Chapter 7
My eyes skim the grimy warehouse hosting tonight’s fight.
It’s dimly lit, the air thick with sweat, blood, and the sour tang of stale booze.
A makeshift ring is set up in the center with a crowd pressing in close, all of them shoving to catch every bloody punch and grunt.
At the back, a bar’s serving cheap drinks to anyone who shoves cash forward.
“Here, A!” Roxy holds a bag of potato chips out. “Not many food options in a place like this.” Her drink sloshes over the rim as she gestures around with it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the bag, even though my appetite’s dead. I force down a few anyway.
It’s been a week since that sick fuck Priest tracked me down.
A week of waking up drenched in sweat, heart racing, fists clenched, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent.
The nightmares are relentless. Twisted flashes of him—his knife, his voice, his hands on my skin, his cock on my lips. I crush the bag of chips in my grip without realizing it, crumbs spilling into my lap. I don’t even want them. I haven’t wanted anything since that night.
I tell myself it was the painkillers. The blood loss. My injuries. That’s why he overpowered me. That’s why I froze and didn’t fight harder. Why I let him do what he did.
But it’s a lie.
I’ve replayed every second of that night on a loop. Studying every move. I should have been faster. Smarter. Meaner.
Instead, I let him pin me. Strip me of control. Force himself into my mouth, into my head. I can still taste him when I wake up, choking on my breath, my thighs clenched tight like my body’s trying to trap something that isn’t there.
I hate him.
Fuck, I hate him.
But I hate myself more for wondering. Wondering if I could’ve turned the tables. If I’d stabbed deeper, screamed louder, would he have stopped? Or would it have made him worse?
And now I sit here, broken in ways that aren’t just physical, trying to make sense of a mind that’s just as fucked up as his. Because the real reason I can’t stop thinking about that night…it’s not just the violence. It’s how it felt.
And that’s the part I’ll never say out loud.
Fucking bastard.
“A. Helloooooo?” Roxy waves her hand in front of my face, her bright red nails slicing through the haze of my thoughts. “You okay, girl? You’re acting a bit…strannyy.” Her Russian accent thickens with every sip of vodka.
I snatch her drink and take a large gulp, the vodka burning in a way that feels almost comforting. “I’m fine.” I flash her a fake grin.
“Okay, just saying,” she starts, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s trying to be serious. “If you ever want to talk about…whatever’s going on in there”—she taps her temple—“I’m here. Even if you’re gonna lie about it.”
We both know I’m not taking her up on that.
People like me? We don’t have friends. We have contacts and connections.
Roxy’s the exception—bright, normal, completely unaware that my entire life is nothing but survival and running.
She doesn’t ask about the scars or the bruises, doesn’t pry into my past, and I’d like to keep it that way.
She leans in, her breath a mix of alcohol and something sweet. “Maxim’s gonna kill it tonight. He’s been training like crazy, and have you seen him lately? He looks so hot…” Her words drift off as her gaze locks onto her boyfriend striding toward us.
I follow her line of sight to Maxim, the quintessential Russian fighter. His tattoos peek out from under his sleeves, with buzzed hair, and a sharp jaw.
He greets us, his deep, accented voice cutting through the noise of the warehouse. He pulls Roxy into a kiss, whispering something that makes her giggle before she saunters off toward the bar.
He takes the stool next to me, his bulk crowding my space. “You have anything to do with that warehouse explosion? Half a city block—gone.”
My grip tightens on the bottle in my hand, but I keep my face blank. “Not my style. I’m not that messy.”
He snorts. “Right. You don’t know a thing.”
I shrug. It’s not like I can tell him the truth.
Maxim’s small-time: car theft, shoplifting, and running a little drugs here and there.
Maybe he’s thrown a few brutal punches in back-alley brawls.
I’m sure he owns a gun, probably sleeps with it under his pillow to feel tough.
But guys like him don’t even know the Sovereign exists.
And if they did, they’d piss themselves and sprint for the nearest exit.
“I saw the truck at Dmitry’s. Said you showed up looking like you got hit by a bus. Then Mira’s kid magically shows up. Sound familiar?”
I roll my eyes so hard they practically spin out of my skull.
Turning to face him fully, I let the irritation bleed into my voice.
“Dmitry needs to learn to keep his damn mouth shut,” I snap, slipping in Russian curses.
My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the table as I glare at him. “It’s nothing, Maxim. Drop it.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re always hiding something. I’m not fucking stupid, A. Word gets around.”
“It’s none of your business. Just drop it.
” I turn away, dismissing him without another glance, my attention shifting back to the fight in the ring.
But his words stick, splintering under my skin—a harsh reminder that I’m getting too comfortable.
Letting too many people see too much. That’s a dangerous game.
I knew surrounding myself with Russians was risky. The connections were supposed to be worth it. Key word: supposed. If Maxim and Dmitry are sniffing around, who else is paying attention? The thought makes my stomach churn.
I grind my teeth, the thin chain of my necklace biting into my palm as I clench it tight. Weak.
That’s what this is.
Missing people, needing anything from anyone—that’s weakness. It’s stupid, dangerous, and pathetic. And yet, here I am, getting too close to Roxy, involving myself with the local Russians and their messy world because…because I don’t want to feel so fucking alone anymore.
I should know better. Trust is a death sentence in this life. People aren’t lifelines; they’re weights tied to your ankles, ready to drag you down the second you slip. And yet, the ache of loneliness gnaws at me every single day, chipping away at the edges of who I used to be.
It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder every second or choking on the painful reminder that there’s no one left to call.
No one I can trust. Not anymore. Now, survival is my full-time job, and it’s exhausting.
It’s clawing your way out of a grave someone’s always trying to shove you back into.
The sounds of the fight draw my eyes to the ring. A guy built like a brick wall—tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin—drives a smaller fighter into the mat. Roxy stumbles into the table, arms loaded with shots, her face flushed with booze.
“Come on!” she chirps, shoving a glass into my hand. “Drink up!”
The crowd erupts again as the tattooed guy slams his opponent to the ground like a ragdoll. “Max is up soon,” she points at the ring, her grin lopsided and sloppy. “I’m so excited.”
“Go support him, then.” I nudge her toward the ring. “I need some air. I’ll be back.” I set the shot down. As much as I want to drink, I want to be sober to deal with the fucked-up shit in my head.
She wobbles away, and I waste no time slipping through the crowd of drunk, sweaty bodies. Outside, the humid night air wraps around me, a sticky relief compared to the suffocating heat of the warehouse.
I lean against the rough brick wall, tilting my head back to stare at the stars, faint and distant through the haze of city light. My fingers find the thin gold chain around my neck. The metal is warm from my skin, a quiet comfort, even as the storm inside me rages.
The warehouse door slams open behind me, and I snap to attention, hand already on my knife. It’s automatic, muscle memory.
But it’s nothing—just some drunk, giggling couple stumbling out, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else.
I exhale sharply, shoving away from the wall. The irritation crawling under my skin doesn’t budge. I should go back inside, watch Maxim’s fight, keep tabs on Roxy. But the thought of stepping back into that stifling, sweaty warehouse makes my throat close. Not yet.
My boots crunch against the gravel as I walk, the noise of the warehouse fading behind me.
Crunch.
I freeze mid-step, my breath catching.
The sound of gravel shifting behind me sends every nerve sparking. A flicker of movement edges into my peripheral vision. My knife is out before I even think, blade catching the faint light as I whirl, scanning the shadows.
Nothing.
Just dark shapes stretching long under the warehouse’s floodlights. Just me and my overactive, paranoid imagination.
I curse under my breath, forcing my grip to loosen on the hilt. Shit. I’m losing it. Get it together.
Turning back, I move to keep walking but slam directly into a wall.
No. Not a wall. A chest. A man’s chest.
“Boo.”
That voice. That goddamn voice. My stomach drops as the chill races through me.
Him.
I jerk back, blade ready, aiming for his throat.
But he’s faster.
His hand snaps out and clamps around my wrist, bone-grinding tight, twisting until white-hot pain shoots up my arm. Before I can blink, he’s spun me, my back slammed into cold brick with a force that cracks through my spine.
Air leaves my lungs in a strangled wheeze.
He’s too fucking fast. Too fucking big.
I drive my knee up toward his balls, but he shifts, shoves his forearm across my chest, and presses me deeper into the wall.
“Get off me!”
Those blue eyes—ice-bright and inhuman—lock on mine.
He forces the knife down, guiding my own hand, until the edge slices into my skin. I suck back a hiss, feeling the warm trickle beneath my sleeve.
“Still got that little bite,” he mutters against my ear. His breath reeks of mint and alcohol. “Good. Makes it more fun when I break you.”