Chapter 11 Priest
Raze is the only one quiet, half-slumped in the armchair across from me, blood still soaking his clothes. But not Dalton or Alistair. Those two are always talking and scheming.
The safehouse reeks of antiseptic and sweat.
We’ve been holed up for over an hour and it’s still a goddamn clusterfuck. The Vault’s been alerted, but we’re flying blind. We don’t know if the whole South is under attack or if this was a personal strike aimed at one of us.
We all have enemies. Hell, the Sovereign as a whole has enemies. But an open assault like this takes fucking balls. So who the hell was worth the risk?
Raze lets out a low chuckle. “Remember that brunette Slut you were railing at my party last month?” He leans back, rubbing at his temple. “Huge tits and that thing she did with her tongue…” His voice trails off.
I don’t even look up, still sorting through the contents of the wallet in my hand. “What about her?”
“Just remembering how one second you were balls-deep in her, and the next? She’s screaming in a puddle of her own piss, her arm shattered under your boot. Because she made you mad.”
I lift my eyes, meeting his smirk. “Your point?”
“Just curious, what the hell happened tonight with you and the little Russian girl? Because I know you, Priest. With her mouth? That bitch should be bleeding out at your feet. So, who the hell is she?”
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding the gum in my mouth until it snaps under the pressure. “Nobody. Just some girl with a stack of fake IDs.”
Alexandra Vance—that’s the name she used to rent her shitty apartment.
Amy Vaughn—her alias at work.
Annabeth Vincent, another one in the pile.
The IDs are garbage, cheap and thrown together. But there’s a pattern. She’s lazy with her aliases, always sticking with the same initials. Makes it easier to forge signatures, I guess. Still, when I’d asked around, it wasn’t any of those names that people remembered.
It was just A.
“Bull-fucking-shit.” Dalton’s voice slices through the room.
The bastard can’t shut up to save his miserable life.
“I’ve watched you shove a guy’s hand down his own throat for looking at your beer too long.
You don’t let anyone touch your shit. Ever.
And now I’m supposed to believe you went soft for the little bitch who blew up your mission, stabbed you, stole your truck—your fucking truck—and talks to you like she wants her teeth knocked in?
” He laughs. “No. You don’t save people, Priest. You don’t give a single fuck about anyone but yourself. So who the hell is she?”
I say nothing. Just pop another stick of gum and grind it between my teeth.
I should have shot her. When she grabbed that scalpel. When she stole my truck. When she fucking stabbed me.
But I didn’t.
Pain, death—those are the only things that ever get through the goddamn void in my chest. When I inflict them, when I watch someone break, when I see the light leave their eyes—that’s the closest I get to feeling human.
And yet, tonight…it didn’t work.
I should’ve felt that rush, that fire in my veins, when I thought about putting a bullet between her eyes. The satisfaction of silencing her smart-ass mouth should’ve been electric. Instead, there was nothing. No fire, no rage—just silence.
Scared the hell out of me.
Not because I was soft.
Because it meant something in me was shorting out.
“Maybe all this was her,” Alistair says, his gaze fixed on me.
“Her IDs are fake, multiple cell phones. Maybe she’s a spy.
Someone’s asset. Sent to target you. She just happened to be there when the warehouse blew up.
Maybe that was meant to take you out. And when it failed, she improvised.
She’s trying to get close, finding ways to—”
That does it.
I’m on my feet in a flash, the chair scraping violently across the floor.
“You think this is about me?” I snap, stepping into Alistair’s space. “You think some half-starved stray was sent to seduce a fucking General? She’s not that clever. She’s not that dangerous.”
Dalton snorts. “Then why is she still breathing?”
I grab him by the collar, slam him into the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap drywall. “Keep testing me. See how fast I cut the fat from your ribs and feed it to your fucking dog.”
He freezes. I feel his pulse hammering under my grip.
“You think I’m protecting her?” I lean in closer. “I’m studying her. And when I’m done…” I release him and step back. “She won’t need a grave. Just a bucket.”
Dalton coughs, adjusting his collar like he hasn’t pissed himself. Alistair doesn’t speak, but his eyes stay sharp.
They don’t trust me.
I don’t trust them.
And the truth is—none of us knows if this was meant for me…or one of them. A backdoor deal gone sideways. A mark unpaid. A favor denied. Everyone here’s made enemies.
I don’t wait for their response. I shove the door open and slam it shut behind me. The echo ricocheting down the narrow hallway.
The gum in my mouth grinds between my teeth, sharp mint slicing through the haze in my head. I spit it into a nearby trash can with enough force to splatter against the metal.
Before I know it, I’m stalking toward the medical room. I swing the door open, the silence inside broken only by the soft cadence of her breathing.
She’s laid out on the stainless-steel table, jeans gone, a strip of white gauze slapped across her thigh. A nurse patched her up a while ago. Her tank top’s ridden up her stomach, exposing her tight, toned body. Her head’s tilted to the side, dark brown hair spilling across her face.
My gaze drags lower, to the black scrap of underwear riding her hips, barely covering anything.
I’m already hard.
My fingers brush against the edge of the gauze. I wonder if the wound will scar? Hope it does. I hover my thumb over the gauze. One flick. That’s all it would take.
I could split it open again. Rewatch her bleed and scream. I press—not hard. Just enough to feel the tension in her body change. Even asleep, she knows something isn’t right.
Sliding my hand beneath her tank top, I push it higher, inch by inch, exposing her tits to the cold air. My palm settles over one, it’s full and warm. Her nipple tightens against my skin. She shifts, a faint noise escaping her lips.
My other hand curls around my Glock.
Sliding the muzzle across her ribs, then up slowly until the barrel rests against her temple. She jerks awake, breath hitching. Her eyes open wide, confusion flaring into panic, and then—
That fucking glare.
Baring my teeth in a grin, I press the gun harder against her skull. “Rise and fucking shine, kitten.”
I drag the barrel down the side of her face, over her cheekbone, then lower, trailing it across her throat until it rests in the valley between her breasts.
“I could kill you right now. Wouldn’t even be hard. One twitch.” I lean closer, inhaling the scent of blood, sweat, and the goddamn chaos clinging to her skin.
She smells like violence.
Like something I want to break. Something I should break.
“You should’ve bled out on the street,” I murmur against her throat. “But instead, I dragged your pathetic body here and had you stitched up.”
My hand slides back down her body, gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise. “You know what that makes you?” I tighten my grip.
“My fucking property.”
Her lips part like she might speak.
“Don’t fucking move.” I press the gun harder against her throat.
“Stop fuck—”
Jesus, her fucking mouth. The words barely leave her lips before I’m moving. I straddle her, my weight pinning her in place. Reaching for the zip ties on a nearby tray, I hold her legs down and secure her thrashing ankles
“I said, don’t. Fucking. Move.” I punctuate each word with a vicious twist of the plastic against her ankles.
She bucks beneath me, but it’s useless. I sit back on my heels, taking in the sight of her.
Her wrists and ankles now bound, she’s spread out before me like a goddamn sacrifice.
I should be focused on a million other things, but all I can think about is how fucking beautiful she looks like this.
I want her to feel every inch of power she doesn’t have.
To know she’s at the mercy of a man who doesn’t have any.
Standing up, I position myself next to her head and yank her toward me. Her head hangs over the edge, eyes wide as I press the barrel against the hollow of her throat once more. She gasps, the soft sound of surrender stoking a primal hunger in me.
“You talk too much. Let’s see how much you learned the last time I fucked your throat.”
One hand keeps the gun jammed against her throat. The other drags my zipper down, freeing my cock. She tries to twist away, lips clamped shut, but her head’s pinned to the table—trapped between the steel and my body.
I don’t want her fucking biting me.
Slowly, I slide the gun down her body. Her breath hitches as I shove it past the waistband of her underwear. She freezes until the muzzle kisses her clit, causing her hips to jerk.
“Open your mouth. You bite me, I shoot you in the cunt.”
I press the barrel lower—harder—until the metal forces her entrance open.
A strangled gasp tears from her throat.
But she doesn’t scream. Not yet.
“Good girl.” I run my cock down her jaw, then slap it on her cheek once. “Keep it open.”
She does. Barely.
I slide into her mouth, slow at first. Her lips stretch, choking around the thickness. I push deeper, her throat convulsing as I bury the full length down her throat. Her hands claw at the table’s edge.
She gags.
I pull out, and a ragged gasp of relief fills the air. But before she can catch her breath, I slam back in, bottoming out. Again and again. My hips snap in a relentless rhythm, driving my cock down her throat as she chokes and sputters.
Tears spill down her cheeks. I smear them with my thumb, pressing them into her skin. I drive the gun in her cunt, pushing deeper with every thrust, and I feel the shudder that racks her body.
She’s terrified. Angry. Desperate.