45. Wolff
Sunlight cuts through the glass wall of my loft. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, boots half-laced, shoulders locked so tight my neck aches with every breath. I drag a hand down my face and stare at the floor.
I slept like shit.
Again.
Not the restless kind, tossing and turning. The kind where you jerk awake every thirty minutes because your body is convinced something is about to happen. The kind where your pulse is already elevated before your eyes even open.
Knife-in-the-dark sleep.
My reflexes are off. I noticed it yesterday at the range. A fraction too slow on the draw. On the reload, my timing is slightly sloppy. Even my grip feels wrong, like my hands don’t belong to me.
That’s what pisses me off most, because it’s not just in my head or my sleep. It’s in my muscle memory now. The split-second hesitation that never used to exist.
I tighten the laces on my boots until the leather creaks under the strain. The longer I’m back in Chicago, the worse it gets. The noise. The politics. The fucking parties. Seeing her across rooms. Not seeing her at all. Wondering where she is. Who she’s with. How fucking drunk or high she is.
It bleeds into everything.
I need a mission.
Something violent.
Something that doesn’t require thinking.
My eyes drift toward the nightstand before I can stop them. Files, reports, my handwritten notes from Russia I shouldn’t still have. Her name circled more times than necessary.
I told myself I was done with it.
Done replaying every move. That fucking stage. The look in her eyes when I first found her.
I reach over and flip the top file closed. I don’t care about her. I care about the mistakes. Because I don’t fucking make mistakes. I bite back a curse and shove to my feet, dragging my jacket off the chair and shrugging into it.
This is fucking pathetic.
The drive to the Citadel is short, but my head gets louder with every mile.
The second I step into the underground headquarters, I head straight for the armory.
Heavy steel doors slide open at my swipe.
The room is cold and sterile, filled with weapons and tools that should make me feel like I’m back where I belong.
“General Maddox. A word.”
David’s voice cuts through the room behind me.
I don’t react immediately. I take one more step toward the weapons rack before turning.
He stands near the far wall, hands folded neatly behind his back. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a room full of rifles and suppressed carbines.
But he does.
His gaze drags over me briefly before he speaks. “I was attempting to familiarize myself with your Russia mission. But the field reports appear to have been removed from the records.”
“I pulled them.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Review.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Review is typically conducted within forty-eight hours of debrief. It’s been a few months.”
I hold his gaze. “I like to be thorough.”
“And did your thoroughness uncover anything concerning?”
“No.”
“Then why”—he steps closer—“are you still digging?”
My hands curl into fists.
Because something doesn’t add up.
Because she wasn’t supposed to be there.
Because I know a setup when I see one.
Because I don’t trust any of you.
“I was the one who went in. I tie up my own loose ends.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. “And do those loose ends involve my fiancée?”
“This is operational.”
He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he steps back.
“Operational,” he repeats quietly. “That’s good to hear. Consider your review concluded. That matter is closed. I’ve assigned a mission to you. Details are already in your inbox. It deploys tonight.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses with one hand resting against the steel frame. “I would hate to see a newly appointed General appear…distracted. There are expectations that come with your rank. Focus is one of them. It would be unfortunate to lose momentum so early.”
The door slides shut behind him.
The room goes silent.
My fists are clenched tight enough that my knuckles ache. I force them open and yank a rifle from the rack and load it methodically, checking the chamber, clearing it, repeating the motion until I can breathe through the rage.
Once I’m outside, I check my phone. One new message from AJ.
I don’t open it. I just delete it and block her number. Again. I shove the phone back into my pocket and start toward my truck.
This stops today.
I’m half-asleep when my phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the haze of the pills I took an hour ago. I blink blearily at the screen, Jackal asleep at the foot of my bed, snoring softly. The name on the caller ID makes my heart lurch.
Dad.
Fuck.
I sit up quickly, head spinning as I fumble to answer.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Where are you?” His voice is clipped.
“I’m at home.” I glance around my messy bedroom. “What’s up?”
“Did you speak with the wedding coordinator?”
I bite my lip, trying to remember if that was today or tomorrow. “I— Yeah, of course.”
Before he can respond, my doorbell rings. Jackal takes off down the stairs, nails clicking against the hardwood as I pull myself out of bed.
“Hold on, someone’s at the door.” I groan, pulling on a robe before shuffling after him. I crack the door open.
“David?”
My stomach drops.
He stands on my porch in a perfectly tailored suit, hair immaculate.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, pulling the door open wider. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, eyes sweeping over the mess in my living room—empty wines, scattered pill bottles on the coffee table.
I close the door behind him, suddenly very aware of how I look: robe barely tied, hair a disaster, the faint smell of weed and alcohol still clinging to the air. I hang up on Dad mid-sentence.
“Should I assume you forgot your appointment with the planner?”
I wrap the robe tighter around myself. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t call me out on the lie. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Jackal barks from the kitchen, and David’s attention finally shifts. Jackal stands in the doorway, tail wagging lazily as he watches us. David wasn’t thrilled when the puppy first appeared. He never said anything outright, but I noticed the look. I also never told him where Jackal came from.
Or who.
“I’ve been very patient with you, Autumn,” he says calmly, turning to face me.
“While you adjust to being back home.” His voice is almost gentle, but there’s something colder underneath.
“I understand it’s been difficult. But there are expectations now.
Responsibilities.” He takes a slow step closer.
“You are going to be my wife. The wife of a Sovereign Commander. That comes with certain standards.”
My stomach tightens. I wrap my arms tighter around myself and lean against the stair railing, trying to put space between us.
David’s gaze lingers on my bare legs, then flicks to the empty bottles again. His jaw tightens.
He closes the distance between us. I step back instinctively. He’s tall enough to block the entire hallway.
“This isn’t working.” His hand lifts, brushing the edge of my robe where it’s slipped off one shoulder. My shoulders tense at his touch. “I think it’s time we made some adjustments.”
“What kind of adjustments?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
He reaches out and smooths a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek. “You need to be prepared. In every way.” Stepping closer, he forces me back again until my back hits the wall completely. “I won’t have you embarrassing me—or yourself—like this.”
I push his hand away with a huff. “I’m not embarrassing anyone—”
“What do you call this?” He pulls out his phone and shows me security footage—me and Wolff slipping into the bathroom at the party a few nights ago. My pulse hammers in my ears as I watch the footage.
“I’ve overlooked a lot. The drinking. The drugs. The pictures of you circulating looking like a cheap, cum-covered Slut. But this?” His eyes harden. “Fucking that Scab in my house, while I was twenty feet away?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “You’re out of—”
“Watch your tone.”
I swallow hard and look away.
“This ends now, Autumn.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s time you stop acting like a whore and start behaving like my wife.” His fingers dig into my jaw as he leans closer. “I gave you space. Now I’m taking it back. No more parties. No more spreading your legs, especially for a Scab who doesn’t even deserve the rank he was given.”
“Let go of me.”
“Your IUD will be removed next week. You’re going to start preparing to give me children. Heirs.”
“I don’t want kids.” My heart pounds so hard I feel sick. “This world is too fucking evil. I’m not bringing anyone into it. I can’t—”
“You don’t have a say in it.” He laughs softly, like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Tears sting my eyes as he presses his body against mine, pinning me to the wall with his weight. “And you will start wearing your vow-bound collar.”
My breath catches. “You can’t be serious.”
Vow-bound collars—a locked collar around a Servant’s throat, marking them as owned and off-limits to everyone else. Only the Sovereign who places it has the key.
“I’m dead serious. You’re going to be my perfect little wife. On your knees when I come home. Fertile. Obedient.”
Memories flash—cold metal biting into my throat.
“No.” Shaking my head, my voice cracks. “I can’t wear a collar. I can’t—David.”
“The faster you accept this, the easier it will be. You don’t get to say no anymore, Autumn. It’s time we establish some boundaries. You’ll learn to keep your legs closed unless I tell you to spread them.”
A sick, familiar dread settles in my stomach.
I always knew this day would come. I knew there’d be a point where he’d stop pretending I still had a choice. I couldn’t keep acting like this forever—not with our wedding getting closer.
I just…
I thought I had more time.