Aj
Three more days stuck in this shitty cabin. The storm finally broke last night. I woke up to Wolff and Savva arguing again in the kitchen. I stay curled on the couch, knees to my chest, staring into the fire.
Wolff won’t look at me.
He hasn’t looked at me since that night. Hasn’t spoken unless he has to. Hasn’t touched me. It’s like the thing that happened between us never existed.
Not that it means anything.
I’m a Servant. He’s Sovereign. That’s the vow I took. My body belongs to them. To use me for whatever sick, twisted pleasure they want.
The reminder has bile rising up my throat. I pick harder at the loose thread on my sleeve until the fabric starts to fray.
When I get home…it starts again. Different hands. Different men. Same body. I’ll have to smile and spread my legs for any Sovereign who wants me, because that’s what good little Servants do.
God, I feel sick.
I hug my knees tighter and press my forehead against them. The fire pops. Sparks drift up the chimney.
I thought being rescued would change something.
It didn’t.
I’m still property. Just trading one set of owners for another.
Before I was taken, I could almost pretend it was normal. Some nights, I even convinced myself I liked the attention, the luxury, the way powerful men looked at me like I was something special. I grew up knowing this was my role. Born into it. Trained for it.
But now?
After months of being raped until I stopped fighting, broken in ways I can’t come back from…the thought of going back to that life makes me want to vomit.
What kind of person gets taken, raped for months, and then crawls back, begging for the same cage? What kind of worthless slut actually misses the way a monster like Wolff looked at her when she was coming for him?
I wanted him to touch me.
I still do.
I dig my nails into my arms through the sleeves.
Hard enough to leave marks. The pain helps for a second, then it doesn’t.
Because the second Wolff drops me off in Chicago, my life goes back to what it was.
Nights where I’ll lie there and let it happen because saying no isn’t an option. Because Servants can’t say no.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
I’m never getting out.
I’m never going to be anything but this. A hole for men to use.
The argument in the kitchen cuts off. Footsteps move toward the hall. I don’t lift my head. I can’t let him see my face right now—flushed, eyes burning with the kind of shame that doesn’t wash off.
He pauses in the doorway. I feel the weight of his stare on the back of my neck.
I don’t move.
I want him to touch me so badly that I ache for it.
I want to forget every fucking thought in my head.
I want him to ruin me so completely, so that when they try to use me again, there’s nothing left for them to take.
I want to disappear inside the way he looked at me.
The future I’m going home to waits like an open grave.
What the fuck am I going to do?
“Wake up.”
I shoot upright, my eyes wide.
He’s standing over me, expression unreadable, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He tosses my boots at me. They hit the couch, then slide off, thudding against the floor.
“We’re leaving. Get dressed.”
He turns before I can say anything, already moving. The others pass behind him, bags in hand, weapons slung over their shoulders.
It takes me a second to catch up, then I grab my boots and shove them on. I rush after them into the kitchen, dragging my coat over my shoulders as I go, fumbling with the zipper.
Viktor and Savva are already geared up, the others grabbing the last of the supplies. Wolff stands at the table, packing weapons into a bag. Savva steps up beside him, muttering something in Russian. Wolff’s eyes flick to me, then back to him.
“No.”
“What?” I ask, but Savva’s already turning away.
“Let’s move,” Wolff says as he pushes off the table. He lifts his bag—and mine, the one he packed with the spare clothes and basic toiletries from the first safehouse—and heads for the door.
I scramble after him, barely keeping up as we spill out into the cold. The snow has stopped for now, but the thick gray clouds promise more.
The truck ride is tense.
Roads are so slick, the tires are barely able to keep any traction. Visibility gets worse the farther we go.
Savva drives in silence, chain-smoking one cigarette after another. Viktor’s back with me and the others, his knee bouncing nonstop. Wolff’s in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the road ahead. One hand rests on his gun and the other grips the door.
I have a thousand questions.
None of them make it out.
Viktor unwraps a granola bar, the crinkle loud in the quiet. When I glance over, he’s already watching me.
“Hungry?” He holds another one out.
As I start to reach for it, Wolff snaps something sharp in Russian, making Viktor still instantly before he pulls it back. A few moments later, Wolff tosses a protein bar in my lap without even as much as a glance.
Why are we even traveling with them if he doesn’t trust a single one?
The drive stretches on, the silence settling heavier with every mile. Then the storm rolls back in, swallowing everything outside the windshield until it feels like we’re driving straight into nothing.
“I can’t see,” Savva mutters, leaning forward. “We’re not making it much farther.”
He and Wolff instantly start arguing in Russian as Wolff spreads a map across his lap.
Finally, Savva slows the truck to a stop. The world outside is nothing but white and wind. We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.
“Where are we?” There’re no lights, no houses, no cars. Just a small, abandoned concrete building, barely visible through the storm.
Viktor and—Niko, I think that’s his name—are already out of the truck and moving toward the building. I’m slowly picking up the other names as I listen to their conversations in Russian.
I press closer to the window, but the snow blinds everything.
“We stay here, girl,” Savva says, shoving his door open.
He lights a cigarette as he steps out, then disappears into the storm, the door slamming behind him.
Wolff’s staring at the building, jaw locked tight.
“Get inside.”
Before I can say anything, he’s out of the truck. I scramble after him, dragging my duffle through the snow.
Inside, the empty building is freezing. Savva is breaking apart wooden crates, stacking pieces into a rough pile.
Wolff grabs my arm as I step in, his grip firm as he steers me into a darker corner, away from the others.
“Sit. Shut up.”
Swallowing a huff, I drop to the floor. He sits a few feet away from me, gun in his hands, angled toward the only entrance.
“What’s going on?” I whisper. “Where are we?”
Nothing.
He looks…off.
Not that he ever looks normal, but this is different. Pissed. More wound up than usual. His attention flicks between the door, the windows, Savva’s men.
Savva crushes his cigarette under his boot and sparks the fire. The flames catch slowly, then build, pushing heat into the room. Wolff pulls my sleeping bag from his duffle and tosses it over without looking at me.
I slip inside it, curling into the warmth. It helps a little, but not enough.
Time drags by slowly. Only Viktor and Niko talk, murmuring to each other under their breath. Wolff stays still beside me, eyes locked on the door. The firelight catches on the blade flipping slowly between his fingers. Over and over.
“Do you have any family? Anyone waiting for you in Chicago?”
Nothing.
“Is your family Sovereign?”
Still nothing.
My chest aches. I think about Gage—his stupid jokes, that loud laugh he always tries to hide. I miss him so much, it hurts.
“My brother just finished recruit training.” My voice cracks a little. “He was so excited. Couldn’t shut up about finally taking the vow and getting branded.”
I rub my face, nerves making my words spill faster, not that it matters. “Why are we even traveling with Savva and his men if you don’t trust them?”
“The Nightshades are looking for two people.”
I try to hide the shock on my face that he’s actually talking.
“Not a group. Gives us cover. Makes us harder to track.”
I open my mouth to ask another question.
“Go to sleep,” he cuts in.
“I don’t think I can…”
He reaches into his duffel, pulls out an empty magazine and a box of bullets, and drops them into my lap without looking at me.
“Then shut up and practice loading a clip.”
I stare down at the magazine, then back up at him.
“So…teaching me to shoot. Now this. Wow.” I glance back at the bullets, turning one between my fingers. “Keep this up, and I might start thinking you’re opening up to me. Or worse,” I add under my breath, “being nice.”
He keeps flipping the knife, eyes never leaving the door.