Page 10 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

I give Kyla a tight squeeze before darting out into the rain, my shoes splashing through puddles as I make my way to Griffen’s waiting SUV.

I've been crashing at her place for the past few days, but apparently, that’s over.

Griffen messaged me this morning, saying Axe had hired a private security team for the house, and now, according to him, I’m not “allowed” to stay anywhere else.

Not sure how I feel about that. Axe’s sudden urge to play protector has my head spinning. The last few days have been an emotional free fall—going from terrified, to relieved, to pissed off. It’s like I can’t keep up.

The attack is all anyone’s talking about. The Servants, the Associates—everyone’s buzzing with wild conspiracy theories, speculating endlessly because the Sovereign hasn’t said a word. No explanation, no official statement. Just silence.

I yank open the door and hop into the passenger seat, tugging on my seatbelt before giving Griffen a once-over.

He looks like he’s been through hell—a bandage on his forehead, a busted lip, bruises and cuts scattered across his face.

Likely souvenirs from the attack, though with him and Axe, a fistfight isn’t out of the question.

Those two seem to throw down as casually as they drink whiskey.

“Hey Griffen,” I say, settling in.

“Rory,” he replies, his voice gruff, eyes locked on the road as he pulls away from the curb. “How you holding up?”

“Fine,” I mutter as I stare out the window. “Have the Sovereign figured out who attacked us?”

Griffen’s silence is louder than the rain streaking the windows. His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. “No,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Only Generals and Commanders are involved with the investigation. The rest of us are in the dark.”

I glance at him, noticing his stress. He’s tense, wound up in a way that’s totally unlike him. The cocky, carefree Griffen is nowhere to be found. “Isaac’s got them working round the clock. They’ve been holed up at the Command Center for days, barely sleeping.”

I want to ask about Axe—how he’s doing, if he’s safe—but I bite my tongue.

We drive in silence, the only sound is the rain beating against the windows.

All Sovereign operations have come to a screeching halt since the attack. Clubs, establishments, the whole underground network is shut down. Every Servant is being told to stay home, lay low. The entire East Coast is under lockdown.

Spencer’s been doing his duty, checking in regularly to reassure me—and the rest of the family—that everything’s “fine” and “under control.” Yeah, right .

Meanwhile, Dad’s been playing his usual role of the silent type, especially after I stormed into his office demanding answers.

He’s barely spoken to me since. Distant, cold, and honestly, I don’t care. I’m still mad at him.

His lavish birthday party is supposed to be next weekend, and the last thing I want is to drag myself through that circus.

But of course, I’ll go. Smile, wave, and play my part, like always.

Spencer’s insisting the show must go on—Dad would never miss an opportunity to revel in his own narcissism.

The man lives for it—even when the entire Sovereign East Coast is falling apart.

So now I get to spend the evening pretending everything’s peachy, while deep down, I’d rather be anywhere but there.

The car glides down the driveway, and I catch sight of the extra security detail patrolling the grounds, armed and alert.

“Geez, how many did he hire?” I mutter, peering through the rain-streaked windows.

“Twelve,” Griffen replies, pulling up to the front entrance. “And that’s just for the property. He’s got more stationed inside.”

“Shit.” Blowing out a breath, I step out into the downpour. The rain is relentless, drenching me in seconds as I dash up the stairs, the warmth of the foyer instantly wrapping around me.

Rosa meets me at the door, frantic and fussing in her usual way. The moment I’m inside, she pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, her Italian spilling out in a rapid-fire stream.

“I’ve been so worried!” Holding me at arm’s length, she inspects me like a mother hen. “Are you okay? You look okay. Oh, Dio , you’re soaked!”

Before I can even respond, she's scolding the new security team under her breath for being a nuisance in the house. I laugh as she flits around, still fussing over me in Italian.

After I change into dry clothes, Rosa practically force-feeds me, which I don’t mind.

Her company is soothing, her constant chatter like background music that I let wash over me while I eat.

She complains about the security team loudly enough for them to hear, griping about their muddy boots and the mess they’re making, and I smile to myself as I watch her berate them one by one.

Eventually, I retreat to my room, collapsing onto my bed with a heavy sigh. For the first time since the attack, I’m alone—truly alone. And that’s when it hits me, the weight of everything I’ve been shoving down: the fear, the trauma, the aftermath. It crashes into me like a tidal wave.

Tears prick at my eyes, and the tightness in my chest grows until every breath feels like a struggle. My whole body trembles, shaking with the sobs I’ve kept at bay for too long. It’s all too much—too fucking much.

The images replay in my mind, an endless loop of blood, screams, and lifeless bodies dropping to the ground. I can’t turn it off, no matter how hard I try.

And then there’s Axe.

The thought of losing him had sent a jolt of terror through me, and what scares me more is how that fear lingers, wrecking me from the inside out until I can’t think straight.

What I feel for him? It’s dangerous. I don’t want to feel anything for him, because I know it’ll never be reciprocated—not in the way my shattered heart yearns for.

I hate it. I fucking hate it, because I know better.

I know he’s just another man who’s emotionally unavailable, unable to offer anything real.

But there’s this twisted part of me—this desperate, pathetic part—that still clings to the hope that I saw something in him.

When he held me tight, worried about keeping me safe, I wanted to believe it was more than possessiveness.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of something deeper buried beneath his layers—something that genuinely cares.

Another night with the TV droning in the background, a dull hum I’ve tuned out hours ago.

As I scroll mindlessly through social media, the screen lights up the dark room, casting faint shadows over the walls.

My body won’t settle. My brain won’t shut up.

There’s this gnawing ache in my gut that won’t let me rest.

I flip to my texts.

Scrolling, I read my unanswered texts to Axe—I know he’s busy with the investigation. I continue swiping through my messages until the masked man’s name stares back at me. I hover my thumb over the message box.

What the hell would I even say?

It’s always me reaching out. Always me needing something. He hasn’t messaged me once. Nothing since that afternoon. Almost two weeks ago now. I thought…I don’t know what I thought. That the kiss meant something. That I meant something. But it’s clear I don’t.

I stare at the screen until it blurs, thumb still hovering, heart still pounding. I want him. I want to feel him. I want to matter to someone. Even if it’s fake. Even if it’s fucked up.

But I don’t message him. I can’t.

Security’s too tight now. I’m stuck here. Even if I wanted to see him, it’s not happening. And even if I could, what am I actually chasing?

I don’t know anymore.

I reach for the knife on my nightstand. My fingers roll it in my palm, the blade catching the soft blue glow of my phone.

My stomach tightens. Heat coils between my legs.

I slide my underwear off and spread my thighs, breathing through the shame already curling in the back of my throat. Running the flat of the blade up my body, I let it catch my tank top, dragging it down just enough to expose one nipple. The cold against my skin makes it harden instantly.

I imagine him. The masked man. His gloved hand holding the knife. His mouth, hot and filthy, tracing where the blade goes. I picture his body between my legs, his mask pressed to my throat while he uses the handle to stretch me open.

My hips jerk. I glide the handle inside slowly, teeth clenched on a moan. My pussy pulses around the metal greedily. The ridges provide the perfect friction against the ache building inside me .

I pump it harder, fucking myself with it. My breath grows ragged, my eyes half-lidded. I’m close—so close.

“Axe,” I whisper, the name slipping out on a shaky moan.

My body locks up. My eyes fly open. No.

No.

What the hell?

Humiliation has me yanking the knife out. My chest tightens, throat closing. I sit up, hands shaking, the sticky handle clattering onto the nightstand.

I just moaned Axe’s name while thinking about the masked man.

What is wrong with me?

I bury under the blankets, curling in on myself like that’ll make it all disappear. Tears sting at my eyes, and I wipe them away with the blanket. My whole body aches—not from sex. From loneliness. From whatever this is. This unrelenting craving. This void I’m unable to fill.

Axe doesn’t want me—never has.

And the masked man? What we have isn’t real. He’s just an illusion I’ve latched onto because I can’t face the truth: no one’s coming. No one ever does. I’m always alone.

I whisper to the dark like an idiot. “Get a grip, Rory.”

But I can’t.

I just want to be normal. Just for one goddamn night.

I don’t know how long I lie there, silent, pathetic, and hollow—but eventually, my eyes close. And as sleep drags me under, I pray I don’t wake up feeling like this again tomorrow.