Wolff
She hits the pavement hard.
I grit my teeth and lunge forward, scooping her up before I can think twice. This whole goddamn mission was a fucking mistake—the Sovereign doesn’t train heroes.
The stomping of boots behind me snaps my head up. Distance: twenty feet.
Fuck.
Shifting the girl higher against my chest, I keep moving. She’s bleeding through my shirt. If the trail keeps dripping like this, they’ll track us the whole fucking way.
Behind me, someone shouts.
A gun clicks.
I don’t turn around.
Because if I stop running to shoot them, she dies. And this mission only pays if she’s still breathing. I adjust my grip and keep sprinting, turning a sharp corner, where a warehouse looms ahead. The red-painted brick looks almost black in the shadows. Fifty yards.
Savva’s place.
If he didn’t sell me out.
I adjust my grip on the girl again. A metal collar digs into my forearm. Her pulse beats sluggishly under my fingertips. Withdrawals are going to be a bitch.
The heavy metal door groans open as I step into the dark.
“K9,” a voice calls out with a thick Russian accent.
I don’t answer immediately.
I confirm his position first—three paces left, behind the stack of sealed crates. Weight shifted to his right leg.
“Savva.”
His eyes drop to the girl in my arms. “This her?”
I nod and shove past him, deeper into the warehouse shadows. The door slams behind me, cutting off the nearest exit.
I glance once over my shoulder.
Loading bay to the right. Office door half-cracked in the back. Stairwell to the catwalk above. Secondary exit twenty feet left.
“You’re early,” he says as I set her down on a large wooden crate.
“We need to move. Now.”
Savva jerks his chin. His men move. Supplies rattle into the van—metal on metal, echoing too loudly in the empty space.
“She okay?” He steps in, reaching for her face.
“Don’t touch her.”
With a lazy grin, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Relax, K9. Just checking.” He studies me for half a second too long. “You’re jumpy tonight.”
I bite down on the urge to break his fucking hand. Bastard’s lucky I need him. I need his contacts. His van. His skill. Because breaking his wrist would take less effort than this conversation.
I hold his gaze until he looks away.
“We leave in ten. Maybe less. I’ll grab something to get that collar off,” he mutters and walks off.
I stay still. Eyes up. One of his men has a pistol jammed into his waistband, the grip angled wrong. Another’s got a jacket too heavy for the weather. He’s sweating, shifting on his feet. The third watches me for a moment too long before looking away.
My fingers twitch, and I grind my teeth until my jaw aches.
Fucking hell.
An extraction.
Me.
I’m a goddamn assassin, not some fucking hero.
I told Weston no the first time.
Twice, actually.
I don’t work this part of the world anymore. Haven’t for years. And I sure as shit don’t do rescue missions. But when a Sovereign Commander—the kind of man who can erase your entire existence with a phone call—offers something no one like me ever gets…
You listen.
The Sovereign. We’re the bloodiest, most secret assassin organization on the planet. We control politicians from the inside, rig proxy wars, treat human life as currency. We’re the knife in the dark that keeps the powerful in power.
The bastards who took his daughter don’t operate in places the Sovereign controls. He needed someone who knows the streets, the players, the rules. Someone who’s already bled here.
He needed me.
Savva’s boots crunch as he returns. “You’ll want this.” He holds out a small pair of bolt cutters.
I snatch them from his hand.
He glances down at her. “Want me to—”
Reaching down, I grab her wrist, hauling her limp body toward me. The way she folds against my side sets my jaw even tighter.
“Easy,” Savva mutters.
The collar lock’s buried under a mess of tangled hair. I shove it aside, my fingers grazing the back of her neck. Her skin’s torn. Blood crusted into the links. Fresh streaks drip down her spine.
“She’s bleeding,” Savva mutters. “It’s the needles.”
My head snaps toward him.
“Inside the collar,” he explains. “Drugs keep most of the girls down, but the fighters need more. That’s Akim’s favorite method. Nice tight grip on the collar, the girls obey.”
With a grunt, I wedge the blade around the lock and twist hard. The metal crunches apart, and I rip the collar free, tossing it aside. Beneath it, her neck is a mess—raw, punctured, and bleeding.
The second the metal leaves her skin, she gasps like she’s been drowning. A fit of coughing racks her body, and her eyes snap open—wide and wild. Thrashing against me, her limbs flail as she tries to get her feet under her. She shoves off me, half standing, half stumbling.
“Where am I? What’s happening?” Her gaze frantically darts around the warehouse. When her eyes land on Savva, her whole body stiffens.
“No. Get away from me!” she screams, but it’s a choked sound.
She moves with a sudden burst of strength, losing her footing and hitting the concrete with a thud. Her back arches at the contact.
“Shit.” Savva takes a step forward.
I turn to him. “Leave.”
“Wolff, she’s going to crash, and we need to move.”
I glare in response before he mutters curses in Russian, walking away.
She pants, shallow and fast, words tumbling out. “Where— Where are we? What’s happening?”
“Extraction point.”
Her head falls back. A raw, guttural groan tears from her throat.
“It hurts. Everything. My head…my chest…”
“You’ve been drugged too long. Withdrawals are hitting.” It’s going to get worse.
I clench my jaw and reach for her. Grabbing her arm, I haul her upright, avoiding her face, her breath, her skin against mine.
“Please. Tell me what’s happening.”
My grip tightens as I drag her forward. The van door creaks open.
“No.” She stumbles, muscles buckling. “I don’t want to—”
Every second we’re out here, we’re a fucking target. She sways. Trembles. Then fights.
I snap. My nerves are fucking shot. I scoop her up, my chest going rigid when she collapses against it. She’s hot and damp and shaking, and every inch of my body recoils from the contact.
“Hey!” She twists, fists pounding weakly against me. “Put me down!”
I toss her onto the van floor, then plant myself between her and the exit.
The doors slam behind me. The engine growls to life. Gravel spits beneath the tires as we tear into the night.
Savva glances at me from the driver’s seat. “We’re clear.”
I kneel beside her. Her breaths don’t slow, becoming more erratic. Fingers clawing at the floor, her body won’t stop shaking. I crack my neck and pull the bag off my back, ripping it open. My hand closes around the syringe.
Her eyes snap to it. “What’s that?”
Grinding my teeth, I curl my arm around her waist. She jerks and thrashes against my hold. My other arm traps hers against her side, holding her still.
“Please—”
“Do. Not. Fight me.”
“NO!” she shouts as she bucks again. Her sobs crack open the air. “Please, don’t!”
Her heart slams against my chest. Muscles tight and twitching, her skin is soaked.
I clench my jaw so hard my skull aches.
“Withdrawals are kicking in.” I need more time. Can’t deal with that shit in a moving van.
She sobs harder.
I force the needle in.
Shoving off me, she scrambles to the wall, her back slamming against it and making her wince. Her knees draw up, her head falling onto them. Her cries are cut short as she falls over. Unconscious.
I shift to the front of the van and drop into the passenger seat.
“She good?” Savva asks.
I yank off my blood-soaked shirt and shredded jacket, tossing them behind me. Reaching into my duffel, I grab a clean black tee and a hoodie.
As I zip the hoodie halfway, my eyes flick to the center console—Savva’s Glock jammed into the plastic tray between us. I pop the clip, eject the round from the chamber, and toss both into the glove box.
He doesn’t say shit. He knows better.
“How long have you been tracking her?”
“Too long.”
He laughs. “Surprised you called for an extraction. Not your usual gig, K9.”
I drag a hand down my face, my stubble scraping against my palm.
“How’d you get stuck doing a rescue?” His eyes flick over to her.
I shoot him a look.
“Still not a talker,” he mutters, turning on the radio.
Static crackles. Then bass. Obnoxious Russian pop thumps through the speakers. He’s known me long enough to know I hate this shit. Savva and his crew are the kind of ghosts who can make people and problems disappear. We crossed paths back in my mercenary days before I joined the Sovereign.
Pulling AJ from the club was the easy part. Now comes the real shit. The next seventy-two hours will be hell for her—withdrawals so bad, she’ll beg for death—and I don’t have the time, or the patience, to make it gentle.
And getting her out of the country is another fucking war entirely.
Akim didn’t build the Nightshades by being careless. He doesn’t lose product without making an example out of whoever took it. Especially for something worth as much as her, he’ll raise hell.
Airports. Borders. Ports. Every checkpoint within a hundred miles will be bought, paid for, and watching. And he won’t stop there. Hunters. Contractors. Anyone with a gun and no loyalty will get a price on my head.
I run the routes again, forcing my brain to stay sharp through the fatigue. Highways first, but they’re too exposed. Back roads are slower, but harder to track. Fuel stops. Dead zones. Who I can use. Who I can’t. Which mercenaries will sell us out for a better price.
This whole fucking thing is a mess.
She’s weaker than the briefing said. Lighter and drugged longer.
This wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. It was supposed to be grab, move, vanish. Not babysitting a half-dead girl through detox while half of Eastern Europe starts hunting her.
“So…” he starts, tapping the wheel. “Who is she?”
I track his breathing, noting he seems nervous.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I keep staring out the passenger window at the endless white.
“Don’t the Sovereign girls wear collars?”
“What?”
“Your girls. Your slaves. Don’t they wear collars?”
“Servants.”
“Same fucking thing.” He rolls his eyes and cranks the music louder.
Sovereign Servants.
Women who swear a vow of obedience, loyalty, and submission.
Some are born into it, bloodlines tied to the Sovereign for decades.
Others are plucked off the streets—desperate girls willing to trade their bodies for a better life.
In exchange, the Sovereign gives them everything.
Luxury. Money. Protection. Every need and want paid for by the men they fuck.
Their bodies belong to the Sovereign the second they kneel. We call them Sovereign Sluts when we’re being honest. Holes to be used when we want, how we want. We break them in, fuck them, then pass them around when we get bored.
Some Sovereigns marry them, breeding heirs to extend their legacy. Sovereign Sluts or wives—doesn’t matter. Ownership is ownership. And AJ Weston is one of them. Commander Weston’s daughter. A Servant by blood and vow.
Nothing but property of the Sovereign.