Chapter 19 Priest
Sterling.
That motherfucking rat bastard.
My jaw ticks as I pace the bunker Arsen dragged us to: concrete walls, steel framing, barely furnished.
Figures the old man finally grew a spine—and aimed it at me.
I can’t sit. I’ve been circling the same ten feet like a caged animal, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. My mind won’t shut the fuck up. All this time—every drop of blood I’ve spilled for the Sovereign—and now I’m the fucking liability?
Arsen swears the intel traced the hit back to Sterling. Said he pulled what he could without being flagged. But the rest is locked behind Sovereign firewalls. Someone on the backup team might be able to crack it when they land.
Raze steps into the living room, flops down onto the battered couch with a grunt. “Arsen and Wolff are planning to extract Alistair and Dalton once the team shows. I think I should be there with them.”
I nod, eyes locked on the floor.
Tension coils in my chest.
Sterling’s always hated me. Since the day I clawed my way out of hell. He never wanted me back—only tolerated me because I’m too lethal to waste. But Alistair and Dalton worship that man. They’d slit their own throats if he asked. Bleed out smiling just to make him proud.
And now he’s trying to erase them?
My lip curls.
For what? Control? Paranoia? Some twisted power play to wipe the slate clean and rebuild it in his image?
If he’s willing to kill off his own bloodline to do it…
That makes him more dangerous than I thought.
And a hell of a lot more stupid. Because I’m still breathing, and when I come for him, there won’t be a throne left to rule.
A scream slices through the bunker. I’m moving before I think. Down the hall, shoving open a door without knocking. The room is dark and cold.
Arlo’s screaming.
She thrashes on the bed, limbs tangled in the sheets. Her face slick with sweat. Her eyes are shut but she’s fighting something. I’m at her side in two strides. My hand touches her arm. She lashes out—nails rake across my cheek.
“Arlo!”
Her chest heaves in ragged bursts.
She doesn’t wake.
“Won’t do any good.”
Arsen’s voice is behind me. I spin halfway, still watching her.
“She’s pumped full of sedatives. Keeps her under, but it doesn’t stop the nightmares. Same thing. Every damn night.”
Something twists in me. It’s not guilt. I don’t do guilt. But whatever it is makes my jaw lock.
She flinches again, curled in on herself, shaking so hard the bedframe rattles.
I grab her shoulders and drag her upright. Her body fights me on instinct. Nails, elbows—she’s pure adrenaline and fear. She hits me again.
“Kitten.” The word cuts out of me before I can stop it. I don’t know why the fuck I said it. I don’t even remember the last time I called her that.
But her screaming dies.
She doesn’t go still, not fully. But the fight fades. Her breathing turns shallow, pulse slowing under my palm. Her head drops against my shoulder.
Arsen’s quiet behind me. Watching. I can feel it.
Her shirt’s soaked through—sweat, blood, maybe both. I shift, drag her fully into my lap, and that’s when I feel it.
Stitches. Deep. Running the length of her spine.
Her thighs are covered in bruises, some yellowed, others fresh and swelling. There’s a gash behind her ear, still crusted. Her fingers are wrapped in medical tape, two of them splinted at the joints. One’s swollen—either broken or dislocated. Probably both.
My grip tightens. Muscles locked. Jaw grinding as I fight the urge to put my fist through the wall.
“What did they do to her?” I mutter.
“She wouldn’t say,” Arsen answers, leaning against the doorframe. “Let me stitch her up. That’s it.”
I don’t look at her face. Don’t trust myself to.
“Did they rape her?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“She had me pick up a morning-after pill. I didn’t ask why.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw. “She’s not on birth control?”
“I don’t fucking know. She’s nineteen, Priest. Nineteen. She lost everything when they took Lev. She’s been alone since. I wasn’t about to interrogate her while she was bleeding through the sheets.”
The bruises on her jaw catch the light. Her face is wrecked. The mattress shifts beneath me with her weight, and I realize she’s wearing one of Arsen’s shirts.
That pisses me off more than it should.
“What is she to you?” The words taste rotten in my mouth. “I know you’re the one who pulled her out of the Depths.”
He lets out a deep breath. “Lev recruited me to the Sovereign from FSB. Trained me. Made me who I am. She was five when I met her. I tried to find her after they captured him, but she vanished. Took years to track her. By the time I did, she’d built a life.
I stayed back. Watched. Protected her from a distance.
I owed Lev that much. She made mistakes.
Got involved in stupid shit. But she stayed off the Sovereign’s radar… until you.”
I stare at her. My arms still around her. Her breath tickling the skin of my neck. My chest rises and falls with hers.
Wolff’s voice echoes down the hall. “Arsen. We need a supply run.”
Arsen shifts toward the door.
“I’m staying in here,” I say, already repositioning us onto the bed. She curls unconsciously against me. My body tenses.
“Fine,” Arsen mutters, watching too long. “Only reason I’m letting it slide is that she finally stopped screaming. But when she wakes up—don’t let her see you in here. She fucking hates you.”
He walks out. I hear him and Wolff leave, and the outer bunker door locks behind them.
Her breath warms the side of my throat as I stare at the ceiling.
Whatever this is?
I don’t fucking want it.
And I sure as hell don’t know how to make it stop.