Aj
Ipush the food around my plate with a fork, not really eating it. The front door is open, letting cold air creep in, and the fire in the living room is fighting to keep up. Wolff stands in the doorway, arguing with Savva, their voices traveling through the house.
For someone who doesn’t talk much, he sure does like to argue.
I glance up and accidentally catch Viktor watching me. I look away quickly, forcing my attention back to my plate. I take a bite. The eggs are bland and mushy, barely tasting like anything. I chew, swallow, then force another bite down.
Savva’s voice rises again.
Viktor leans toward the others, muttering something in Russian. My grip tightens around the fork until my fingers start to cramp. Pushing to his feet, he grabs a bottle from one of the crates, walking over. He pours a glass and sets it beside my plate.
“Drink. It’ll warm your bones.”
I don’t move, thinking about how I got Sergei killed.
He smiles a little. “Good stuff. Not cheap shit. Better hurry…before the volk comes back.”
The word “volk” echoes in my head. The same Russian word Sergei had used, laughing, right before everything went to hell. Right before Wolff put a bullet in him because of me.
My eyes flick toward the doorway.
Then back to the glass.
I grab it and tip it back. It burns all the way down, harsh enough to make me cough.
“What is that?”
He laughs. “It’s Russian.”
He nudges the bottle closer.
I hesitate for half a second, then pour another glass and drink that one faster. The urge hits hard—just keep going, finish the bottle, drown everything out. Forget where I am. Forget how I got here.
I pour a third. It’s smoother now, or maybe I just don’t care as much. The heat settles in my chest, spreading out.
“See? Better, da?”
I don’t answer.
The other men are watching now too, smirking, saying things under their breath in Russian. Unease slithers beneath my skin as I set the glass down.
“What are they arguing about?”
Viktor glances toward the doorway. “Nothing. Savva likes to bitch. They’ll be at each other’s throats until one of them is dead.”
I swallow. “Do you know Wolff? I mean…have you worked with him before?”
Viktor lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he inhales and exhales slowly, smoke curling between us.
“No. Only what I’ve heard. And the volk, he’s not someone I want to know.
” He snorts quietly. “Savva’s different.
They’ve got history. Long time.” Another drag. “Or maybe he just talks too much.”
I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.
Across the room, one of the men laughs and calls something out to him in Russian. Viktor glances back at them, then at me, then toward the door again.
“I should go.”
My stomach drops.
Please don’t leave.
I need the distraction. I need something to focus on.
He grabs the bottle and both glasses and walks back to the others, slipping easily back into their conversation. They laugh, smoke, and talk like this is just another routine morning.
My eyes drift back to the doorway.
Wolff’s silhouette is sharp against the white outside, completely still. Savva gestures, talking fast, frustrated, but Wolff doesn’t move, standing with his arms crossed.
After a moment, Savva throws his hands up and storms off.
Wolff stays unmoving for a moment longer.
Then he turns, and his eyes lock on mine, making my breath catch. His shoulders are tight, muscles pulled rigid as he crosses to the table and sits. He doesn’t say a word as he begins to eat.
Biting my lip, I find myself asking, “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
“Is there a problem? Did something go wrong?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.
I swallow hard. “What were you arguing about?”
He takes a bite of his food. Then another.
Sighing, I lean back in my chair. “Viktor says you and Savva have a history.”
He stops and slowly lifts his eyes to mine. The look is cold enough to freeze fire. My nails dig into my thighs.
“Take your food and eat in the bedroom.”
“Why?” I frown. “What happened? Why can’t I sit here?”
“Now,” he orders.
“Why are you—”
His hand slams against the table. The crack of it echoes through the room.
“I’m not asking, AJ. I’m telling you. Take your fucking food and go to the bedroom.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
I shove back from the table, leaving the plate behind as I push to my feet and walk to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing as the urge to cry hits. So does the urge to steal the bottle Viktor shoved into his bag.
The bedroom door swings open.
Wolff stalks in, shutting it behind him with a snap. He doesn’t say a word, just starts unrolling a map on the bed, his back to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask pointlessly.
He ignores me, a knife dropping to the bed, a ruler, the compass, and a pen.
The room goes silent, except for the scratching of the pen and the soft rustle of the map.
It’s so quiet, I can hear him breathing.
When he moves, the mattress shifts. The pen scratches again.
The ruler clicks as it’s adjusted. More silence.
Tears blur my eyes.
I can’t hold them back any longer. I try to breathe through it, but my nose sniffles. His head snaps toward me. He watches me for a second. His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it hardens.
My shoulders start to shake, and I press my face into the blanket, trying to muffle my cries.
The bed shifts as he stands, his boots moving across the floor.
“We’re snowed in. We are staying another night.” He opens the door and leaves. And I’m alone. Again.
Fuck.
God-fucking-damnit.
My boot slams into the porch railing. The wood splinters, cracking down the center. Snow keeps falling. Thick enough to bury the tire tracks.
Another delay.
Another fucking day stuck in this shithole. Too many people. Not enough space. Too many variables. The back door opens, grating on my patience.
If it’s Savva starting his shit again about pushing through the storm, I’ll put a bullet in his head—
AJ steps out.
She’s wrapped in a sleeping bag, arms tight around herself. Her eyes are red and her face is blotchy. I can hear every breath she takes. Every time her teeth clench as she fights back tears.
“Can we—”
“Go back to the room.”
She exhales harshly and drops onto the steps. Snow begins to collect in her hair.
“Please. Can we just talk? About you. Or me. Or something. I just…I need something.”
“Go back to the room, AJ.”
She doesn’t move.
“It’s nice out here,” she mutters, staring out at the tree line. “Even if everything else is fucked.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by her sniffles. I don’t want to hear her cry. I don’t want to hear her breathe. I don’t want her voice in my head at all.
“Why are you like this?” Her eyes stay locked on the trees.
“Like what?” I flick my knife open, running the edge under my thumbnail, scraping out dirt.
She’s quiet for a second before she looks at me.
“Like such an asshole about everything? I mean, I get it. You’re a Sovereign, whatever. But I just—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “You know what, forget it.”
She pushes to her feet, turning toward the door.
My grip tightens around the knife.
Cold air burns my lungs as I stand there, listening until her footsteps fade and the back bedroom door shuts. The quiet settles in, but it doesn’t help. My head is still too loud.
This mission was a mistake.
I shouldn’t have taken it.
I drag a hand down my face and stare out into the snow, but it doesn’t matter. The memory comes anyway.
My boots echo against the polished concrete floors of the Citadel—the North Section’s underground headquarters in Chicago. Three in the fucking morning. I’ve been back from Columbia less than six hours. My eyes are burning. I haven’t slept in three goddamn days.
The Sovereign runs on ranks, orders, and blood.
That’s the pretty story they tell the new recruits anyway.
Truth is, it’s built on generations of bloodlines breeding killers and scraping bastards like me out of the gutters, then pointing us at a target and telling us to pull the trigger until the job is done or we’re dead.
The lower levels are where they usually send me—armory, briefing pits, wherever they need a body dropped into the field.
That’s where Sovereigns like me stay. Field agents, we’re disposable.
We take the orders, do the dirty work, kill our way through the ranks if we’re lucky, and disappear without anyone asking questions.
Above that are the Commanders. They run the Sections, move Sovereign assets around like chess pieces, and decide which lives are worth spending and which ones aren’t.
And above them sit the High Chancellors—one for each of the five Sovereign Sections—the ones who don’t just give orders; they shape the entire board from their fucking thrones.
I don’t belong anywhere near that level.
So when the summons comes from the upper corridors—from Commander Weston’s office—I know something’s wrong.
I push the heavy door open and step inside.
Weston sits behind his desk, shoulders slumped, staring at a photograph in his hands. When he looks up, grief flashes raw across his face before he hides it.
Fuck.
I’m already turning for the door. “I’m not taking whatever this is.”
“Lieutenant Maddox.” He stands so fast the chair crashes behind him. “I need you to bring my daughter home.”
I keep walking.
“I don’t do extractions. Find someone else.”
“Graves says you’re the only one who can.”
That stops me.
Weston rounds the desk. “He’s never spoken highly of anyone. Ever. But he said you’re the only man who knows that part of the world well enough to survive it. Your mercenary years before the Sovereign. The jobs you ran through Eastern Europe. The contacts you still have.”
I turn just enough to look at him.
“No one else can get her out,” he continues, voice pained. “A Sovereign team won’t even clear the border. They’ll be marked and slaughtered before they reach Moscow. Hunted by every bastard who doesn’t want us there. Akim Kasrain took her…”
I know the name.
Everyone does.
Owner of the Nightshades. The largest trafficking organization in that part of the world. Moving bodies and weapons through Russia, Ukraine, and everything Eastern Europe touches. No one controls that territory.
Weston is right.
A team goes in, they die. One man, though? One man might make it through. Someone with contacts on the inside. I could do it.
Still.
“I don’t save people.”
“I’ll give you rank,” he says firmly, no hesitation. “If you bring my daughter home, I will promote you to General.”
My entire body tenses.
That’s not a small offer. That’s not even a normal one.
A General?
That’s power and choice. Means I stop getting thrown into every shithole they need cleaned. Means I choose the job. The location. Who I work with. That kind of promotion doesn’t go to men like me.
The Sovereign calls us Scabs.
Assassins without Sovereign bloodlines or military medals. No elite academy or decorated service record. Just men who proved what we were the only way the Sovereign respects: by killing better than the next bastard.
And I kill better than most. That’s the only thing I’ve ever been worth anything for.
The calculations start, whether I want it or not. Old contacts. Routes across borders that don’t officially exist. Safehouses I haven’t used in years. How long it would take to track her. How fast she’d be moved once they realized someone was hunting her.
Weston sees it and doesn’t waste time. He slides a file across the desk. The papers scatter.
“Her name is Autumn Jane, but everyone calls her AJ.”
A photo lands in front of me.
She’s smiling, bright and alive. The kind of expression that doesn’t belong anywhere near this world.
“She was taken in Greece, attending a wedding. We traced the shipment as far as Russia then lost her. Akim has her now.” His jaw tightens.
“I’ve never done business with that man.
Never needed to. I don’t deal with traffickers.
I offered him more money than most men see in ten lifetimes. He laughed. Said she was useful.”
I glance down at the file, flipping it open just enough to scan the surface details.
“She was the only one taken?” I ask.
He nods. “There were others in the area. Servants. Wedding guests. Locals. He didn’t touch them. Just her.”
Yeah. That’s not random. That’s targeted.
I close the file slowly, my thumb dragging along the edge of the paper. No one grabs a Sovereign Commander’s daughter by accident. And they sure as hell don’t refuse that kind of money unless they’ve already been paid.
Weston’s gaze drops back to the photo, his grip tightening around the frame.
“I have a future waiting for her. I was going to tell her when she returned from Greece…” He reaches down, fixing the chair that he knocked over earlier. “I arranged her marriage to a Commander. He’ll take care of her. She’ll… She’ll be happy.”
I glance back at the photo.
I’ve done a lot of shit I shouldn’t have.
But this…
Weston looks up at me again. But I don’t see a Commander. I see a desperate father.
“Please, Wolff. Bring my baby girl home.”
I hold his gaze.
And I don’t ask the question sitting at the back of my throat.
What aren’t you telling me?