If I’m the monster they try to leash, those two are the lapdogs dressed in gold—obedient, polished, blood-soaked cowards in tailored suits.
Alistair’s the son of Commander Whitney, a man so deep in political rot he probably bleeds ink. Alistair inherited his taste for power and his clean hands. He talks about legacy like it’s a blood right. Thinks one day we’ll rule the South together.
Over my dead fucking body.
Dalton’s not far behind—probably watching this like it’s a goddamn show. He’s another legacy brat—son of Commander Mercer, Sterling’s favorite pet. His name carries weight, but he tosses it around like it’s a fucking game. I’ve shared a mission with him. Once. Never again.
Together, the three of us make up what they call the Trinity—the heirs to the whole goddamn South.
I fucking hate the name.
I’m not part of their brotherhood. I don’t drink with them. Don’t laugh with them. I was raised in hell while they were fed steak and strategy. They were born killers. I was built.
And I’d burn this whole fucking Vault before I ever stand beside them.
We step into the High Chancellor’s office. The last place I want to fucking be. Polished oak floors. Leather chairs. The whole place reeks of power and cowardice. The kind that hides behind influence, not violence.
Sterling doesn’t look up. He’s too busy scribbling in that leather-bound journal of his. Perfect fucking calligraphy. The man used to bleed like the rest of us.
At least that’s what the stories say.
I never saw it myself.
Over the years, he’s turned soft. Not weaker. Just…sleeker. He’s not a Sovereign anymore. He’s a politician in a custom suit. A man who trades in secrets and smiles, hiding the killer behind polished teeth and a carefully curated public image.
But that brand on his chest is still there. A ghost of who he used to be—before the power went to his fucking head.
Raze shuts the door behind us. Dalton slouches against the far wall. Alistair doesn’t even try to hide the way he straightens, ready to kiss Sterling’s fucking boots.
Sterling finally lifts his head.
“Gentlemen. Priest.”
“Sterling.”
His jaw tics. Barely. But I see it.
He hates when I call him that—strips the title right out from under him. I don’t give a fuck. It’s the only thing he’s earned from me.
Alistair and Dalton nod like good little heirs. I don’t move from the doorway. Just crack my gum, arms crossed, blood still drying on my shirt.
“There’s a dinner,” Sterling says, folding his hands. “Next week. Senator Kelly will be hosting us.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not. You’ll be there. Alongside Alistair and Dalton. Your presence is expected.”
“I’m not interested in parading myself in front of some limp-dick senator who thinks shaking our hands earns him immunity.”
Crack. The gum snaps between my teeth.
“Dalton and Alistair will do just fine. I’m sure they’ll take turns sucking the guy off under the table.”
Dalton laughs outright. Alistair doesn’t. He’s too busy making sure his tie’s straight and his spine is stiff.
Fucking parasites.
Sterling exhales a long, theatrical sigh.
“We have an image to uphold, Priest. One you seem determined to piss all over. The Sovereign are not anarchists. We are not terrorists. We are an organization with legacy, structure, power. You will attend the dinner. You will behave. Or I will make your life a living hell. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” I grind out, resisting the urge to spit on his shined shoes.
He smiles smugly. “Good. That’s settled.” I shift my weight.
“One more thing. The interrogation. How did it go?”
“I’ll send the intel report in the morning.” I’m already half-turned, done pretending to care.
“I’m asking now.” His tone sharpens. “What happened with the shipment?”
“The guns are gone. The men are dead. But the rat’s still breathing.”
“Name?”
“Working on it.”
He leans back in his chair, nose wrinkling like the smell of blood offends him. “You’ll get it. Clean this up, Priest. You’ve made enough of a mess.”
“It’s already handled,” I bite out.
His stare lingers. Then he flicks his wrist, dismissing me.
“I expect that report on my desk by dawn. And for fuck’s sake, shower. You reek.”
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
My fist connects with the concrete pillar before the elevator finishes sliding closed. My skin splits and blood smears down the wall in a thick red arc.
Raze whistles beside me. “You gonna punch your way through the whole fucking compound, or just the support beams?”
I say nothing.
He glances at the dripping wall. “What’s really got you wound tight?”
I don’t answer at first. The taste of blood lingers in the back of my throat—mine, or the traitor’s, doesn’t matter. I drag a breath through my teeth.
“She stole my truck.”
“The fuck?” Raze turns. “The stray?”
I nod once. Each syllable grates as it leaves my mouth. “Took the keys off me while I choked her out at the Safehouse.”
Raze barks a laugh. “You? Got jacked by a practically dead girl that’s less than half your size? You’ve got more than a hundred pounds on her.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I slam my palm into the elevator wall hard enough to rattle the panel. My skin’s already shredded, blood dripping between my knuckles.
“Jesus,” he mutters, still grinning. “That explains it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cave to Sterling so fast. Thought he was gonna stroke out when you didn’t bite back.”
“Yeah, well.” I breathe out slowly. Control. I need control. “Didn’t feel like bleeding all over his fucking floor.”
“Sure. Or maybe you’re distracted.”
“Keep talking, I’ll make you swallow your teeth.”
“Just saying. Stray must’ve hit a nerve.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong.
She got under my skin. Not because she outsmarted me. Not because she stabbed me and stole my ride. But because I can’t stop seeing her.
Every blink—her face.
That stubborn jaw. Those eyes that didn’t beg. That fucking mouth, curled into a challenge even as she choked on her blood.
She should’ve died. I should’ve finished it. But I didn’t. And now I’m going to find her. Not for the truck. Not even for the information she might be sitting on. But because I need the release. The destruction. The scream.
“Where we going?” Raze asks.
I step out of the elevator and turn toward the armory.
“I’m going hunting.”