43. Wolff
His elbow gives first.
The joint folds the wrong way beneath my boot with a wet crunch that echoes through the empty warehouse.
Blood pours into my eyes from the gash above my brow as the man screams. I grab a fistful of his greasy hair and wrench his head back, forcing him to look at me while he thrashes beneath my weight.
His body bucks wildly, panic setting in as he realizes begging won’t save him.
Nothing will.
I twist harder until the vertebrae grind and pop.
Another strangled, gurgling gasp tears from his throat.
The final snap is loud and satisfying. His body goes limp, eyes wide and empty.
For a long second, I stay crouched over him, staring down at the corpse while hot blood drips steadily from my split knuckles onto the concrete.
The warehouse falls silent.
My pulse doesn’t.
It hammers behind my eyes, under my skin, through my fucking teeth.
The same relentless static that’s been getting louder every single day.
I shove off the body and pace, lighting a cigarette with blood-slicked fingers.
The first drag burns all the way down, but it does nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
Cold air hits me as I step outside, rain clouds hanging low over the city. I pull my phone from my pocket. I shouldn’t, and I know I fucking shouldn’t. But my thumb is already moving before I can stop it.
AJ’s message thread opens.
Again.
The photo of her smiling with the dog fills the screen. Not the fake smile she wears at Sovereign events or the reckless one she throws around when she’s drunk and trying to convince herself she’s having fun.
A real one.
The closest she’s looked to the girl from before Russia. Before me. The realization makes my chest clench. I delete the thread and block her number.
Again.
Fourth time this month.
Maybe fifth.
I’ve lost count.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat and climb into the truck. I need a drink. Or six. Something strong enough to shut my brain the fuck up for a few hours. The drive back to Chicago is longer than necessary. By the time I walk into the Citadel, my irritation is edging on homicidal.
I need a mission as far away as fucking possible from Chicago.
“Jesus Christ. Do you ever answer your goddamn phone?” Graves’s loud voice cuts through the concrete hallway before I even make it to the elevators.
“I blocked your number.”
“Cute.”
I glance over, noting his dark hair is damp from the showers, but that’s about the only clean thing on him.
A black sweatshirt stretches across his massive frame, one sleeve streaked with dried blood that’s probably not his.
A fresh bandage sits crooked across the bridge of his nose, bruising already blooming beneath both eyes.
“What the hell do you want, Graves?”
“Get your suit dry-cleaned. There’s an event tonight at Commander Holmes’s estate.”
The mention of David’s name immediately puts me in a worse mood. Which shouldn’t be possible.
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are. And I got you some pussy to take your mind off—”
The punch happens before I consciously decide to throw it. My fist connects with his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. He stumbles a step and starts laughing, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“That’s my girl, K9. You know how to make a man feel special.” He straightens up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “Get your suit cleaned.”
“No.”
“Shower.”
“No.”
“Comb your hair.”
“I’m going to gut you.” I step into the elevator.
“Now you’re talking dirty to me.” The doors start closing. “Seriously, K9. That’s the most physical affection you’ve shown anyone all month.” His psychotic laugh follows me as the doors close.
I fucking hate this.
David’s estate sprawls across twenty acres outside the city—massive stone house, perfectly manicured lawns, endless fucking trees.
I park in the gravel driveway and kill the engine. The suit jacket feels too tight around my shoulders, the tie strangling me.
Inside, the mansion is packed with high-ranking Sovereign. Sluts in expensive dresses, men in tailored suits. Champagne flows. Conversations are loud, the laughter fake. I grab the first bottle of whiskey I see and head straight for the balcony, needing air.
I lean against the railing, staring out into the darkness. The music bleeds through the glass doors behind me, laughter rising and falling in waves.
I knock back the rest of the whiskey and try not to think about AJ. About the fact that she’s somewhere in this fucking house. The burn down my throat isn’t nearly enough to drown her out.
The balcony door swings open. Graves steps out with a cigarette burning between his teeth, dragging Devin behind him. Her tits are falling out of a tight dark green dress, the hem barely covering her ass.
She spots me and smiles, pressing herself tighter against Graves, sliding a hand up his chest.
“You know, boys…” Devin runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “We could have some fun together. I’d look really good between the two of you.”
Graves slaps her ass hard. “She loves being a messy little cumdump.”
I toss the empty whiskey bottle over the railing. It shatters somewhere in the grass below. “Pass.”
Graves rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re boring tonight.”
Devin reaches over to a passing waiter’s tray and grabs two glasses of champagne, handing one to me.
“To the new General,” she purrs.
Graves clinks his glass against mine with a shit-eating grin. I drain mine in one swallow.
My head jerks toward a sharp whistle that cuts through the open window behind us.
“Game time,” Graves laughs. “I laced that stuck-up motherfucker Harlan’s drink. Gotta be there when it kicks in and he starts begging to get gang-banged in front of the whole fucking room.”
Devin slides closer to me as Graves disappears back inside.
Too fucking close.