Chapter 15 Priest
Cheers erupt as I walk into the Command Center. Someone shoves a glass in my hand. Another smacks me on the back.
I drain the whiskey in one pull. Don’t even fucking feel it.
Not the burn.
Not the hands.
Not a damn thing.
Dalton and Alistair were right. The thought is bitter just admitting it. The little bitch was too good to be true. I knew it when I saw her. Eyes full of secrets. Something was off. But I didn’t dig. Didn’t press. I let her lie. Let her get under my skin.
Stupid fucking cunt.
“Now that we’ve got her in the Depths,” Raze says, smirking as he hands me the whole whiskey bottle, “it’s only a matter of time before she gives up the bastards who ambushed us. Lev Voronin’s daughter.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Fucking hell.”
Lev Voronin.
The Fallen Shadow.
One of the deadliest assassins the South Section ever produced—until he snapped. Tried to burn the whole Section to the ground. Take down Sterling. Gut the Commanders. Never said why. Never gave up who else was involved. Just lit the match and let the chaos spread.
He didn’t just turn on Sterling.
He turned on all of us.
Left the Sections bleeding. Paranoid. Killing their own in search of ghosts.
Sterling didn’t even waste a stage on him. Executed him alone in the Depths. Exactly how a traitor should die.
I’d heard rumors that he had a kid. Guess they were true.
I grit my teeth and down another gulp of whiskey. She played it well. Played me. The whole damn time she was lying. And I let her in. Let her get close enough to try and take me out. Trying to finish what her father started all those years ago.
Now she’s in a cage. Where she belongs.
“Fucking bastard!”
The hit blindsides me. My head whips sideways, teeth crunching, glass exploding as the bottle shatters on the floor. The whole room freezes.
Arsen doesn’t. He’s already on me again.
I catch the second punch, twist his wrist until the tendons grind, and drive my fist into his ribs hard enough to feel something give. He chokes, folds, but keeps swinging.
We go down hard, chairs splintering under the weight of us. We’re torn apart by Raze and half the room.
“Let me go!” Arsen roars, spitting, wild-eyed.
“You’ve got a fucking death wish.” I twist against Raze’s grip.
“Take a fucking walk,” Raze barks as someone shoves Arsen toward the door. Arsen rips free, face a bloodied mess, and storms out.
I shake off the hands on me, blood dripping down my temple. “What the fuck is his problem?”
“He’s unhinged,” Raze mutters, eyes still on the door. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He’s been trying to call you all night,” someone adds.
I glance at the desk where I left my phone. Screen lit up with missed calls. Dozens. Maybe more. I walk over, pick it up. Scroll through the notifications. Arsen. Over and over. I delete all of them.
“Forget him,” Raze grins. “We’re celebrating tonight. The fucking Prince saved the Trinity!”
More cheers.
I don’t smile. I don’t respond.
I fucking hate that name.
And Raze knows it.
The house is vibrating with bass. Bodies grind and sway in every corner. The stink of sweat, sex, booze, weed, even blood. Feels like a Sovereign carnival from hell.
Raze is balls-deep in some Sovereign Slut on the dining table, her heels digging into the wood. He’s high out of his fucking mind, eyes glazed, fingers gripping her throat.
The gum in my mouth turned to rubber half an hour ago. I spit it onto the floor and shove the bitch off my cock. Her mouth was sloppy. She whines, her lipstick smeared halfway to her chin, mascara dripping. Nipples raw and blue from being slapped.
Another Slut crawls into my lap. Blonde with pierced tits. She rubs her nipple against my mouth.
“Come on, Priest,” she moans, grinding her soaked panties on my jeans. “Bite them. Please?” I shove her off. The other Slut tries again. I backhand her jaw to shut her up and stuff my cock back into my pants.
“Fucking boring,” I mutter, yanking up my zipper.
They whimper desperately behind me, still trying to make it worth my while—but I’m already done. Nothing gets me off. Not tonight. Not with my mind spiraling back to shit I should’ve buried deeper. Shit I thought I buried.
I snatch a beer off the table, crack it open with my teeth, and take a long pull.
Stealing a lit joint from some rookie Sovereign too scared to meet my eyes. He opens his mouth to protest—then thinks better of it. I blow smoke in his direction as I stalk toward Jackson.
He’s hunched over a Slut’s ass, tattooing the word owned while she drools into the cushion, high off whatever cocktail they pumped into her.
I slump into the chair beside him and rip off my hoodie, tossing it onto the sticky floor. I scribble what I want on a napkin and shove it toward him.
Jackson glances up, brow raised. “Since when do you get tatted when you’re sober?”
“I’m not. And I’m leaving tomorrow. Might as well bleed before I go.”
He slaps the girl’s ass. She yelps and scrambles away.
He glances at the napkin, then at me. “Where?”
I point to my forearm.
Jackson frowns. “I can’t tattoo broken skin.”
I glare.
“If you go septic, that’s on you,” he mumbles before dousing my arm in alcohol. I don’t flinch. Pain is welcome. Pain makes sense.
“Where you headed?” he asks while prepping the needle.
“East Coast Section.”
“How long?”
“Few weeks. Maybe more.”
He nods and gets to work.
I lean back, sucking on the joint, the beer sweating in my hand, pretending the pain in my arm is why my chest feels tight. Pretending it’s not because some traitorous little cunt with blood on her name and venom in her smile got in my head.
Fucked me up.
And now I’m leaving.
Because if I stay—I’ll never be able to claw her out from under my fucking skin.