Chapter 21
I’ve been staring at the nightstand so long my eyes burn.
My necklace is sitting there. The chain’s been fixed. Clasp repaired.
And next to it—
A fucking gold tooth. Still caked in blood.
How fucking dare he.
What the fuck is this even supposed to be? A sick apology? A trophy to remind me of what he’s capable of?
The anger inside me flares.
I shoot out of bed before I can think better of it, my hand already on the doorknob.
Multiple male voices drift through the bunker.
Arsen told me more Sovereign were on the way, I’m not ready for new faces.
But my anger outweighs my fear, so I yank the door open and storm out, heading straight for the voices.
The living room quiets the second I storm in. Seven men—huge, scarred, tattooed, killers.
I scan the faces, stopping when I see Priest. He’s sitting on the couch, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingertips. Watching me like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“You fucking bastard.”
He doesn’t respond. Or react. Just stares at me with those dark blue, piercing eyes. I storm across the room. My hand lifts before I can stop it.
But he’s faster.
His fingers tightly clamp around my wrist.
“Careful, kitten,” he says, dragging me down until I crash into his lap. Straddling his thighs. Caged in by his body. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself more.”
His lips brush my palm.
My entire body locks. Rage burns through me. I try to pull my wrist free, but his grip is too strong. My chest heaves against his. His thumb strokes the skin on the inside of my wrist.
“Let me go.” I yank harder.
He releases me, and I scramble off his lap, humiliated and furious. He watches me with that same unreadable stare, sipping his whiskey.
“Arsen!” I shout, spinning toward the hallway. “I want my cash and my passports. I’m fucking leaving.”
Footsteps echo behind me, and I know it’s him. I can feel the heat of his presence.
Arsen steps out, blocking the hallway. “Arlo—”
“Did you tell her Lev is still alive?” Priest’s words steal the oxygen out of my lungs.
I freeze.
Arsen curses in Russian. “You son of a bitch. I didn’t want to tell her until we knew for sure.”
My pulse slams into my ears. My knees go weak.
“What the hell is he talking about, Arsen?”
Arsen sighs, eyes flashing to mine. “We’ve located him, yes. But there is no official report on his status. We don’t know if he’s alive or dead. We’re working on it.”
Alive.
My father might be alive. All these years. All this time thinking he was gone, and now—
I press my back to the wall to keep from collapsing. Priest steps closer, towering over me.
“Where is he?” I manage. “Where’s my father?”
“Facility 42,” Arsen says.
“What is that? Where?”
“An underground Sovereign prison in the Arctic Circle. It’s a fucking tomb, Arlo.” Arsen answers.
“Then we need to get to him,” I say, pushing off the wall.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Arsen, my father has been alive. You don’t get to tell me what’s simple. I’ll go myself if I have to.”
“Jesus, Arlo,” Arsen snaps. “This isn’t some noble rescue mission. It’s suicide. The place is sealed like a vault. There’s one way in, and nobody comes out. You can’t even scratch the outer wall without triggering a full lockdown.”
My gaze bounces between them.
“We’ll get him out. Won’t we, Arsen?” Priest says.
Arsen cuts him a glare, then looks back at me. “I’m still gathering intel. When I know more, you’ll know. But until then, you’re staying here on fucking lockdown. End of discussion.” He turns and disappears down the hall, slamming a door behind him.
My blood pounds. My skin feels too tight. I can’t think past the words echoing in my skull:
He’s alive.
The world tilts. My breath comes shallow. I don’t know if I want to scream or rip something apart.
Priest steps closer.
I lift my chin, meeting his stare with every ounce of venom I have left.
“I hate you. With every fucking part of me. He was mine to kill. You had no right.”
His eyes flicker—just for a second—but then that smug, infuriating smirk creeps back. The one I want to carve off his stupid face.
He takes another step toward me. I don’t move. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Not again.
“You want to know what I did to him?” His voice drops, low and taunting. “I’ll tell you. Every detail. How he begged. How he cried. How he choked on his own teeth after pissing himself.”
My nails bite into my palms so hard I feel skin split.
“Everything he did to you. I carved into him. Worse.”
“Worse? You assault me, humiliate me, betray me, hand me over naked and bleeding—then suddenly you’re my fucking avenger?” I shove his hand away when he tries to touch my face. “Don’t. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to pretend you’re anything but the same sick bastard you killed.”
“You’re wasting your breath, kitten. That fire in your chest? That’s me. I’m under your skin now. You’ll never claw me out.”
“I’m going to kill you, Priest.”
“Good.” His smile widens. “Make it hurt.”
I shove him hard. He barely moves—just laughs under his breath.
“Hurry up and get stronger,” he says, turning his back on me without a glance. “We get your father first. Then, if you’re still breathing, you can take your shot.”
The bastard laughs, walking to the living room with the others.
The bunker’s filling fast. Sovereigns from other Sections answering Arsen’s distress call. Loyalty runs deep for some of them. Or maybe it’s just the promise of blood.
We’ve barely scratched the surface of Sterling’s encrypted files, but it’s already clear he isn’t working alone. We just don’t know how deep this rot runs. The other High Chancellors? The Council? No one can be trusted. Not yet.
Sterling’s been calling us traitors. Had our statuses revoked. Kill-on-sight orders. Me. Raze. Arsen. Wolff. All labeled threats to the Order we bled for.
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so fucking close to snapping.
We can’t go public. Can’t reach out to the other Sections. Not with the target on our backs. Sterling has influence. He controls the narrative. He’s hiding something big, and Lev might be the only one who knows what it is.
Arsen’s betting everything on that.
He left this morning. Took a covert team and disappeared into the fucking ice.
Facility 42.
He told Arlo we were still gathering intel. Lied straight to her face. Said we didn’t know if Lev was alive. But we do. He’s in there.
What we don’t know is if there’s anything left of him.
Facility 42 isn’t just some high-security holding cell. It’s a graveyard for Sovereign ghosts. No sunlight. No clocks. No names. Just concrete, cold, and madness. They strip you down to nothing. Just pain and torture without reason.
So yeah—Lev Voronin might still be breathing, but that doesn’t mean shit. Not in that place. For all we know, he’s already broken. Mind gone. Body half-dead. Another empty shadow, rotting in the dark.
And while Arsen’s out there risking everything to get him back, I’m here.
A sitting fucking duck.
Pacing this bunker, waiting for news that may never come. I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t breathe without thinking about her. Without hearing her scream in the back of my skull.
I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
Right on fucking cue, her scream cuts down the hallway.
I bolt.
Barging into her bedroom.
She’s curled in bed—sweat-soaked, trembling, and thrashing. Her face is wet with tears. Her fists beat the air.
She needs me.
I crawl on top of her and pin her down hard, caging her with my body. She fights, kicking, scratching, screaming. Her nails tear at my skin, her voice ragged with panic.
“Let me go!” she screams—but it’s not me she sees.
“It’s okay, kitten,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes.
Her forehead drops to my chest. Her breath catches, warm and shaky against my skin. She curls into me, sobbing, in her sleep.
“I hate you,” she mumbles. “I fucking hate you.”
Even in her nightmares, she hates me.
But she’s clinging to me anyway.
Her nails dig in. I let them. Let her pain etch itself into me. If she needs to shred me apart just to breathe—I’ll let her.
I hold her tighter.
“I know. But you’re safe.”
Her breathing evens out. Her body melts into mine as she falls deeper into sleep. I stroke her hair, my fingers trailing the curve of her jaw, the slope of her throat. Her cheek rests against my chest like she belongs there.
I hate how it settles me. How the chaos shuts the fuck up when she’s in my arms. My hand drifts down, tracing the curve of her waist, the pull of her hip. She’s too warm. Too perfect. I can’t stop touching her. Can’t stop needing the way she makes me feel—like I’m not all void and jagged edges.
“I’ll make you feel good, little one.”
I shift down her body, kissing the sweat-damp skin between her ribs. Parting her thighs, I settle between them. My tongue flicks over her stomach, tasting salt and heat.
She gasps. Her legs tighten around my shoulders. Her hips roll against my mouth, soft moans escaping.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.
I press my thumb to her clit, and her hips jerk, thighs tensing under my grip. I shove her underwear aside and drag my tongue through her folds.
Sweet. Fucking sweet.
Better than I remember.
My cock twitches against the mattress, desperate for friction. I grind down, groaning into her heat, my hands tightening on her thighs to pin her to my mouth. I lick deeper, tongue curling inside her, chasing that sound—the soft gasp she makes when I graze her clit with my teeth.
She bucks. Writhes. Her body moving on instinct, trying to grind against my face. Her cunt’s soaked. Her moans are turning ragged.
And her scent…
Her scent’s fucking everything.
It cuts through the static. The rage. The noise in my skull that never shuts the fuck up—gone. Just…gone.
No screams. No flashbacks. No hell.
Just her.
Just peace.
I groan and bury my mouth in her again, licking like I’m starving, sucking her clit until her thighs shake.
I slide two fingers inside, pumping hard and fast, curling them just right.
Her walls clench. Her back arches. Her breath breaks on a cry as she comes, soaking my hand and mouth, her body spasming under my mouth.
I don’t stop. Not until the last tremor fades.
When I finally pull back, her legs twitch and fall open, her chest rising in soft, steady breaths.
I drag my fingers from her, watching the slick glisten in the low light. Her body’s loose, pliant, her face relaxed for once. I’ve hurt her so many times—ripped her apart piece by piece—but now she sleeps wrapped in me. Like I’m safe.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
She’s not safe.
Not from me.
Sliding up her body, I settle between her thighs, my cock stiff and leaking. I grip it tight and stroke, letting her warmth surround me. My head drops to the crook of her neck, and I inhale deep.
Fucking hell.
I pump harder. Faster. My teeth scrape her skin. I bite down when the pressure builds, tasting her sweat, then blood, as I break the surface.
She stirs. A soft sound. Then stills again.
It’s enough.
My release rips through me, my cock jerking as I spill across her stomach. I keep stroking through it, growling into her throat, marking her skin with every breath.
When it’s done, I drag my tongue over the bite, tasting iron and salt and her.
And lie there, breathing her in.
Because this is the only place—the only time—I’m not in hell.
With her.
Covering her in everything I am.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock. Her skin is flushed and sweaty. I run my finger through the mess on her stomach, smearing it across her skin, my breathing slowly returning to normal.
“Kitten,” I whisper, kissing the mark I left on her skin, “what am I going to do with you?”