Chapter 13
The club is empty.
“Sure you’re good to close?” Ivan asks, wiping down the bar, his accent thicker when he’s tired.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, scrubbing dishes harder than necessary. Hot water scalds my cracked hands, the sting grounding me.
Ivan mumbles in Russian, shaking his head before slipping out the back door. Finally.
I shove the last dishes away and dry my hands, mind spinning. It’s not the stitches in my leg that have me ready to crawl out of my skin. It’s everything else—the shooting, the Sovereign, him. The last few days I’ve been planning my next move. Time to pack up and move again.
“Stupid little girl. Thought you could run?”
That voice stops my heart.
His hand clamps around my throat before I can turn. I’m slammed against the counter, the air ripped from my lungs. My nails claw at his forearm as he yanks me off the ground. Legs kicking wildly, I land a few solid hits to his knees—but it doesn’t even phase him.
Priest lifts me higher.
Slams my back into the wall.
The world tilts.
I can’t breathe.
His grip tightens until stars spark at the edges of my vision.
“You just don’t learn,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Struggle again and I’ll choke you until you piss yourself.”
I bare my teeth, even as the pressure crushes my windpipe. I slam my heel into his shin.
His hand slams my head back against the drywall.
Darkness swallows me.
I come to, gasping, arms stretched overhead, wrists burning. My feet barely graze the floor. Ropes bite into my skin. My legs wobble uselessly beneath me.
He stands in front of me, massive.
A fucking monster. All black—shirt, jeans, boots. Built like a god of death. The fucking devil.
“What the fuck do you want from me? You get off on stalking women now?”
He tilts his head, pulls a knife from his back pocket, and flicks it open.
“You’re a fucking liability. And I clean up liabilities.”
My stomach flips. Not from fear. From rage.
“Then fucking do it,” I snap. “Slit my throat and be done with it, you goddamn coward.”
He smirks and steps in close.
The blade glides along my collarbone, then down. He drags it under my shirt, slicing the fabric clean open. My skin prickles as cold air meets flesh.
“You should be grateful,” he murmurs. “Most people die before they ever feel me touch them.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He chuckles before he cuts the last shreds of my tank top, then moves to my jeans. I twist and kick, but he roughly grips my ankle. The blade nicks my thigh. I hiss as blood wells up. He smears it with his thumb and licks it from his hand.
“You taste like a fucking problem.”
“And you smell like a walking STD.”
He grabs my face. Forces my gaze to his.
“I should carve your tongue out.”
“Do it,” I bite back. “Then you don’t have to listen to all the ways I think you’re a pathetic waste of air.”
His eyes flare as his hand wraps around my throat again, squeezing—hard.
Then his other hand dips between my legs. Rips what’s left of my underwear off with one violent tug. I thrash, screaming, but there’s nowhere to go.
He roughly shoves two fingers in me.
I cry out.
His grin widens.
“You’re so tight.”
He steps back for half a second, pulling out his thick, veiny cock. He fists it slowly, lining it up with my body. His eyes drop.
“So fucking small,” he murmurs, darkly fascinated. “Barely a hundred pounds of attitude. You feel this?” His cock presses against my belly. “You’re gonna break, kitten.”
I spit in his stupid face.
He doesn’t even blink. Just spits right back, the hot mess hitting my lips and chin.
“That’s it. Swallow it. You love when I make you filthy.” His voice is a low growl in my ear. “Your body’s already giving you away.”
The taste hits my tongue and I want to gag—but my thighs clench instead. Heat flushes my cheeks, not just from the humiliation but from the sharp, electric jolt low in my stomach. I hate that I’m wet. Hate that he can feel it.
My arms ache, ropes biting into raw, blood-slicked wrists as I twist and claw. I kick back, my heel scraping uselessly against his shin. He grips my ass in both hands and lifts me like I weigh nothing, his chest crushing against my back.
I jolt when his cock drags between my ass cheeks.
“I could rip your ass open right now. Make you bleed. Make you scream. Fuck you until your insides tear, and you couldn’t stop me. You’d just hang here, dripping all over the floor, that useless little pussy sobbing for attention.”
“Go to hell.”
He slams two fingers into me again. The stretch makes me choke on a sob. My thighs tremble, my body reacting against my will.
“I’d fuck you bloody and you’d still come. You’d cry and scream and hate it—hate me—but your little cunt would milk my cock like the greedy, filthy whore you are.”
I violently shake my head. But my body betrays me.
“Don’t lie to me. You want this. You need it. To be broken. To be used.”
His hand moves to my clit. My hips jerk, the friction sending shockwaves up my spine. I thrash, spit flying, tears slipping hot down my cheeks as I try to twist away.
“You feel that?” He pants, sliding his cock up and down in my crack. “Feel how fucking close you are? I’m not even inside you, and you’re going to come. Pathetic little toy. Just a set of holes to be used. Come for me.” He slaps my clit with his fingers. “Fucking now, or I’ll carve it off.”
He pinches hard, and my body splinters. I scream as pleasure tears through me. My vision goes white. My muscles seize.
The shame hits harder than the orgasm.
And he doesn’t stop.
His cock grinds faster between my ass cheeks, and my head lolls back as another orgasm builds too fast, too violent. I’m sobbing, convulsing, hating every second of it.
He groans, his cock twitches, and hot, sticky ropes of cum hit my back. Sliding down my skin. Pooling between my shoulder blades. I want to scream. I want to die.
Instead, I hang there. Used. Disgusting.
He drags his fingers through his release and smears it across my back, down my spine, over my ass. Then he forces his hand to my mouth. I clamp my lips shut, shaking my head.
“Open.”
No.
He grabs my jaw, shoving his fingers past my lips, coating my tongue with the bitter taste of him. My stomach lurches and I gag.
“Clean your mess. Lick it up. Suck my fucking fingers like the mouthy little brat you are.”
He doesn’t let go until I swallow. Then he cups my pussy again, fingers digging in roughly.
“Next time, I’m splitting you in two. This cunt?” He squeezes hard. “It belongs to me.”
He steps back, tucking himself away. I spit in his face again, and he laughs, wiping it with the back of his hand before he licks it. Then turns toward the door.
“Have fun getting out of those,” he murmurs without looking back. Leaving me bound. Shaking. Violated.
The Command Center doors at the Vault slam shut behind me with a clang that echoes through the steel-lined room. The air hums with tension and tech. Screens flash with satellite feeds and heat signatures, and a dozen faceless techs clack away at computers.
Raze is at the center console, leaning over the largest screen.
“Thought you were on lockdown, Prince Charming,” a smug Russian drawl cuts through the static.
I don’t even need to look. That fucker’s voice is unmistakable.
Arseny Zakharov. Another Sovereign General. Buzzed head, thick scar slicing down his jaw. He’s perched like he owns the place—feet propped up on a desk, smoke curling from a half-dead cigarette.
“Your sorry ass get roped into this mess too, Arsen?” I sneer, strolling past him. “Or did they promise you the best little Sovereign Slut to suck your dick if you play nice?”
He grins without humor. “Nyet. Something better. I get to babysit you.”
I flip him off and shoulder past to Raze’s station.
Arsen may be a prick, but I’ll admit it—he’s lethal. Former FSB with a kill count that makes most Sovereigns look like toddlers with plastic knives. He recruits monsters. Trains them. Unleashes them.
And I’ve seen what he does to recruits who don’t pass inspection.
He hates Sterling almost as much as I do. Not that he’ll ever make a move. Arsen’s loyal to power. Doesn’t matter whose dick it’s attached to.
“Fucker,” Raze grunts without looking at me. “I told you to stay home. These guys? They’re clean. Pro-level. Whoever planned this wasn’t fucking around.”
“I don’t take orders from you. And I sure as fuck don’t take orders from that geriatric cunt.”
“I’m sure he loves when you call him that,” Arsen smirks, flicking ash on the floor.
Raze taps a few keys, and the main screen lights up with grainy security footage from the warehouse. He starts breaking down gear specs and caliber types, talking quickly. At the same time, Arsen throws out names of possible suppliers.
I should be listening, dissecting the threat like I’m trained to.
But I’m not.
I’m thinking about her.
About the burner phone I lifted from her, still tucked in my coat pocket. I should’ve killed her tonight. But instead, I stripped her. Tied her. Used her.
I don’t even know her fucking name.
That ends now.
Tossing all my shit onto a desk, I drop into a chair. As Raze and Arsen bicker over suppliers, I pull the cracked phone from my pocket. It’s so old it wheezes to life.
I plug it into the computer, fingers twitching. The screen flickers and lags. A fucking relic.
But when the data loads—
My blood snaps.
My jaw grinds so hard my molars threaten to shatter.
A slow, razor-sharp grin carves across my face.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Arsen asks, pausing mid-argument when he catches the look in my eye.
I don’t answer. Just stare at the screen.
The burn under my skin is molten. My fingers twitch over the keyboard, but I don’t click anything. Not yet. Because if I do, I’ll rip the entire room apart. I’ll put a bullet through the monitor, through every tech, through Arsen just for fucking breathing near me.
She’s fucking dead.
I stand, the chair screeching across the concrete. The phone’s still hooked up, but I don’t need to see more. I’ve seen enough to end her.
But death?
Too easy.
I want her screaming. I want her begging.
Time to rip this cunt out from under my skin and bleed her fucking dry.