38. Wolff
Hot water pounds against the back of my neck, steam curling thick through the concrete locker room while blood drips slowly from my split knuckles and disappears down the drain.
My shoulder is throbbing again.
The sparing ring today was one of the worst it’s been in weeks. And I still didn’t hit hard enough to quiet my fucking head.
Footsteps echo through the locker room. Then a familiar voice cuts through the steam.
“Russia really fucked you up, huh?”
Graves drops his duffel onto the nearby bench and steps beneath the shower beside mine. The bastard is so fucking big he barely fits under it properly. Six-seven of muscle, scars, and tattoos.
I run a hand through my hair, letting the hot water sting my busted knuckles before grabbing soap off the ledge.
“You’re moving slow as shit.” He continues, “Thought Ramirez was gonna knock your ass unconscious in round three.”
“He didn’t.”
“Nah.” He snorts. “But he got close enough that I almost started feeling hopeful.”
Already irritated, I drag a hand down my face. Graves lives to make himself everyone else’s fucking problem. Doesn’t matter if it’s Commanders, heirs, Generals, or the poor bastard dumb enough to stand beside him in a hallway. He hates everyone equally.
I glance at him briefly.
His right arm is freshly wrapped, tattooed knuckles scabbed and swollen from earlier. The left side of his face is bruised from a broken nose. He looks like he lost the fight instead of winning it.
But Graves never loses.
He just enjoys breaking shit too much to care about the damage.
He’s a Scab. Same as me.
No military background. No Sovereign bloodline. No famous last name handed down through generations of killers. Just two bastards violent enough to claw their way into ranks we were never supposed to reach. There are only six Scabs in the entire North Section—two of us Generals now.
“You gonna stare at that wall all day, or you finally planning to admit something’s wrong with you?” Graves asks.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Sure.” He scrubs water through his dark hair before glancing sideways at me. “That why you nearly beat Torres unconscious after the bell?”
“He kept swinging.”
“He stopped three hits before you did.”
I glare at the tiled wall instead of answering. I’m too fucking irritated to deal with him today.
A couple of rookie Sovereign entering the locker room immediately turn around and leave again when they see him.
Graves watches them go and laughs under his breath. “Pussyasses.”
I’m developing another headache. His grin widens, knowing he’s getting under my skin. “You own a suit?”
“No.”
“Damn. General Maddox too important for the Initiate parties now?”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are.” He rinses soap from his beard. “Weston already confirmed attendance for all ranking officers. Means your ugly ass is required.”
“I’ll skip it.”
“Mm.” Graves shrugs. “Tell Commander Weston that yourself when he asks why his newest General disappeared instead of bonding with the Sovereign’s next batch of psychopaths.”
I shut off the water and step out onto the cold concrete, grabbing a towel while steam rolls off my skin. The headache behind my eyes pounds harder the second I start drying off.
Weeks of this shit.
Shit sleep.
Shit focus.
Shit temper.
Every day feels exactly the same now—training until my injuries reopen, missions, paperwork, repeat. Keep my hands busy long enough and maybe my head shuts the fuck up for five minutes.
Hasn’t worked yet.
Graves leans against the tiled wall, watching me with that lazy, half-amused expression he gets right before he deliberately pisses me off. The loud bastard gets a hard-on from getting under people’s skin.
“You’ve been a miserable fuck since Russia. You’re making me look bad considering I’m the one who gave your name to Weston.”
I pull my hoodie over my head. “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” Graves steps out of the shower, water dripping down tattooed shoulders that are thick enough to break concrete. “Nothing says mentally stable like beating three operatives half to death before lunch.”
“They kept getting up.”
“That’s usually how sparring works.”
I ignore him and shove my damp towel into the laundry bin. Graves watches me for a second before his expression becomes more serious.
“I will kill you, Wolff.” He points at the General insignia tattooed near his collarbone.
“I worked my fucking ass off for this rank. They don’t hand General titles to gutter-born Scabs like us.
I won’t have my name dragged through the mud.
This shit you got going on lately? Not subtle.
Get your head out of your cunt before I put a bullet in it. ”
My temper spikes, my fists clenching at my sides. His eyes narrow slightly, then he sighs and tosses a towel over his shoulder.
“Just come tonight. Smile at the rich little future killers. Fuck some Sluts. Pretend you’re not one bad day away from skull-fucking someone in the hallway.”
“I don’t smile.”
“No shit. Buy a suit anyway.”
I sling the duffel over my shoulder and head for the exit.
“K9. Whatever happened in Russia, don’t let it make you weak.”
My grip tightens on the duffel strap. Then I shove through the locker room doors and disappear back into the concrete halls of the Citadel before this conversation turns into something uglier.
Because a real fight between Graves and me wouldn’t end with bruises or broken bones.
It’d end with one of us zipped into a body bag.
I should’ve killed Graves.
Now I’m standing outside Blackout in a custom charcoal suit tailored an hour ago, feeling homicidal. I flex my fingers slowly at my sides, staring at the massive steel doors while bass rattles through the concrete beneath my boots hard enough to vibrate up my spine.
I already want to leave.
Or start breaking bones.
Either works.
I don’t do clubs.
Don’t do suits.
Don’t do this fake-as-shit social performance.
The Sovereign loves this shit. Celebrating like it’s a goddamn frat party instead of a machine built on blood and broken bodies. Tonight, they’re welcoming the newest batch of rookies who just took their vows. The branding on their chests barely a few hours old.
Heat and stench hit me like a wall the second I step inside—thick sweat, cum, weed, alcohol, perfume, and the sharp metallic tang of blood. Red strobe lights slice through the haze, illuminating the main floor where half-naked bodies grind and fuck.
Sluts are everywhere: bent over tables, on their knees, chained to pillars with their legs spread wide.
Their cunts and asses are already gaping and leaking, cum dripping down their thighs in thick white strands as Sovereigns take turns using them like public fucktoys.
On the elevated platforms, Sirens dangle from the ceiling by wrist and ankle cuffs, cunts and asses at the perfect height for the rookies to fuck while they swing.
My attention flicks from one side of the room to the other, mapping exits and blind spots. Four bartenders behind the bar, six guards at the main entrances, plus three more near the back.
Every drug. Every kink. Every dark, depraved desire is on full display tonight.
This place was made for monsters.
I weave through the crowd toward the back rooms, walking through a long, dimly lit corridor lined with gloryhole stations.
Sluts are bound and presented like livestock—some face-down on padded benches with their asses up and legs forced wide apart by spreader bars.
Others are on their knees in stocks, mouths held open by O-rings.
The heavy curtains covering the large back room are pulled back, spilling blue light into the hallway.
I step inside.
Leather couches line the walls. A raised stage in the center with spotlights.
Crystal glasses gleam on a mahogany bar.
High-ranking Sovereigns sprawl across the furniture, drinks in hand, naked Servants on their laps or on their knees.
My eyes scan the space and land on Graves—lying back on a large couch, a Slut riding his face while another is sucking his cock.
He notices me instantly. Brown eyes lock onto mine from beneath her thighs. He gives me a lazy wink before grabbing her hips and forcing her down harder on his mouth.
I head for the bar and pour myself something strong enough to burn through the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I just need to be seen. Check the box. Get the fuck out before dawn.
More people filter in, taking seats around the room. The stage in the center lights up as the music shifts. “Not Right” by Elia Ex blasts through the speakers.
I raise the glass to my lips, ignoring the growing noise.
The curtain on the stage drops, revealing a naked Slut strapped to an X-cross—big tits, blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, black collar around her throat with a small golden bell attached to the front.
A seductive voice blast through the speakers over the music. “Oh boys, who wants to make this little whore come?”
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth.
For a second, my brain genuinely stops working.
AJ.
She’s practically naked, wearing only black latex panties and sky-high stilettos.
Nothing covering her tits—new silver nipple piercings glinting under the lights.
Her hair is longer, pitch-black extensions pulled into a sleek high ponytail that swings down her bare back while oil glistens across her skin beneath the stage lights. Thick black eyeliner. Black lipstick.
The crowd loses their fucking minds instantly—yelling, whistling, chanting her name.
She tilts her head toward the crowd with a wicked little smile. “She sure is pretty, isn’t she?” she purrs into the microphone, dragging black-painted nails slowly down the Slut’s stomach. “But I think she could be prettier. Who wants to make her bleed for us?”
The crowd roars as performers pull men onto the stage. AJ leans in and snorts a thick line of coke off the Slut’s tits, then presses her mouth to the girl’s, forcing the drug into her with a filthy kiss.
My jaw locks down hard.
“Fuck,” I swear under my breath.
AJ pulls back and drags a razor blade slowly down the Slut’s stomach—shallow enough not to kill, deep enough to make her scream. Blood wells up in thin red lines. The men pulled onto the stage are already hard, stroking themselves as they watch.
“Give us a show, boys,” AJ says through a laugh.
They don’t hesitate.
Two of them step forward and start fucking the strapped Slut—one in her mouth, one in her cunt—while AJ walks the edge of the stage, eyes scanning the crowd.
They land on me.
Her smile falters for half a second before she disappears into the crowd.
I slam my glass down on the bar.
What the fuck is she doing?
Another drink burns down my throat as I watch the Slut get fucked on stage from the shadows. I don’t stop drinking until the stupid fucking ache behind my ribs dulls and the room stops spinning.
A couple of hours in and I’ve already done enough pretending to satisfy Command. I showed my face. Listened to spoiled little Sovereign heirs brag about kill counts they haven’t earned yet.
That should be enough.
My jacket hangs half off one shoulder as I grab another bottle from the private bar, turning toward the exit.
The private section overlooking the club is worse now than when I first got here.
Half the rookies are too fucked up to remember their own names.
Across the lounge, Graves’s loud fucking laugh cuts through the noise again.
The bastard is shirtless against the wall, one massive hand fisting the hair of some rookie forced on his knees—head bobbing frantically, choking and gagging around Graves’s cock as he fucks his throat.
Movement catches my eye, a streak of long black hair disappearing behind a closing door while a Sovereign tosses the girl he was carrying onto a bed.
Every rational thought disappears.
I change direction.
The moment I push through the same door, my eyes adjust to the dim light of the private room. AJ’s completely naked, face down on the bed, passed the fuck out. A Sovereign is on top of her, grunting as he fucks her limp body.
“You can have her when I’m done,” he slurs.
Rage reddens my vision.
I cross the room in two strides, grab the bastard by the back of the neck, and rip him off her. He barely has time to yelp before I slam his face into the wall hard enough to shatter his cheekbone.
“What the fu—”
His voice cuts off as my knife slices from his belly button straight up to his sternum in one vicious upward thrust. I twist the blade deep inside him, feeling it catch on ribs and organs, then yank it out.
Blood sprays across the wall and bed in a hot arc.
He drops to his knees, clutching his spilling guts, gurgling. I drive the knife into the side of his throat and rip it sideways, nearly decapitating him. His body convulses, then goes still, blood pooling fast beneath him.
AJ’s still unconscious, cum leaking from her pussy. I should have killed him fucking slower.
I remove my jacket and drape it over her body, then scoop her against my chest.
Cradling her limp weight, her head falls against my shoulder, black hair sticking to the tears drying across her face.
I grab her purse and heels off the floor on my way past before I shove the door open with my shoulder and carry her out into the hallway.
Solnyshko…what the fuck are you doing to yourself?