25. Aj
The windshield wipers fight the storm, scraping back and forth as thick snow blankets the road. We stayed in the cabin a few more nights, but Wolff said it wasn’t safe anymore.
He didn’t hold me again.
Barely spoke.
But I still feel it.
The heat of his arms. The roughness in his voice. The genuine things he said to soothe me. The way his hand moved over my skin like he wanted to touch me…and didn’t know what to do once he did.
After everything I’ve been through, how can I even think about him like this? He’s a killer. Unhinged. Impossible to read. A complete asshole.
And still, my body reacts every time he looks at me for a second too long. Every time his fingers brush mine. Every time he mutters something under his breath and calls me “brat” in Russian.
Which should piss me off.
“Hey,” I say, shifting in my seat. “How long until we reach the next stop?”
His eyes flick to the rear-view.
I hesitate, then push anyway. “So…before all this”—I gesture vaguely around us—“what did you do? Just walk up to people and say, ‘Hi, I’m a mercenary. Hire me’?”
Fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter, he turns his head slowly toward me.
“The first job I took was killing a cheating husband. Walked into his house. Shot him while he was sleeping. Walked out. I was fourteen.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “You never fucking talk and that’s the story you go with? Jesus Christ, Wolff.”
“You asked.”
I blink, then shake my head. “I don’t know, maybe open with something a little less…horrifying? Fourteen? How does that even happen?”
“I’ve always been good at killing. Never had to try.”
That…doesn’t help.
I swallow, not loving this conversation, but he’s talking, and I don’t want him to stop.
“And the Sovereign? How’d that happen?”
“I knew people. They knew what I could do. They made an offer.”
“Did you want to join?”
Nothing.
Not even a glance.
I study him, the hard lines of his face, the tension that never really leaves his body.
“I didn’t want to be a Servant. When it was time to take my vow, I refused to walk down the aisle with the others.
” A small, humorless laugh slips out. “My dad had to arrange a private ceremony just so he could physically drag me down it.” I shake my head.
“Which, by the way, completely breaks the rules. You’re supposed to take the vow willingly.
” I huff. “But I guess rules don’t really apply to Commanders. ”
When he doesn’t respond, I glance at him again. “So what was your—”
He yanks the wheel, pulling into a narrow alley so fast my shoulder slams against the door. Buildings blur past—rusted metal warehouses, cracked brick buildings, graffiti layered over itself.
The truck skids to a stop behind a small garage.
The engine dies. “We’re here.”
He’s already out of the truck as I scramble after him, the cold biting instantly as snow catches in my hair. I plow into his back as he stops dead.
“What the hell—”
He grabs my arm and yanks me around the back of the building, down a tight path slick with ice. My boots slip, and his grip tightens, keeping me upright.
“Where are we going? What is this place?”
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
He stops at a steel door tucked between two crumbling buildings, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. His hands flex before he punches in a code.
The lock clicks.
The door swings open.
I step inside—and stop cold.
“Woah…”
This isn’t what I expected. It’s not another abandoned shack or half-rotted safehouse barely holding together.
Racks of guns line the walls—assault rifles, handguns, shotguns—all cleaned and perfectly arranged. Shelves stacked with ammo, body armor, med kits. Everything labeled. Everything in its place.
A massive map covers the far wall, with flat-screen monitors filling the rest of the space.
My eyes drag across the room, taking it all in. “Is this place the Sovereign’s?”
“No.”
With that simple answer, I trail him up a narrow staircase, the steps creaking under our weight. At the top, he unlocks the door and steps aside.
I walk into what looks like a fully stocked apartment—living room, kitchen, bedroom. But everything is sleek and minimal. Black couch. Dark wood floors. Heavy drapes over the windows.
He steps in behind me and shuts the door, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet.
“Clean up.” He jerks his chin toward the bathroom, already turning away and disappearing down the hall.
The shower takes forever to heat up, the pipes groaning like they haven’t been used in a while.
When it finally does, I step under it and don’t move.
Hot water beats against my skin. I scrub until it stings.
Until my skin turns red. Until I don’t feel like I’m still covered in blood and dirt and everything from before.
It doesn’t really work.
But it’s something.
By the time I’m done, the water’s gone cold again.
I wrap myself in a thick towel and step out, steam clinging to my skin as I push the door open.
Wolff isn’t in the main room, but I hear his voice carrying from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
I follow it.
The bedroom door is half open.
I stop in the doorway.
He’s standing with his back to me, shirtless, phone pressed to his ear. Muscles pulled tight, shoulders rigid. Old scars cut across his skin, jagged and uneven—and lower, wrapped rough around his side, the bandage I put there already soaked through in places.
He shouldn’t be up and moving.
Shouldn’t be acting like nothing’s wrong.
He’s speaking a language I don’t recognize. Whatever it is, it’s not casual. There’s tension in every word, in the way his hand flexes at his side, in the way his shoulders stay locked. The call ends, and he tosses the phone onto the bed without looking.
I hesitate for a second before stepping into the room.
“Everything okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
I walk farther into the room and sit on the bed, gripping the towel around me.
He finally turns, hands running through his hair and down his beard. There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before—something heavier.
I stare at him, my fingers digging into the towel.
His eyes slowly scan my face, lingering on my lips before dropping to the towel.
“Wolff…” I don’t know what I’m asking. Maybe for him to look away. Or not to.
He steps closer.
My chest rises and falls faster. He stops right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body.
“Drop the towel.”
His command makes something deep in my stomach twist.
I swallow and pull at the edge of it, loosening the fold. The fabric slips down my chest, catching for a second before falling to my waist. I let it drop the rest of the way, and it puddles around me on the bed, leaving me completely exposed.
His eyes slowly drag down my body.
“Lean back.”
My breath catches, but I do it—leaning back on my elbows, thighs pressing together as my core throbs in anticipation. He stares at me like he’s deciding exactly how he’s going to ruin me.
“Spread your legs.”
I hesitate only a second before my knees fall open, baring my pussy to him. His gaze drops straight to it, dark and hungry.
He takes another step closer, then drops to his knees between my parted thighs.
I feel his breath before anything else—hot against my inner thighs. Then his mouth is on me.
He licks a slow, rough line up my thigh, then does the same to the other, his large hands gripping my legs, holding them wide open. My hands fist in the sheets, hips shifting restlessly as I wait, barely able to stand it.
“I’m going to eat this cunt, and you’re going to stop asking so many goddamn questions.”
I whimper as his mouth closes over my pussy, tongue greedily sliding through my folds.
The sensation is so sudden and intense, I cry out, back arching off the bed.
He licks me like he’s starving—broad strokes from my entrance to my clit, then back down, pushing his tongue inside me, fucking me with it.
He groans low in his throat, the vibration right over my clit and traveling all the way to my toes.
“Fuck…you taste good,” he mutters, almost angry about it. “Been thinking about this little cunt for days. How sweet it is. How tight it gets when you come.”
His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading me even wider as he buries his face deeper. Sucking my clit into his mouth, he flicks his tongue fast and hard, then licks back down to push inside me again. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on me fill the room.
I’m shaking, hips trying to buck against his face, but he holds me down with brutal strength.
He eats me like he owns me, almost punishing. Every lick, every suck, every thrust of his tongue feels like he’s claiming territory.
My hands fly to his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands. He immediately grabs my wrists and pins them to the bed beside my hips without lifting his mouth.
“Don’t touch me.”
He goes back to devouring me, sucking my clit until I’m panting and trembling.
I’m so close already.
He feels it. His grip on my thighs turns bruising as he focuses on my clit, swirling and flicking and sucking until my eyes roll back.
“Come on my tongue. Be a good girl and soak my fucking face.”
The command sends me over the edge.
I come hard, screaming, my pussy clenching and pulsing against his mouth as waves of pleasure crash over me. He doesn’t stop—just keeps licking me through it, dragging every last shudder out of me until I’m shaking and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at me like he’s still deciding what to do with me next.
Then he stands.
“Turn around. Ass up.”
I turn and bend forward, forearms braced on the mattress, ass presented to him.
He moves to the edge of the bed, grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back just enough to force my mouth open. His cock slaps heavy against my lips once, then he pushes in deep, filling my throat in one rough thrust.
I choke instantly, eyes watering.
He doesn’t ease up. He fucks my mouth with short, ruthless strokes, his hips snapping forward while the grip in my hair keeps me exactly where he wants me.
“Fuck…that’s it. Take it all, every fucking inch.”
Tears spill down my cheeks as I struggle to breathe around him. He fucks my face harder, the wet, gagging sounds filling the room.
After a few minutes, he suddenly pulls out, breathing ragged, cock shiny with my spit.
“Don’t fucking move.”
He roughly presses between my shoulder blades and shoves my face down into the sheets, cheek pressed hard against the mattress. My ass is left raised high, completely exposed.
“Spread yourself.”
I hate this. My hands reach back, and I grab my ass cheeks, pulling them apart for him. The cool air hits, making me feel even more exposed, more humiliated, more like the worthless hole I’ve become.
He doesn’t fuck me.
He stands there, stroking his thick cock.
“Look at you. Spreading your asshole open. So eager to be used.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let go. I keep myself spread wide for him, hating how much I need this—how much I need him to use me, to make me feel something other than the empty void in my chest.
An agonizing thought slips in.
If I said “Jackal” right now…would he stop?
He’s not even fucking me. He’s just using me like a cheap toy, jerking off onto my ass. I could say the word. I could make him stop.
But I don’t.
Because last time I said the safeword, he stopped completely. He walked away and wanted nothing to do with me.
I can’t risk that again.
I stay silent, holding myself open, letting him degrade me just so he’ll keep looking at me. Just so he’ll keep wanting me. Just so I’m not invisible to him.
This is all I’m good for now.
This is all I deserve.
His breathing gets harsher and faster.
Then I feel it—the hot, thick head of his cock presses right against my asshole. He doesn’t push inside. He holds it there, stroking himself furiously, the tip nudging my tight ring with every stroke.
“Fuck…” he grunts.
Hot, heavy ropes of cum shoot directly into my open asshole, pulse after pulse, filling the shallow entrance as I hold myself spread wide for him. He milks every last drop, pressing the head of his cock against my hole to push the cum deeper.
When he’s finally done, he steps back.
The room is silent except for our breathing.
I stay bent over the bed, face pressed into the sheets now wet with my tears, hands still spreading my ass open, his cum slowly leaking from my asshole and running down my thighs.
Face burning with humiliation and leftover need.
He doesn’t say a word as he pulls up his pants and walks out of the room, leaving me there. Alone once again.