Raze drives his fist into Alistair’s face. “FUCKING LIAR.”
Priest wrenches him back by the collar, but Dalton steps in and the room explodes with shouts, threats, and bodies colliding.
The noise makes my ribs ache.
Eventually, they break apart, dragging Alistair and Dalton to opposite corners. The rest mutter about how fucked we are.
I slide down the wall, knees to my chest. My muscles scream now that the adrenaline’s gone.
Pain meds have worn off.
Fuck.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to stop the tremor in my body. Every deep voice makes me jump, every shadow makes me flinch. I don’t dare close my eyes. Not in a room full of Sovereigns. Then Priest drops beside me, close enough that his heat pushes into my skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I shift away, but his hand locks on my arm, pulling me back in.
“Stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Bullshit.
I push off the wall and stumble down the hall until I find the small bathroom off the main room. Heat trickles down my spine, warm and sticky.
Just fucking perfect.
Ripped stitches.
My vest feels heavy, my shirt clinging to torn skin. Bracing a hand on the counter, I’m already dreading the next part. When I finally peel the fabric up, the sight in the mirror makes my stomach dip—blood blooming through the gauze, soaking into Arsen’s shirt.
I hiss under my breath. It’s bad and the stitches need to be redone, but not tonight.
“We need to stitch that up.” A voice cuts through the silence, and I spin around to see Priest leaning against the door frame, his eyes on the bloody mess on my back. He steps in, locking the door behind him.
“Absolutely not. I’ll find someone else to help.”
He moves forward, his presence shrinking the space between us. “You think I’m going to let someone else touch you?” The words slam into me, twisting sharply in my chest. Fear. Anger. Something worse that I refuse to name.
“You’re not touching me. Not ever again.”
He ignores me, his hand already closing around the med kit on the counter. I spin to block him, but his arm hooks around my waist and drags me in. The motion tears through the wound, white-hot pain lighting up my back. My body collides with his hard muscles, and I hate that I have to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes.
“Priest—”
“Kitten, you’ve got two choices. You stand still, or I pin you down and do it.”
Something dark coils tight in my chest, pressing against my ribs until I can barely breathe. I shove it down and shove against him.
His arm tightens.
“Turn around and take off the shirt. Face the mirror.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t move. His fingers dig deeper into my waist, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine. The room feels heavier with every second he waits.
Teeth clenched, slowly I turn in his grip, my hands trembling as I tug at my vest, then the hem of my shirt.
My pulse trips over itself with every layer I peel away. Skin prickling under his stare, every inch of me too aware of him. Then his palm presses to the bare skin at the small of my back,guiding me toward the sink until my hands are braced against the porcelain.
He doesn’t speak, just studies my back. Goosebumps rise across my skin. His heat sinks into me, climbing my spine until my breath stutters.
