Chapter 24
My head feels dazed as I slowly wake up, my lashes fluttering against my cheek. My entire body aches, stiff and sore.
My thighs throb.
Still caught in that hazy in-between, I fumble for the nightstand, fingers searching blindly. My hand hits the bottle, and it clatters to the floor.
“Shit.”
I throw off the sheet, sit up, and reach down with a wince, twisting my useless fingers around the plastic cap. I swallow two pills, dry, and lean back, trying to breathe as the haze starts to lift.
Something feels…off.
The sound of multiple boots echoes down the hallway, with urgent and loud voices.
What the hell?
I move to the door, pressing my ear to the wood. Shadows flicker underneath. My pulse spikes. The fog clears instantly—adrenaline wiping it out.
Before I can react, the door slams open.
“What the—!” I jerk back.
Priest storms in, his eyes feral.
“We need to move. Now.”
“What are you talking about?” I grab a hoodie and shove it over Arsen’s shirt.
He closes the space between us in two strides, grabs my arm. I rip it free.
“Hey! I asked you a question—”
He crowds me until my back is against the wall. “Listen, and listen fucking carefully. The Sovereign found us. We need to move.” His hand clamps my chin, forcing my eyes up. “Did you take something?”
“What?”
He glances at the nightstand. His jaw ticks. “You did.”
“I needed the pain pills, asshole.”
“You can’t fucking shoot if you’re high.”
“I’m not high,” I snap, even though I kind of am.
“It doesn’t matter. We need to go. Now.”
Before I can argue, he grabs me and hauls me into the hall. Men in full gear rush past, weapons locked and loaded.
“Move.” He shoves me forward into the armory. I stumble, head spinning. Then he throws a vest at me. “Put this on.”
He’s already strapping it to my body before I can react, his fingers digging into my waist. I hiss, the stitches in my back tugging.
“Jesus, stop.” I swat his hands away and fumble with the straps myself.
He watches, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—then presses a handgun to my chest and grabs a rifle for himself.
“Take it.”
I glare. “I want a rifle.”
“You’ll take what I give you.” His jaw clenches as shouts echo in the hallway.
“My hands work better braced on a stock than wrapped around this toy.” I lift the pistol, wincing as my sore fingers strain against the grip. “You want me to be useful or not?”
For a second, I think he’ll snap my neck for questioning him. Then—abruptly—he grabs my hand, adjusting my grip with force. Pain shoots up my fingers and I flinch.
He freezes. Eyes flick down to where I’m wincing under his hold. The pause is brief, then he drops my hand and shoves a rifle into my chest.
“We are about to be under attack. You stay with me. You got that?” He steps closer.
“I—”
“I don’t care if the truck goes up in flames. If I’m bleeding out in a fucking ditch. If I’m dead on the floor—” His hand clamps over my face, spanning nearly my whole skull, forcing my eyes on him. “You do not leave my side.”
My throat goes dry.
“Arlo!”
“Okay,” I snap, anger and fear colliding in my chest. He stares at me one second longer—then we’re moving.
Down the hall, into the garage, the entire place crawling with men armed to the teeth. Every breath feels heavy—his hand never leaving the small of my back.
Raze, Wolff, and the others are there, loading up multiple armored trucks.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, trying to steady my voice as I look for Arsen.
Raze doesn’t look at me. “Kill as many of these fuckers as we can and get to another bunker.”
Priest shoves me toward a truck without a word. I stumble, catch myself, and climb in. We’re on the move before the door even shuts, tires screeching across pavement.
My heart’s hammering. Every bump in the road rattles through me. My fingers are stiff and sore, barely keeping a grip on the gun in my lap. I glance around the truck.
Everyone’s silent. Focused.
Priest and the others pull down black masks over their faces. When he notices me watching, he pauses just long enough to tug his down and meet my eyes.
“Breathe, kitten.”
I grit my teeth. “I’ll be fine.” I want to snap at him for continuing to call me kitten, but I keep my mouth shut. For now.
Silence settles again. Heavy breathing. Tense shoulders. The sound of rubber grinding over broken asphalt.
The radio crackles to life. “Five minutes out. Eyes up.”
The abandoned warehouse is dark and cold, the stench of gasoline and metal heavy in the air. Boots scrape over cracked concrete. Each breath fogs white in the freezing air.
We didn’t make it to the bunker. The Sovereigns cut off our retreat. Some of the trucks are en route to a safe location. They had a chance, but we didn’t.
Men slump against walls, bleeding into their clothes. Groans mix with curses, the smell of iron thick enough to taste.
“I didn’t give up the location!” Alistair, I think—shouts as Raze and Priest smash him against the wall. “Fuck you. I didn’t do it!”
Raze drives his fist into Alistair’s face. “FUCKING LIAR.”
Priest wrenches him back by the collar, but Dalton steps in and the room explodes with shouts, threats, and bodies colliding.
The noise makes my ribs ache.
Eventually, they break apart, dragging Alistair and Dalton to opposite corners. The rest mutter about how fucked we are.
I slide down the wall, knees to my chest. My muscles scream now that the adrenaline’s gone.
Pain meds have worn off.
Fuck.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to stop the tremor in my body. Every deep voice makes me jump, every shadow makes me flinch. I don’t dare close my eyes. Not in a room full of Sovereigns. Then Priest drops beside me, close enough that his heat pushes into my skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I shift away, but his hand locks on my arm, pulling me back in.
“Stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Bullshit.
I push off the wall and stumble down the hall until I find the small bathroom off the main room. Heat trickles down my spine, warm and sticky.
Just fucking perfect.
Ripped stitches.
My vest feels heavy, my shirt clinging to torn skin. Bracing a hand on the counter, I’m already dreading the next part. When I finally peel the fabric up, the sight in the mirror makes my stomach dip—blood blooming through the gauze, soaking into Arsen’s shirt.
I hiss under my breath. It’s bad and the stitches need to be redone, but not tonight.
“We need to stitch that up.” A voice cuts through the silence, and I spin around to see Priest leaning against the door frame, his eyes on the bloody mess on my back. He steps in, locking the door behind him.
“Absolutely not. I’ll find someone else to help.”
He moves forward, his presence shrinking the space between us. “You think I’m going to let someone else touch you?” The words slam into me, twisting sharply in my chest. Fear. Anger. Something worse that I refuse to name.
“You’re not touching me. Not ever again.”
He ignores me, his hand already closing around the med kit on the counter.
I spin to block him, but his arm hooks around my waist and drags me in.
The motion tears through the wound, white-hot pain lighting up my back.
My body collides with his hard muscles, and I hate that I have to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes.
“Priest—”
“Kitten, you’ve got two choices. You stand still, or I pin you down and do it.”
Something dark coils tight in my chest, pressing against my ribs until I can barely breathe. I shove it down and shove against him.
His arm tightens.
“Turn around and take off the shirt. Face the mirror.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t move. His fingers dig deeper into my waist, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine. The room feels heavier with every second he waits.
Teeth clenched, slowly I turn in his grip, my hands trembling as I tug at my vest, then the hem of my shirt.
My pulse trips over itself with every layer I peel away. Skin prickling under his stare, every inch of me too aware of him. Then his palm presses to the bare skin at the small of my back, guiding me toward the sink until my hands are braced against the porcelain.
He doesn’t speak, just studies my back. Goosebumps rise across my skin. His heat sinks into me, climbing my spine until my breath stutters.
“Get it over with.”
I keep my eyes on the sink, refusing to meet his reflection in the mirror. The sting comes, the sharp, tearing pull of old stitches being removed. My hands curl into fists against the sink. I glance at him in the mirror despite myself. His hair falls in his face as he focuses on my back.
The alcohol burns next, sharp enough to make me bite down a hiss. I keep my gaze fixed on the white porcelain, pretending I don’t feel the heat of his body so close, pretending I don’t know the weight of those hands on my skin.
When the tugging stops, he straightens behind me. His reflection looms in the mirror—broad shoulders, black ink curling over strong forearms, his frame so much bigger than mine it makes me look small. Breakable.
He leans in, reaching around me with clean bandages, his forearm brushing my breast.
“Stop,” I snap through clenched teeth.
His mouth curves in a ghost of a smirk as he smooths the bandage over my skin. His fingers linger, circling my lower back, tracing patterns into my skin as though he has every right to touch me.
Unwanted heat burns my chest and cheeks. I shift forward to get away, but his hand slides to my hip, holding me in place.
“I’m almost done with you. Stay still.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, more to myself than him.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps tracing those slow, maddening circles, his fingers skimming over the edge of the butterfly inked into my skin. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and my breath catches.
His hand slides from my back to my lower stomach, his large palm pulling me flush against him. His head drops, lips brushing my ear.
“You keep saying that, kitten. But I’m not sure you even know what that word means.”
“What?”