It’s been a week since that sick fuck Priest tracked me down.
A week of waking up drenched in sweat, heart racing, fists clenched, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent.
The nightmares are relentless. Twisted flashes of him—his knife, his voice, his hands on my skin, his cock on my lips. I crush the bag of chips in my grip without realizing it, crumbsspilling into my lap. I don’t even want them. I haven’t wanted anything since that night.
I tell myself it was the painkillers. The blood loss. My injuries. That’s why he overpowered me. That’s why I froze and didn’t fight harder. Why Ilethim do what he did.
But it’s a lie.
I’ve replayed every second of that night on a loop. Studying every move. I should have been faster. Smarter. Meaner.
Instead, I let him pin me. Strip me of control. Force himself into my mouth, into my head. I can still taste him when I wake up, choking on my breath, my thighs clenched tight like my body’s trying to trap something that isn’t there.
I hate him.
Fuck, I hate him.
But I hate myself more for wondering. Wondering if I could’ve turned the tables. If I’d stabbed deeper, screamed louder, would he have stopped? Or would it have made him worse?
And now I sit here, broken in ways that aren’t just physical, trying to make sense of a mind that’s just as fucked up as his. Because the real reason I can’t stop thinking about that night…it’s not just the violence. It’s how itfelt.
And that’s the part I’ll never say out loud.
Fucking bastard.
“A. Helloooooo?” Roxy waves her hand in front of my face, her bright red nails slicing through the haze of my thoughts. “You okay, girl? You’re acting a bit…strannyy.” Her Russian accent thickens with every sip of vodka.
I snatch her drink and take a large gulp, the vodka burning in a way that feels almost comforting. “I’m fine.” I flash her a fake grin.
“Okay, just saying,” she starts, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s trying to be serious. “If you ever want to talkabout…whatever’s going on in there”—she taps her temple—“I’m here. Even if you’re gonna lie about it.”
We both know I’m not taking her up on that. People like me? We don’t have friends. We have contacts and connections. Roxy’s the exception—bright, normal, completely unaware that my entire life is nothing but survival and running. She doesn’t ask about the scars or the bruises, doesn’t pry into my past, and I’d like to keep it that way.
She leans in, her breath a mix of alcohol and something sweet. “Maxim’s gonna kill it tonight. He’s been training like crazy, and have you seen him lately? He looks so hot…” Her words drift off as her gaze locks onto her boyfriend striding toward us.
I follow her line of sight to Maxim, the quintessential Russian fighter. His tattoos peek out from under his sleeves, with buzzed hair, and a sharp jaw.
He greets us, his deep, accented voice cutting through the noise of the warehouse. He pulls Roxy into a kiss, whispering something that makes her giggle before she saunters off toward the bar.
He takes the stool next to me, his bulk crowding my space. “You have anything to do with that warehouse explosion? Half a city block—gone.”
My grip tightens on the bottle in my hand, but I keep my face blank. “Not my style. I’m not that messy.”
He snorts. “Right. You don’t know a thing.”
I shrug. It’s not like I can tell him the truth. Maxim’s small-time: car theft, shoplifting, and running a little drugs here and there. Maybe he’s thrown a few brutal punches in back-alley brawls. I’m sure he owns a gun, probably sleeps with it under his pillow to feel tough. But guys like him don’t even know the Sovereign exists. And if they did, they’d piss themselves and sprint for the nearest exit.
“I saw the truck at Dmitry’s. Said you showed up looking like you got hit by a bus. Then Mira’s kid magically shows up. Sound familiar?”
I roll my eyes so hard they practically spin out of my skull. Turning to face him fully, I let the irritation bleed into my voice. “Dmitry needs to learn to keep his damn mouth shut,” I snap, slipping in Russian curses. My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the table as I glare at him. “It’s nothing, Maxim. Drop it.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re always hiding something. I’m not fucking stupid, A. Word gets around.”
“It’s none of your business. Just drop it.” I turn away, dismissing him without another glance, my attention shifting back to the fight in the ring. But his words stick, splintering under my skin—a harsh reminder that I’m getting too comfortable. Letting too many people see too much. That’s a dangerous game.
I knew surrounding myself with Russians was risky. The connections were supposed to be worth it. Key word:supposed. If Maxim and Dmitry are sniffing around, who else is paying attention? The thought makes my stomach churn.
I grind my teeth, the thin chain of my necklace biting into my palm as I clench it tight. Weak.
