“Go remind your Senator husband what you’re worth. Your makeup is fucked,” Raze calls after her.
The door shuts behind her. Raze lights his own smoke, chuckling. “Damn. You’re extra mean tonight.”
I take a swig of scotch straight from the bottle and yank on my black hoodie, blood caked under my nails.
“You look like a fucking prom date,” I mutter, moving toward the door.
He snorts, straightening his tux jacket and flashing a grin. “I don’t have the bloodlines to get away with being underdressed in a room full of billionaires.”
We step out of the room and head down the corridor. The private wing of Senator Kelly’s mansion reeks of old money and rot.
This whole thing is Sterling’s flex. His idea of power: rubbing shoulders with South Section’s elite, pretending we’re civil. As if the blood under our nails gets scrubbed clean the second we walk into a room full of champagne and plastic smiles.
The ballroom doors open. Noise washing over me—laughter, overpriced jazz, and the dull murmur of the powerful stroking each other’s egos.
The city’s filth dressed up in designer suits, wives dripping in diamonds, fake smiles stitched onto faces that would sell their own children for influence. Sterling did. They’re all here to play pretend. Pretend they don’t know what we are, the price they pay the Sovereign to remain rich.
I don’t belong in this fucking place. Raze grabs a whiskey off a tray and takes a long drink.
“Underground fight ring out on the outskirts,” he mutters. “Might swing by after. See if I can pick off some talent.”
I grunt. Not interested.
My gaze cuts across the room, watching as Alistair and Dalton walk toward me. The two polished golden boys of the South. Groomed since birth to play nice, shake hands, and stab backs with a smile.
Alistair’s teeth flash as he walks up, bright white against his dark skin and tailored tux.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You two smell like sex and cigarettes.”
“Better than reeking of Daddy’s money, dick,” Raze says, knocking back his drink.
Dalton snorts. His eyes land on my hoodie, the blood still wet on my boots. “Bold choice, Priest. Really going for the psychotic vagrant vibe tonight?”
“Sterling’s gonna blow a vein,” Alistair adds with a headshake. “He wants the Trinity unified, not looking like you just buried a body behind the house.”
“I don’t bury bodies. I cut them into pieces and feed them to the fucking dogs.”
Alistair opens his mouth to toss another pathetic insult, but I’ve already shifted focus.
Sterling.
Standing across the room. Stiff. Eyes locked on me with that same tired blend of disgust and disappointment. His expression says everything: I’m his greatest mistake, and he’s still pretending he can fix it.
Good fucking luck.
I smirk. Let him see it. Every inch of my blood-streaked hoodie, the defiance carved into my posture. I wore this for him. To remind him that he doesn’t own me.
The four of us drift into the dining room, slipping into our assigned seats at the grotesquely oversized table. I’m seated next to Sterling, of course—because he wants control. Needsproximity to leash me. But lucky me, I’m also across the Senator, just the man I wanted to see.
I’m about to sit when Sterling’s voice slices through the air.
“Priest. A word.”
I don’t move.
“What?”
His eyes flick down my clothes, lip curling. “What the hell are you wearing?”
