Wolff
If I’d known becoming a General came with this many fucking public appearances, I would’ve stayed a Lieutenant out of spite.
The banquet hall is all polished marble, black tablecloths, and blood-red floral centerpieces tall enough to block half the room.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, throwing white light over a few hundred of the Sovereign’s richest psychopaths while servers in pressed uniforms weave between tables with champagne and tiny pieces of food no one here actually wants to eat.
At the front of the room, a massive stage has been dressed in black and gold for tonight’s ceremony, complete with banners, podiums, and enough self-important bullshit to make me want to gouge my eyes out with a butterknife.
Apparently, when a High Chancellor loses his mind, half the South Section tries to eat itself alive, and a small army of us gets dragged in to stop the fallout, the Sovereign throws a fucking gala about it.
I sit at one of the tables near the back, suit digging into my shoulders, tie already loosened. The exit stays in my peripheral. It’s the only part of this room I give a shit about.
Beside me, Graves is halfway through a tumbler of whiskey. His nose is slightly crooked from the last fight he picked, and the expensive black suit can’t do a damn thing to make him look civilized.
“You keep glaring at the doors. If you bolt before they serve the steak, I’m telling everybody you cried during the speeches.” He loudly drains the rest of his drink.
I’m tempted to break his hand, but I don’t move. Moving means taking my eyes off the room, and I’ve been watching for the wrong thing all night.
AJ isn’t here.
I saw David earlier, standing near the stage laughing with a cluster of Commanders like his life is just fucking perfect.
“Did you touch my shit while I was on a mission?”
Graves snorts. “What kind of question is that?”
“My locker’s been gone through.” I keep my eyes on the crowd as I say it, scanning faces, exits, every server. “Nothing’s missing. Just moved around.”
“K9, you are one weird motherfucker. I don’t give a fuck that somebody rifled through your tragic little collection of knives and black T-shirts. Maybe someone wanted to sniff your underwear.”
“General looks rough on you, Maddox.” The deep Russian accent comes from my right.
Arseny Zakharov pulls out the chair across from us and drops into it. His broad frame strains the seams of a black suit, a thick scar dragging down one side of his jaw while smaller ones disappear into the ink on his throat and hands.
Arsen’s eyes sweep over Graves. “You’re bigger.”
Graves looks down at himself. “Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
He quirks his eyebrow. “Jealous?”
“No.” Arsen reaches for the whiskey. “I’ve just never seen an operative built like a fucking vending machine.”
Graves laughs. “And yet somehow I still outrank half the idiots you train.”
Arsen’s been dragged through damn near every section of the Sovereign at this point, training recruits, cleaning up disasters, and making rookies cry in eight different languages.
Former FSB. An East Section legend. The kind of man people either hero worship or actively pray they never get assigned to.
The Sovereign treats him like a prized attack dog and a liability in the same breath.
He looks at me, narrowing his gaze. “You still look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders, trying to work out tension that hasn’t left in weeks.
“Sleep?”
I exhale through my nose and shift in my chair. “No.”
“Sluts?”
“No.”
Graves cackles into his glass. “Jesus Christ, K9. At least lie so you don’t look like a fucking loser.”
Before I can tell him to eat shit, another chair scrapes across the floor.
Raze drops into the seat to Arsen’s left. Black ink crawls up the side of his throat and disappears into the tattoos cutting along his temple, the fresh silver insignia at his collar the only thing about him that looks polished.
“Generals,” he says.
“Commander.” Arsen’s mouth twitches.
Graves eyes the new insignia. “Look at that. They finally let the dishonorably discharged psycho play dress-up with the grown-ups.” Graves raises his glass toward Raze.
“Congrats on the promotion, sweetheart. Real inspiring story. Boy gets kicked out of the military, joins a murder cult, and somehow still fails upward.”
Raze grunts. “You say that like it wasn’t your exact career path.”
“Difference is, I’m pretty.” Graves winks.
I rub a hand over my jaw and look toward the bar.
I should’ve gone there first.
The room shifts suddenly—people sitting up straighter, conversations quieting.
Heads turn toward the entrance in a slow ripple of attention, and then Priest Carmichael walks in like he owns the oxygen.
Dressed in all black, arm still in a sling.
He’s the freshly appointed High Chancellor to the South Section, the youngest in Sovereign’s history—a rabid fucking problem with a crown now.
The entire table starts to stand.
Priest doesn’t even break stride.
“If you bastard-rejects don’t sit the fuck down, I’ll personally rip your kneecaps out.”
Arsen sinks back into his chair slowly, muttering something in Russian while Priest cuts through the crowd.
Graves laughs. “I missed that feral fucker. He’s gonna make the South so much fun.”
Arsen huffs a laugh into his drink.
Priest lowers himself into the empty chair beside Raze with the kind of slow control that says he’s injured and would rather cut off his own hand than let anyone comment on it.
A server appears at his shoulder to offer champagne. Priest stares at the tray until the poor bastard visibly rethinks every choice that led him here, then waves him off.
Graves leans back and looks around the table. “This might be my favorite collection of unstable men in one place. We should do this more often.”
“Fuck no,” Priest says.
Raze pours himself whiskey. “Agreed.”
Arsen reaches for the breadbasket. “I’d rather train fresh recruits with a concussion.”
Priest pinches the bridge of his nose with his good hand. “Can this ceremony start already? I have Commanders to fire.”
“Only fire?” Raze asks. “Look at you getting soft.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll make you my next public execution.”
I tune them out long enough to scan the room again, eyes catching on the stage, the black-and-gold banners, Sovereigns filtering toward tables.
This whole night is meant to celebrate the South surviving its own collapse.
Priest’s old man, the former High Chancellor, went off the rails and forced his own section into chaos. Then he ate a bullet on his way out.
My gaze sweeps the crowd one more time before I finally give up and reach for the bottle of whiskey. The glass is almost to my lips when a side profile across the room stops me.
AJ.
Her hair is gone—hacked off to her jaw and dyed a pale, icy blonde that doesn’t match her skin; the color makes her look almost bloodless under the lights.
The black silk gown makes it worse. Its high neck covers too much skin, too sleek and conservative to be something she would’ve chosen for herself.
Large diamond earrings brush her neck when she turns toward David, catching the light every time she moves.
I don’t recognize her at first.
She looks half dead.
My hand tightens around the whiskey bottle. She’s thinner than she was the last time I saw her, the silk hanging off her in a way that makes something ugly twist low in my gut. Even the makeup can’t hide how exhausted she looks.
You broke her.
David moves into her space, blocking my view with his back. He puts a hand on her waist and leans down to murmur something into her ear.
I want to rip his fucking arm off.
AJ pushes back from the table and starts walking toward the exit.
Fuck.
I’m out of my chair before I can think better of it, cutting through the crowd eagerly enough that people start moving out of my way.
She disappears through the ballroom doors, and I hit them seconds later, shoving one open just in time to catch the sharp click of her heels disappearing around the corner.
Shit. What the fuck am I even doing?
I don’t have an excuse. I don’t have a plan. I’ve spent the last few weeks telling myself I don’t do regret, don’t do guilt— Fucking bullshit.
I haven’t been able to stop seeing her face since that night. The way she looked at me like I’d reached into her chest and tore out her heart with my bare hands. I hated every fucking second of it.
Hated the look on her face. Hated that it followed me across state lines, into hotel rooms, onto planes, into every mission briefing and every half hour of sleep I managed to scrape together.
Hated that, no matter how far I got from Chicago, I still couldn’t get the sound of her voice out of my head.
Couldn’t stop replaying the exact moment I knew I’d gone too far and did it anyway.
That’s the part I can’t seem to shake.
Not just that I hurt her…that I meant to. That I saw exactly where to put the knife and pushed until I felt it hit bone.
My pace slows as I round the corner, pulse kicking harder the closer I get to her.
What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Sorry?
I’ve never apologized for a goddamn thing in my life. So what now? I catch up to her in the hallway and tell her that I didn’t mean it? That I did mean it, but not all of it? That I’m out of my fucking mind?
None of that fixes what I did.
None of it changes the fact that the second she looks at me, I’m probably going to do the same thing I always do—say the wrong fucking thing and make it worse.
I round another corner—
I’m so caught inside my own fucking head, I don’t realize she’s stopped walking until I hit her from behind. AJ stumbles forward with a sharp gasp, heels skidding on the polished floor.
I reach out automatically, grabbing for her arm before she can fall.
She twists.
Her eyes hit mine.
And every thought in my head fucking dies.
“Get the hell away from me!” The scream tears out of her, bouncing off the hallway walls. She throws herself backward, and her heel catches, sending her crashing to the floor in a tangle of silk and limbs.
What the fuck— My body should move, but it can’t.
“AJ—”
“No!” she screams again, scrambling backward on her hands, dress bunching around her legs as she drags herself away from me. Pure horror covers her face. “No, no, no— Don’t fucking touch me—”
I stop mid-step. My hand still half outstretched between us.
“AJ, what the hell—”
She flinches at the sound of my voice, and it feels like a punch to the throat.
Her back hits the wall, shaking, one hand shoved over her mouth like she’s trying not to throw up.
Footsteps pound down the hall as David rounds the corner with two men behind him, his expression hardening the second he sees her on the floor.
“What the hell is going on out here?” He drops straight to AJ’s side, one hand sliding behind her back as the other cups her face. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice soft in a way that instantly makes me want to put my fist through his teeth. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
AJ grabs at the front of his jacket with trembling fingers and lets him pull her upright, pressing herself against him. She still won’t look at me. Won’t even fucking glance in my direction.
David keeps one arm around her waist while his free hand smooths her hair back from her face. Then his fingers slide lower, brushing the side of her throat.
AJ hates her throat being touched. But she doesn’t shove him away…doesn’t even flinch. The neckline of her dress shifts just enough for me to catch the flash of black around her neck.
My stomach drops.
No.
“You put a vow-bound collar on her?”
David presses a kiss on her forehead. “She’s going to be my wife.”
AJ still won’t look at me. One of David’s men steps closer, and David nods toward him without taking his eyes off me.
“Take her home. That’s enough for one evening.”
AJ lets them guide her away without a word.
“AJ.”
She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate. Every instinct I have screams to go after her. To stop whatever the fuck this is.
I take a step after her, but David moves in front of me.
“Maddox. I’d strongly advise against taking another step.”
“What the fuck did you do to her?” I snarl. Because that isn’t AJ.
“Me?” A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I didn’t do anything.”
Bullshit.
I look past him, catching one last glimpse of her disappearing around the corner. David follows my gaze, then looks back at me with that same infuriating smile.
“Looks like she finally sees you for the monster you really are.”
I grab the front of his jacket and slam him back into the wall, hard enough to rattle the framed artwork beside his head. His guards move instantly, hands dropping to their weapons, but David lifts a hand without taking his eyes off me.
They stop.
“Careful, K9. Take your hands off me before I have you demoted back to Lieutenant, where you belong.”
I hold his stare for a second longer, then shove off him and step back. He smooths the front of his jacket and adjusts one of his cuffs, eyes flicking toward the hallway AJ disappeared down before landing back on me.
“Let me make this simple for you, Maddox. If you so much as breathe in her direction again, I’ll make sure they never recover enough of your body to identify it.”
I don’t answer.
Because if I stay another second, I’m going to kill him. I turn and stalk toward the exit, barely registering the people who jump out of my way.
I wanted her to hate me.
I wanted her to stop looking at me like there was something worth saving. I just never thought she’d look at me like she was afraid.