I drag her half-conscious body to the armored SUV, throw her in, and slam the door. Sliding into the driver’s seat, her weak coughs claw at my ears. I shove the SUV into gear and tear off down the alley. She groans, slumping sideways. Bleeding all over the seat. Worthless stray. She better stay alive long enough to give me Thames’s location. If she dies before she opens her mouth, I’ll hack her into pieces just for wasting my goddamn time.
“Stay the fuck awake.”
She doesn’t respond.
I fish out a Sovereign med kit from the glove box and slam the brakes. Pulling over, I rip the back door open and drag her across the seats. Her body’s limp, eyes rolling, skin ghost-white.
I inject a shot of adrenaline straight into her thigh. She screams and her eyes snap open. Digging through the kit, I find a field-grade coagulant, and jab it into the bullet wound. She writhes, blood bubbling between her teeth.
“You’re not dying until you give me what I want. And then I’ll fucking end you.”
Climbing back into the front, I ignore her sobs.The next corner comes fast—tires shrieking, the SUV fishtailing beforegripping back onto asphalt. Nearest Sovereign safe house is five minutes out.
The Sovereign. We’re not just feared. We’re a nightmare with a pulse. The world’s bloodiest organization of assassins, hidden in plain sight. The ones who make power bleed and kneel. We don’t leave traces. We leave scars.
Governments don’t challenge us because we are the government. We are the law—judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one, our reach extending into every corner of society.
Split into five global sections: North, East Coast, West Coast, South, and Europe. Each ruled by a High Chancellor and Commanders who’d slit your throat with one hand and sign your pardon with the other. The South belongs to Sterling, the High Chancellor. My maker. Not my father. That word implies something human. I’m the heir to the whole goddamn South, but I’ll never be his fucking legacy.
I didn’t inherit my rank. No one does. You fight, bleed, and crawl through death for it. I clawed my way to General, soaked in more blood than I’ll ever confess. I didn’t rise through the ranks—I tore them down and built my own.
And I’m still climbing.
Still carving.
Because in the Sovereign, survival’s not the prize. It’s the punishment.
“She’ll live,” the doc grunts as I push through the door, his eyes flicking to mine as I enter the medical room at the Safehouse.
I’m not in the mood for small talk. Every nerve pulsing with frustration and the urge to fucking break something. “Bullet went straight through, missed anything vital,” he goes on, eyes already back on her, “but she’s lost a lot of blood. Dehydrated, too.”
I glance over at the slab. She’s sprawled naked under the unforgiving fluorescents—pale skin streaked with blood and grime. Dark brown hair, tangled around her shoulders. She’s smaller than I remember. Definitely younger. Early twenties, maybe. My eyes drag over her. Tight body. Lean. Toned. Perky tits. Trimmed cunt. For someone I’m going to kill, she’s a decent fucking view.
Doc clears his throat, drawing my gaze back to his. “Let’s handle that shoulder,” he says, laying out the tools.
I strip off my shirt, the blood dried stiff against the fabric, and drop onto the table across from her. He doesn’t bother numbing it—just threads the needle and starts stitching.
“You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper,” he mutters. “Should be okay if you take it easy for a few weeks.”
I grunt.
His eyes flick back to her. “So, who is she?” he asks, smirking faintly. “Doesn’t look like the standard Servant. She’s toonatural.”
He’s right.
Sovereign Servants are bred for one thing—obedience. Hand-picked, trained, and broken to serve. They’re ours to use, to ruin, to fuck into the floor and leave bleeding. They come from families steeped in Sovereign loyalty or are plucked from gutters. They take the vow knowing what it means: pain, degradation, destruction. That’s the cost of luxury. Of protection. Of belonging.
They’re not people. They’re Sluts. Fuck-toys. Property.
My gaze drags over her body—scarred, marked by small tattoos, too rough around the edges to ever pass for Sovereign stock. I clench my jaw, replaying that flash in her eyes—the second before she drove a blade into my shoulder. That wild defiance.
She’ll pay for that.
“She’s not a Slut,” I snap. “Just some feral bitch who’s going to tell me where Eddie Thames is—so I can decorate the concrete with his fucking brains.” I cut a glare toward the doc. “And you’re going to pretend none of this ever happened.”
He holds my stare, then nods. “Understood.”
I rise from the table, blood drying across my skin. Doc’s an Associate—just another asset on Sovereign’s payroll. They’re not soldiers. They’re tools. Useful ones who know better than to ask questions.
