Chapter 8 Priest
Raze shoves his way through the crowd, already barking bets and fighting for a better view of the pit. Alistair lingers near the wall, sticking out like a sore thumb in his overpriced suit, arms crossed, clearly regretting tagging along. Dalton’s not far behind, scowling.
I came to bleed out the poison still riding my veins.
Dinner with the Senator had me ready to carve out someone’s throat with a broken wine glass. The tuxes. The smug smiles. Sterling’s fucking voice in my ear. Behave. Play nice.
Sure as fuck didn’t expect to find the stupid little bitch here.
Something about her grates down to the bone. That mouth. That wild fucking look in her eyes. I can’t shake her.
I tell myself it’s because she’s a virgin—that I just want to ruin something untouched. Split it open. Make it bleed.
But that’s bullshit.
I should’ve ended her the night I fucked her throat.
Should’ve left her cold at the Safehouse.
Should’ve put a bullet in her skull after she stole my truck.
Painted the walls with her blood and walked away.
Instead, I let her live. Let her breathe.
Let her spit in my face and keep her fucking teeth.
Now look at me—
Hard as steel, imagining her on her knees again, my fist in her hair, her body twitching while I fuck the air out of her lungs.
Or maybe she’s a fucking corpse.
Her blood’s still warm on the floor while I finish inside what’s left of her.
My jaw ticks as I pop a stick of gum, chewing slow, letting the bitterness burn the back of my throat.
It doesn’t work. She’s still fucking there.
I wasn’t built for this kind of frustration.
Sterling made me for war. Every bone in my body was carved for blood. I’m not meant to be still. Not meant to sit and think. I’m meant to kill.
And she makes me think too much. The scars on my back itch, the old phantom burn of memories.
She’s at the bar, knocking back vodka like medicine. Her shoulders are tense, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, wondering if she can make it out before I notice.
Too fucking late for that.
“You do realize the shit-storm you caused with Senator Kelly,” Alistair mutters, leaning against the concrete wall next to me.
“Fuck that prick.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The Sovereign can’t afford to lose his support right now. Not with everything hanging on the edge—”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“I know you don’t.” His eyes lock on mine like he’s forgotten who the fuck he’s talking to.
“Which is why I’m surprised you said anything about leading at all.
You’re not built for it, Priest. You’re unstable.
You think the Council’s going to hand you power when you’re out here shitting on our strongest allies like you’re already wearing the crown? ”
The Council. Those ancient fucks that every Sovereign Section answers to, sitting on their ivory thrones while men like me drown in blood to keep their empire intact.
High Chancellors play their roles, but the Council?
They’re the real string-pullers. And I’ve fantasized about slitting every last one of their throats.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Alistair. Don’t forget you’re still breathing because I allow it.”
He laughs, a sharp, stupid sound. “The Council will never give you a throne. Doesn’t matter if it’s your blood right. You’re not a leader. You’re a rabid dog, and they’ll put you down long before they hand you reins.”
My fist snaps forward before I even register the thought—but Raze yanks me back a half-second before impact, dragging me off Alistair as Dalton rushes in to shove the bastard out of the path of my swing.
“Not here. We’ll teach the dick a lesson later,” Raze grunts as I rip my arm free.
“Fuck you, Raze,” Alistair spits, chest heaving. “Commander Whitney will have your head for a comment like that.”
Raze shoves him hard against the wall, “Don’t fucking threaten me, Alistair. I don’t give a shit who your daddy is. I’ll gut you like a fish and wear your skin like a goddamn jacket if you ever speak to Priest like that again. Keep his name outta your fucking mouth.”
Dalton drags Alistair away, muttering, “Jesus Christ, the two of you are gonna get yourselves killed.” He pushes him through the crowd toward the far side of the bar.
Raze laughs as they vanish. “I’m not dying until I see Alistair’s pretty-boy head mounted on a spike.”
I grunt, snatching a shot off a passing tray and knocking it back in one swallow. The burn does nothing to settle me. Not when my blood’s already boiling.
“I didn’t need your help,” I mutter.
“I know you could’ve pulverized Alistair, but he wasn’t wrong,” he says, grabbing his own drink. “You fucked up enough tonight already. You’re reckless. If you can’t control your rage, someone else will do it for you.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, eyes scanning back to the back. She’s still there.
“I’m not trying to control it. I’m trying to let it loose.”
“And I’m guessing you’ve already picked your target.” He follows my gaze, his grin spreading on his tatted face when he spots her.
Raze doesn’t come from a Sovereign background, not an heir to a leadership position, no legacy blood.
He’s a street dog turned soldier, plucked out of the French Foreign Legion after they booted his ass.
Men like him—broken, violent, and with nothing left to lose—are exactly the kind the Sovereign thrives on.
He doesn’t wait for confirmation, that grin of his stretches wider.
She’s a fucking problem.
But she’ll make a beautiful lesson.
“Did you mean what you told the Senator?” His voice cuts through my thoughts.
“The blood eagle?”
“No.” He turns to look at me. “About taking over. You gonna take your throne when Sterling’s dead?”
I roll the gum in my mouth, the mint bite cutting through the bitter taste on my tongue.
“I told him what he needed to hear.”
“But you meant it. About dismantling the whole fucking empire. Killing Kelly. Blowing it all to hell.”
I exhale slowly. Fists collide in the pit behind us, bones crack, blood sprays—and it’s still not enough to quiet what’s inside me.
“I’ve always meant it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then huffs a humorless laugh. “You’re one sick fuck, you know that?”
“I’m aware.”
“Maybe you are fit to lead,” he mutters. “The South’s weak. Sterling’s too busy shining shoes and sucking up to politicians to see the rot. What we need is a Sovereign who kills first and talks never.”
I don’t respond. I’m already gone—my gaze locked on her.
Because all I see is a body on the floor, a scream torn from her throat, blood smeared across her lips. I see pain. I see submission. I see her broken.
And maybe then, finally, I’ll feel something.
Something real.
Something human.
Boom.
A blast of searing heat slams into me, knocking me sideways into the wall. Fire. Light. Shrapnel. Flesh. The air fractures. The building screams. My ears ring. Dull and shrieking.
My vision flickers. Smoke blurs the world into nothing. I suck in a breath thick with ash and blood. Concrete dust clings to my throat.
“One-eight-seven! One-eight-seven! Get it the fuck together!”
The voice crashes through my skull. Not real. Not here. Wrong time. Wrong place.
But my brain doesn’t care. It’s back there. In hell. In the screaming.
“One-eight-seven. One-eight-seven.”
My hands shake. Just for a second.
I shove a new piece of gum between my teeth and chew like I’m grinding bone.
Focus.
I stagger, slamming my back against a steel support beam. Raze barrels toward me, blood running down his arm, a jagged chunk of steel jammed into his bicep.
“We’re under fucking attack!”
“No shit.” I draw my Glock and lean out just as a bullet pings past my head.
Screams tear through the crowd. People claw over each other. Blood smears the floor. Masked bastards in tactical gear storm through the massive hole in the wall with rifles raised. They don’t check targets. They just shoot.
I put two in the chest of one coming up the right, kick another’s knee until it folds the wrong way and tear the rifle from his dying hands.
Dalton and Alistair materialize out of nowhere, shouting questions that don’t fucking matter.
The rage hits like a switch. One masked bastard charges—his barrel rises—I cut him down with a burst to the chest. Another tries to flank me.
I ram his own knife through his visor and twist until I hear bone crack.
“Clear a fucking path!” I bark. “Get to the roof. MOVE.”
Raze grunts and peels off, Alistair trailing with him. Dalton’s shouting something behind me.
I turn toward the far end of the warehouse and freeze.
Her.
Dragging the blonde through the crowd. Her voice cracks through the smoke.
“Roxy! We need to fucking go!”
But the blonde’s sobbing. “I need to find him!”
They’re right in the line of fire. My trigger finger tightens.
Movement. Left flank.
A mask lunges.