41. Wolff
Ishove open the meeting room door, my body thrumming with restless energy I haven’t been able to shake. Generals sit scattered around the long black conference table, conversations low beneath the glow of recessed lighting.
As I take a seat at the far end of the table, other Generals start filing in behind me. Chairs scrape. Whiskey pours. My knee bounces before I force it still.
I worked too fucking hard to get here.
Every promotion. Every mission. Every body dropped for the Sovereign.
I fought for every inch of rank in this goddamn organization while most of these bastards inherited theirs through bloodlines and family names.
And now I’m sitting at the same table as the men who used to look at me like I was something dragged in off the street.
So why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about AJ?
The way she felt beneath me this morning. The way I slept harder beside her than I have in fucking years—no half-awareness, no listening for every creak or footstep. I didn’t even stir when she slipped out. That alone pisses me off more than anything.
Weakness.
That’s all this shit is.
A weakness I can’t seem to cut out.
“There’s my favorite emotional support animal.” Graves’s massive body drops into the chair next to mine despite half the fucking table being empty.
“Move.”
“Nah.”
I stare straight ahead because if I look at his smug fucking face, I’ll crack his skull. His eyes burn into the side of my head before he leans back lazily in the chair.
“You fuck her again?”
My head snaps toward him instantly.
“Ah.” A slow grin spreads across his mouth. “That bad, huh?”
A few Sovereigns entering the room take one look at Graves and immediately veer toward the opposite side of the table.
“I also read your field reports.”
“Those are restricted.” My grip tightens on the edge of the table until the wood creaks.
He shrugs. “Yeah, well, the records clerk really wanted my dick down his throat. He’s got a talented mouth, swallowed like a pro.”
Motherfucker.
“What the hell do you want, Graves?”
“I already told you.” He pours himself a drink.
“You’ve been acting like a fucking bitch since Russia, and I’m not letting you drag my name down with yours.
” His grin fades into something more serious.
“I had to figure out what the fuck happened over there. I knew you were good at tracking people. But those reports? Jesus Christ.” He lets out a low whistle.
I say nothing. Because I already know where this is going.
“You tracked her sleeping patterns. Heart rate spikes. Panic triggers. Food preferences. You documented the way she reacted to specific fucking rooms.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
“You even noted she slept better with physical contact.”
Shit. I forgot I wrote that down. “I will break every bone in your body if you don’t shut your goddamn mouth.”
He laughs. “You’re good, K9, but we both know who’d win that fight.” His gaze locks onto mine fully now. “Now get your shit under control before somebody else notices too. Because those reports didn’t read like a handler monitoring an asset. They read like a fucking stalker.”
Before I can decide to shoot him or snap his fucking neck, the heavy double doors swing open and another voice cuts across the room.
“We promoting Generals on charity cases now?”
The temperature in the room drops instantly.
Harlan St. John enters, looking perfectly pressed and perfectly fucking punchable.
Dark blond hair styled like a cunt. Tie straight.
Not a wrinkle on him. The golden fucking poster child for Sovereign royalty.
I want to slam his head into the table until his skull cracks open and his shiny teeth scatter across the floor.
His eyes drag across me and Graves with open disgust.
“Thought rank was supposed to mean something. Or are we just handing stars to stray dogs and slaughterhouse trash now?”
Graves moves before I even process the words. One second, he’s sitting. The next, Harlan crashes into the wall, hard enough to rattle the fucking glass shelves. Blood sprays across the floor as Graves’s fist connects with his nose.
The room erupts instantly.
Chairs scrape.
Everyone surges to their feet.
Fuck.
Grabbing Graves by the back of his shirt, I yank him backward. He laughs like a fucking lunatic, wiping blood across his swollen knuckles while Harlan stumbles upright, blood pouring from his nose onto his suit.
Graves rolls his shoulders. “That’s two fucking bones. Want me to make it three?”
Harlan lunges forward—
The conference room doors slam open.
“Gentlemen,” Commander Weston says as he steps into the room beside Commander Harrington, “kill each other on your own fucking time. Not mine. I’ve already got enough paperwork drowning my desk.”
The entire room stills.
Graves drops back into his chair beside me, muttering under his breath, “After this bullshit meeting, I’m gonna peel that prick’s face off and fuck the hole where his skull used to be.”
The doors open again behind the Commanders as catering staff wheel in carts loaded with food and bottles of whiskey. The smell hits the room instantly—steak, roasted vegetables, fresh bread.
Then another man steps inside behind them.
Commander David Holmes.
Tall. Dark-haired. Expensive suit tailored to his broad frame. The kind of man raised for rooms like this. Exactly the kind of man Sovereign Commander daughters are supposed to marry.
Something ugly twists low in my stomach.
Weston gestures toward him.
“As of today, Commander Holmes will be overseeing General operations within the North Section.”
Weston leaves the room again with Harrington following close behind, discussing something low under their breath. I tune out the rest of David’s polished bullshit introduction while pouring myself whiskey. The burn down my throat does absolutely nothing to dull the tormenting ache in my chest.
My attention drifts toward the conference room doors after Weston disappears through them. The same fucking thought I haven’t been able to let go of flashes to the forefront of my mind.
Why was AJ targeted?
The more I searched overseas, the less sense the story made. Akim doesn’t run sloppy operations. He doesn’t spend that kind of money and manpower grabbing random rich girls out of clubs for fun.
AJ was specifically chosen.
Why?
Every lead I followed turned into another dead end. Missing files. Bribed informants disappearing before I could question them. Security footage wiped clean. Financial records scrubbed. Even the fucking shipping manifests vanished the second I started pulling names.
Like somebody knew exactly where I was looking before I got there.
Weston knows something.
I’m fucking certain he did some dirty deal with Akim. Something went bad. And AJ got caught in the middle of it somehow.
He fucked up somewhere.
Everybody does eventually.
And when I find it—I’ll finally understand why AJ was dragged into that nightmare in the first place.
David clears his throat and loosens his cuffs before glancing toward the food.
“Lunch is on me today,” he says casually. “Figured somebody should enjoy all the catering after my fiancée decided menu tasting was optional.”
A few of the older Generals laugh quietly.
David shakes his head with a fake-ass smile. “Apparently, she had better things to do.”
My fingers flex against the table. I know exactly what she was doing. Pushing my cum out of her perfect cunt. The image makes my cock twitch, and I shift in my seat, trying to breathe through the unfamiliar irritation clawing at the back of my skull.
Graves glances over at me slowly and leans in close. “Did you seriously fuck a Commander’s fiancée right before this meeting? Ballsy as hell, K9. Hope her cunt was worth the shitstorm when her daddy finds out you’re still fucking his princess.”
I pour more whiskey.
David gestures toward the dessert tray as the catering staff sets slices onto small plates around the table.
“Try the cake before we scare the staff away,” he says dryly. “The lemon blueberry compote is a strong contender for the wedding.”
“AJ hates blueberries.”
The entire table goes silent as David turns slowly toward me, one eyebrow lifting slightly. Graves lets out a fucking laugh.
I drain the rest of the whiskey.
“You must be Wolff Maddox.” David smirks.
I don’t answer.
“I appreciate you bringing my fiancée home safely.”
My fiancée.
The words settle low in my chest like poison. Something violent twisting beneath my ribs. I shove back from the table hard enough for the chair legs to scrape across the floor.
I need air. Distance. Anything to drown out the fact that I still smell AJ on my fucking skin.