“I was made for death.” He drags his fingers through the blood on his neck, before smearing it across my lips. My pulse shreds itself. “Death is all I bring to this world.” His thumb presses against my mouth. “But not to you, kitten. Never to you.”
“Stop.” My voice cracks.
“You hate yourself more than you’ll ever hate me. Because even after everything I’ve done to you, you still want me.”
“I—” Words choke me.
He smirks, stepping back and releasing me. “Lie to yourself all you want. You can’t lie to me.”
“You’re fucking delusional. I don’t want you. I don’t want a single thing from your sick head.” The lie is ash in my mouth. My disgusting body betrays me every time he’s near. I can’t forget his hands. His cock pounding into me, taking everything I had. I’m still haunted by the feeling of him coming in me. Marking me. Ruining me.
His blood still seeps down from the cut on his neck as he steps in, pressing against me until I feel the smear of it on my skin.
My lip trembles. I hate that it does. I hate that he can see me crack. “Get the hell off me. Right now.”
His hand curls around my throat. Not choking—just enough to remind me he can.
“You and that?—”
“I didn’t deserve what you did to me!” The words explode out of me, tearing through my chest. Stupid tears spill down my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them away. “You didn’t have to fuck me. You didn’t have to humiliate me like that. You could’ve just turned me in, and I would’ve rotted. But no—you had to break me first. You had to make sure I never forgot you every time I close my eyes.”
He freezes. Silent. Not even a flicker in his expression.
My voice fractures, but I force it out. “I’m tired of being your little fucking game, Priest. I’m tired of being the thing you spit your hate on. I’m not your plaything or yourprey. I’m not?—”
He leans in slow, lips brushing against the salt of a tear sliding down my cheek.
“I don’t hate you. I’m fucking obsessed with you.”
When he pulls back, I swear—for one heartbeat—his eyes look almost human. Regret.
Then it’s gone. His hand falls away, and he turns, wiping the blood from his neck with a rag, leaving me hollow and burning.
My fist slams into the punching bag.
Again.
And again.
The chain rattles. Sweat drips from my skin. Blood from my knuckles.
Still not enough.
I hit harder. Faster. My heart pounds in my skull. Muscles screaming. Rage boiling.
Hell’s still awake. Still clawing under my skin. It never sleeps. Never fucking quits.
I slam my fist so hard the bag splits. Sand spills out in a slow, steady stream. Like blood. Like breath. Like something dying.
My hands shake. I need more. Need something to tear apart. Rip open. Watch it bleed.
“You look like shit,” Raze says, stepping in. Drops his gear on the bench and peels off his bulletproof vest.
Voices echo down the hall—the others back from the extraction mission for Dalton and Alistair. The bunker’scrawling with even more Sovereigns. But Arsen’s still not here. It’s been three days. No word. No intel. Nothing.
I should’ve gone. Should’ve had his six. Instead, I’m fucking grounded.
Forced to sit here.
