The mint gum between my teeth is dead. All that’s left is the bitter aftertaste of adrenaline and someone else’s blood. I need a goddamn shower. And a fuck.
“So,” Raze drawls behind me as we step into the corridor, “what’d you do to the little stray?”
Before I can tell him to shut the fuck up, the stench of cologne and entitlement hits me.
Alistair and Dalton.
“Christ, Priest,” Alistair scoffs, his designer boots clicking against the polished floor as he gives me a disgusted once-over. “You bathe in that shit now?”
“Get fucked.” I walk past him.
Alistair Whitney and Dalton Mercer. The other two heirs to the South Section. If I’m the monster they try to leash, those two are the lapdogs dressed in gold—obedient, polished, blood-soaked cowards in tailored suits.
Alistair’s the son of Commander Whitney, a man so deep in political rot he probably bleeds ink. Alistair inherited his taste for power and his clean hands. He talks about legacy like it’s a blood right. Thinks one day we’ll rule the South together.
Over my dead fucking body.
Dalton’s not far behind—probably watching this like it’s a goddamn show. He’s another legacy brat—son of Commander Mercer, Sterling’s favorite pet. His name carries weight, but hetosses it around like it’s a fucking game. I’ve shared a mission with him. Once. Never again.
Together, the three of us make up what they call the Trinity—the heirs to the whole goddamn South.
I fucking hate the name.
I’m not part of their brotherhood. I don’t drink with them. Don’t laugh with them. I was raised in hell while they were fed steak and strategy. They were born killers. I was built.
And I’d burn this whole fucking Vault before I ever stand beside them.
We step into the High Chancellor’s office. The last place I want to fucking be. Polished oak floors. Leather chairs. The whole place reeks of power and cowardice. The kind that hides behind influence, not violence.
Sterling doesn’t look up. He’s too busy scribbling in that leather-bound journal of his. Perfect fucking calligraphy. The man used to bleed like the rest of us.
At least that’s what the stories say.
I never saw it myself.
Over the years, he’s turned soft. Not weaker. Just…sleeker. He’s not a Sovereign anymore. He’s a politician in a custom suit. A man who trades in secrets and smiles, hiding the killer behind polished teeth and a carefully curated public image.
But that brand on his chest is still there. A ghost of who heusedto be—before the power went to his fucking head.
Raze shuts the door behind us. Dalton slouches against the far wall. Alistair doesn’t even try to hide the way he straightens, ready to kiss Sterling’s fucking boots.
Sterling finally lifts his head.
“Gentlemen. Priest.”
“Sterling.”
His jaw tics. Barely. But I see it.
He hates when I call him that—strips the title right out from under him. I don’t give a fuck. It’s the only thing he’s earned from me.
Alistair and Dalton nod like good little heirs. I don’t move from the doorway. Just crack my gum, arms crossed, blood still drying on my shirt.
“There’s a dinner,” Sterling says, folding his hands. “Next week. Senator Kelly will be hosting us.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not. You’ll be there. Alongside Alistair and Dalton. Your presence is expected.”
