Chapter 33 Arlo
Ihave never cared about anything more in my entire fucking life than I do you.
I gasp, bolting upright, the ringing in my ears almost enough to drown out the burning in my throat. My hand flies to my neck, pressing against the raw bruises his fingers left behind.
“Easy, little one.”
I blink against the dim light. I’m back in my bedroom at the bunker. A thick wool blanket wrapped around me. My head throbs, my ribs scream with every breath, and my throat feels like I swallowed glass.
“What…?”
“Shh.” He lifts a glass of water, carefully placing it in my hand. “Drink.”
My fingers tremble so badly the water sloshes over the rim, but I bring it to my mouth anyway. The cool liquid slides down my throat like a balm, and for a second, the ache dulls.
The memories crash back in a horrifying wave. The hunt. The trap. The brutal, humiliating assault in the dirt. Raze watching. I choke on the water and pull the blanket off, needing to see—needing proof.
My body is a wreck. A canvas of bruises and abrasions. Deep, blooming purples across my ribs, hips, and thighs. Scraped knees. Raw elbows. A constellation of pain painted across every inch of me.
But there’s something wrong.
The dirt is gone. So is the fresh blood in the scratches. My skin is clean, the tang of soap still clinging faintly to it. My hair’s damp at the ends. The dirt under my fingernails, scrubbed away.
He bathed me.
The thought is disorienting. He stripped me, washed me, touched every broken inch of me…and I slept through it. And worse than the horror creeping up my spine is the small, shameful part of me that’s grateful.
“You didn’t have to…” I start.
“Didn’t have to what?” The bite-mark tattoo on his forearm catches the light, a symbol of everything sick and twisted between us.
There’s so much I want to say. So much rage and pain and shame trapped in my chest. But none of it makes it past the lump in my throat.
Instead, all I hear is his voice.
I’ve never cared about anything more in my entire fucking life.
A lie. It has to be.
I look down at the bruises again. At the wreckage he left behind. And the worst part—the part I don’t want to admit—is that I feel a sick kind of pride. These marks are proof. Proof he wanted me enough to do this. Proof he wanted me to stay.
I feel disgusting.
“Priest…what you said, in the car—”
“I meant it.”
My head snaps up. How could he? How could he say that after everything? After using me like I’m nothing? After hunting me down and violating every part of me in front of his friend?
The contradiction is a physical blow. He’s a monster. A cruel, sadistic monster. And yet…and yet his words…
He reaches out, his fingers hovering over a particularly dark bruise on my thigh, not quite touching. The air crackles between us.
“Raze told me…that a place broke you. A place called Valcross.”
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. His eyes flash with something—pain? rage? I can’t tell.
“Did he now?”
I push through the fear tightening my chest. “He said I’m the only thing that quiets the noise in your head. That you need me.”
For a heartbeat he looks away, a flicker of something raw and unguarded on his face before it’s gone, replaced by the cold mask I know so well.
“Raze talks too much.”
He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Let me make something clear to you, Arlo. What I need is to be inside you. To hear you scream my name. To feel your body break against mine. That’s the only thing that matters. That’s the only truth you need to understand.”
“Stop,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “Just stop.”
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Why? Because the truth hurts? Because you want to believe in some fairy tale where I’m secretly in love with you? I’m not, Arlo. I’m not that man. I’m not any kind of man. I’m a monster. And you…you’re my favorite chew toy.”
He releases my chin, and I slump back against the pillows, defeated.
For one breath back in that forest, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something behind the violence. Something close to real. He doesn’t care about me…he just wants to control me.
I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much.
But I hate myself more—for still wanting him to lie. For wanting him to be anything but what he is.
“So this…this whole thing is about sex? About some sick need you have to control me?”
“Sex is just the tool, kitten. What this is about is power. I want to own every part of you. Your fear. Your pain. Your pleasure. I want to be the only thing you think about when you wake up and the last thing you dream about before you sleep.”
I shake my head. “I won’t let you.”
“You already have. Look at you. Broken. Beaten. And yet, there’s a part of you that’s still hungry for me. A part that’s begging for more. Don’t try to deny it. I will feed every dark, twisted desire you have until you’re completely and utterly mine.”
My gaze drifts back to the bite mark on his arm.
“Why? Why get that tattooed? If I’m nothing but something to fuck and control…”
He looks down at the ink, thumb dragging across it like he could wipe it off. When his gaze lifts again, it’s colder.
“Because it wouldn’t fade,” he says finally. “Didn’t matter how much blood I spilled, how many people I gutted, you were still there. Under my skin. In my head. I thought maybe if I carved it into me, I could control it. Contain it.”
A humorless smile ghosts across his mouth.
“Guess that didn’t work. Don’t mistake it for anything noble. It’s not love. It’s an infection. You got in, and I can’t cut you out.”
The words hit, but I don’t flinch. I’ve run out of reactions. Out of denial.
What do I even want from him? An apology? A confession? Some pathetic, half-assed attempt at redemption that would make all of this mean something?
There’s nothing he could say that would fix what he’s done to me. He’s spent weeks turning my life into a fucking game—chasing me, breaking me, taking me apart just to see what’s underneath. Every moment that felt real was just another move on the board.
And the worst part is that somewhere in the middle of all that destruction, I started hoping he’d stop. That he’d see me.
Fuck, I’m so stupid.
I wanted more from the man who killed my father.
I wanted something human from him…and that’s on me.
Grief swells in my chest. For my father. For what’s left of me. For the tiny piece that still wishes Priest meant it when he said he cared.
I shove the blanket aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the sharp flare of pain as my feet hit the cold concrete.
“Arlo.”
I ignore him and push to my feet.
“My father. What were his last words?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me.
“You took that from me. The last thing he ever said. You took it. You took him.”
“Sterling killed him. I gave him honor.”
“I don’t care about your Sovereign honor!” The words explode out of me. “I care about my father! I just want to know what he said!” I move toward him, shaking with fury, hands fisted at my sides. His expression doesn’t change. Just those cold, blue eyes.
“Nothing that matters now. It won’t bring him back.”
“How fucking dare you.” My voice cracks open. “You don’t get to stand there and decide what matters to me. You don’t get to take everything from me and then act like I’m the one being unreasonable.”
I shove him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. I shove him again, my palms slapping hard against his chest.
“Say something! Fucking say something!”
He grabs my wrists and yanks me flush against him, my bare skin pressed against his shirt. His mouth is inches from mine.
“You want answers?” he growls. “You want to make this hurt mean something? Then come with me. We’re hunting Alistair and Dalton next.”
“I don’t need your permission.”
He smirks. “No. But you’ll need my protection. You’re still bleeding, kitten. And you’re too angry to think straight.”
I yank my wrists free.
“You want pain, Arlo? You want to put that rage somewhere that matters? Use it on them.”
A stupid, broken part of me wants to. The thought of spoiling Sterling’s plan—of ripping something away from him the way he ripped everything from me—is tempting. A bitter little fantasy of revenge that tastes like the closest thing to peace I’ll ever get.
But being near Priest makes me want to slit my own throat just to escape the gravitational pull of him.
He steps closer, and I can’t breathe without inhaling him. His fingers slide under my chin, the touch deceptively gentle, and he tilts my face up.
“You were so pretty in the dirt. All blood and tears.”
His eyes drop to a fresh scratch on my arm.
He drags his thumb across it slowly, smearing the blood.
Then he looks up at me with those unreadable blue eyes that never stay the same for long.
Rage one second. Ice the next. Then something else, something terrible and vulnerable—before it disappears again.
“I love the way you bleed.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth—then he kisses me. Softly. A brush of lips that shouldn’t be gentle. That shouldn’t exist inside a monster like him.
I freeze.
Not because I want to—but because I don’t know how to breathe through it. I should shove him away. Should bite him, claw at him, run.
But I don’t.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just feel him. I let him take whatever this moment is.
Whatever he’s trying to say without saying it. And for a second—for half a breath—
it almost feels like he’s saying sorry.
Sorry for the pain. For the fear. For the hell he dragged me through. Sorry in the only language he’s ever been taught.
Then it’s gone.
He pulls back, and the softness evaporates like it was never real. His face shutters. His eyes go dead. His body becomes rigid again.
Like nothing happened.
My heart feels like it’s beating out of sync—dragged in two directions at once. He is everything that destroyed my life. He is everything that saved it.
And I hate him.
And I want him.
And I fear him.
And I don’t know who I am anymore when he looks at me like that.
“We leave at dawn.” He turns away, the door shutting behind him…I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Arsen glare for so long,” Raze mutters with a dry laugh, leaning against the armored SUV. Axe stands nearby, cleaning a rifle. “He thinks you’re going to get her killed.”
“He can go fuck himself,” I say, lighting a cigarette and staring into the trees. The flame cuts the dark, then fades.
“You’re bringing the stray?” Axe says, eyes still on the gun. “That’s a liability.”
I take a long drag, let the smoke burn in my lungs.
“This whole fucking op is a liability.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m stating facts.” He racks the magazine with a mechanical click. “You compromised. That makes you weak.”
I step toward him.
“You want to see weak?”
Raze moves fast, sliding between us, hands up. “Easy, Priest.”
He glances at Axe and then back at me. “You still need to grab your gear, and let’s not start this mission on the wrong side of The Reaper.” He mutters, “Not that there’s a right side.”
I don’t move. The cigarette burns between my fingers.
“He’s right.”
Raze blinks. “About what?”
“She’s a liability.”
Raze exhales, jaw tightening. “She’s also the only thing keeping you from putting a bullet through your own fucking skull.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, and starts steering me back toward the bunker.
“You want to bring your stray? Fine. Bring her. But keep her in line. Keep your head in the game. No more of this…” He hesitates. “Emotional bullshit.”
Emotional bullshit.
I’m not emotional.
I was made for blood, for death, for gunfire, and pain. Not this. Not her. This isn’t me. And yet—
I’m fucking drowning.
Drowning in the scent of her blood. In the feel of her breaking around me. In the memory of her looking at me like I’m the only goddamn thing left in a world that’s already burning.
I shove Raze’s hand off my shoulder.
“Fuck off. I’m not emotional. I’m focused.”
“Sure, Priest. Whatever you need to tell yourself. Just make sure your focus doesn’t get us all killed.”
I do need to fucking focus.
I want to focus.
But her voice echoes in my skull, louder than the gunfire ever could.
Her hands on me. Her breath in my mouth.
And something sharp coils low in my gut because I know what this is.
I just don’t want to name it. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real.
I don’t do feelings. I don’t do love. That’s what I told her. Told myself.
But it’s a lie.
And I’m starting to believe I’ve been lying for a long, long time.
Her raised voice bounces off the walls of the bunker, arguing with Arsen—again. She storms through the door, brushing past me without a glance. Arsen follows close behind, teeth bared.
“This is all your fucking fault, Priest.” He stabs a finger at me as Arlo disappears into the gear room. “You’re going to get her killed.”
He’s not wrong. But I don’t give a fuck. Because I need her. Need her where I can see her. Smell her. Control her.
Every second she’s not near me is a fucking countdown. My brain starts shorting out—noise screaming in my ears, pulse hammering, the itch under my skin turning into something violent.
I can’t think. Can’t focus. Can’t breathe.
So yeah, she’s coming.
She shouldn’t be. She’s hurt. Sloppy. Emotionally compromised. And I’m worse…unraveling. Coming apart at the seams. And the only thing holding me together is her.
Keeping her close means I don’t lose control.
Keeping her close means I don’t put a bullet in someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Keeping her close means the monster inside me stays pointed in the right direction.
Arsen steps into my space. “You agreed to this op with me, not to drag your pet into another bloodbath.”
“You don’t give the orders here.”
“She’s not a soldier.”
“She’s mine, and she’s going.”
I don’t care if it’s rational. She’s not going to die. Because she’ll be with me. And I’ll kill anyone who even thinks about stopping that from happening.