Sterling.
That motherfucking rat bastard.
My jaw ticks as I pace the bunker Arsen dragged us to: concrete walls, steel framing, barely furnished.
Figures the old man finally grew a spine—and aimed it at me.
I can’t sit. I’ve been circling the same ten feet like a caged animal, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. My mind won’t shut the fuck up. All this time—every drop of blood I’ve spilled for the Sovereign—and nowI’mthe fucking liability?
Arsen swears the intel traced the hit back to Sterling. Said he pulled what he could without being flagged. But the rest is locked behind Sovereign firewalls. Someone on the backup team might be able to crack it when they land.
Raze steps into the living room, flops down onto the battered couch with a grunt. “Arsen and Wolff are planning to extract Alistair and Dalton once the team shows. I think I should be there with them.”
I nod, eyes locked on the floor.
Tension coils in my chest.
Sterling’s always hated me. Since the day I clawed my way out of hell. He never wanted me back—only tolerated me because I’m too lethal to waste. But Alistair and Dalton worship that man. They’d slit their own throats if he asked. Bleed out smiling just to make him proud.
And now he’s trying to erase them?
My lip curls.
For what? Control? Paranoia? Some twisted power play to wipe the slate clean and rebuild it in his image?
If he’s willing to kill off his own bloodline to do it…
That makes him more dangerous than I thought.
And a hell of a lot more stupid. Because I’m still breathing, and when I come for him, there won’t be a throne left to rule.
A scream slices through the bunker. I’m moving before I think. Down the hall, shoving open a door without knocking. The room is dark and cold.
Arlo’s screaming.
She thrashes on the bed, limbs tangled in the sheets. Her face slick with sweat. Her eyes are shut but she’s fighting something. I’m at her side in two strides. My hand touches her arm. She lashes out—nails rake across my cheek.
“Arlo!”
Her chest heaves in ragged bursts.
She doesn’t wake.
“Won’t do any good.”
Arsen’s voice is behind me. I spin halfway, still watching her.
“She’s pumped full of sedatives. Keeps her under, but it doesn’t stop the nightmares. Same thing. Every damn night.”
Something twists in me. It’s not guilt. I don’t do guilt. But whatever it is makes my jaw lock.
She flinches again, curled in on herself, shaking so hard the bedframe rattles.
I grab her shoulders and drag her upright. Her body fights me on instinct. Nails, elbows—she’s pure adrenaline and fear. She hits me again.
“Kitten.” The word cuts out of me before I can stop it. I don’t know why the fuck I said it. I don’t even remember the last time I called her that.
But her screaming dies.
