Page 5 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

“ H ere's your shit coffee, doll,” Griffen snarks as he shoves an oat milk latte into my hands.

“Thanks,” I reply with a large grin, deciding against throwing back a snarky comment about his black eye and split lip—obviously from his fight with Axe last night.

I take in the familiar sight of the Red Arena, a sprawling open-air stadium decked out with all the luxuries befitting the Sovereign.

Food, alcohol, drugs, sex—you name it, they’ve got it.

The Sovereigns have a notorious appetite for excess and depravity, and the Red Arena doesn’t disappoint.

The stands and surrounding grounds are a chaotic blend of Sovereigns, Servants, and Associates from every corner of the globe.

Even though this event is all about Sovereigns advancing in the East Coast section, it’s a full-blown celebration that draws everyone in.

Somewhere in this sea of money and sex, Spencer is lurking, and Dad’s around too—though the thought of talking to him makes me roll my eyes. I have a few minutes to spare before I need to get ready for the Siren opening number.

“Where's Kyla?” I ask Griffen, scanning the crowd for her familiar face.

“Getting a drink.” He nods toward the bar area. Arsen walks up to Griffen, launching into a discussion about the upcoming fights, but my focus drifts.

That’s when I spot Axe striding toward us, his t-shirt hugging his muscular arms and black cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He’s walking with Priest, and together, they look gorgeously terrifying.

Priest Carmichael, son of the South High Chancellor—an heir—his black hair falling perfectly messy around his face, tattoos crawling up his neck.

The Carmichaels are Sovereign royalty, one of the founding families that’s been ruling the South for generations.

The man is a savage. He kills, he fucks, and he doesn’t give a damn about anything else.

Priest’s eyes roam over my body, his lips curling into a smirk as he winks.

Axe’s eyes narrow, catching Priest’s wink, and in an instant, he’s behind me, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist.

“If anyone fucking touches you,” he growls, lips brushing against my ear. “I’ll break every bone in their goddamn body. You understand?”

It was just a wink, for fuck’s sake. But that caveman possessiveness does something to me .

“Yeah, sure, sir ,” I snap back, dripping sarcasm and defiance, even though part of me craves how he claims me like this.

He squeezes my ass hard enough to pull a gasp from me, and then, just as quickly, he releases me and shifts his attention back to Priest.

“Priest, I will fucking kill you. Don’t think for a second I won’t.”

Priest just smirks as the boys continue walking.

“You guys are so hot.” Kyla’s voice cuts through, and I whip my head around to see her grinning like a fool, beer in hand.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Enjoying the show from a safe distance.” Laughing, she wraps me in a quick hug. “You’re gonna kill it tonight, bitch. Go kick some ass.”

She smacks my ass with a wink of her own, then darts off before I can retaliate.

The backstage area hums with nervous excitement as I slip into my costume.

“Rory, catch!” Lana tosses me a black light paint marker, and I start tracing the body art design Dom insisted on. The marker glides across my skin with quick strokes, my mind half-focused until?—

“The brand on your ass makes you look like a cheap hooker,” a snide voice overpowers the chatter.

I pause, slowly turning toward the sound. Olivia. She’s standing arms crossed, like she’s entitled to something I have.

“Bradley would never let you perform with that,” she sneers with superiority .

A smirk pulls at my lips. “Shame he’s not here, then, isn’t it?” I toss back. “Guess you’ll have to get real comfortable staring at it, considering you’re placed right behind me.” My words remind her of the obvious—I'm the lead Siren. Always front. Always center.

She huffs dramatically before storming off, tits practically bouncing out of her too-tight white bralette.

I glance down at the black light marker in my hand, then in the mirror at the brand on my ass.

Fuck it.

Tracing the outline of the brand, I watch the neon ink glow against my skin. The rational part of me hates what Axe did, what it represents. But some twisted, secret part of me—a part I barely admit even exists—doesn’t.

My stomach churns at the thought.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The Arena’s packed, and the air reeks of booze, weed, and grease. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, you’d never know this place existed unless you were a Sovereign.

On one side, a massive stage dominates the stadium; on the other, the real show—the bloodbath that separates the weak from the powerful.

I’ll close it out tonight, top rank. A huge screen hovers above, ready to broadcast every drop of blood.

Lights glare down, giving the place a harsh, artificial glow.

Hungry for violence, the crowd feeds on it.

Suddenly, the stadium darkens, and the place erupts—deafening.

“Welcome to the East Coast, Sovereigns!” booms a voice over the speakers. “Tonight, we honor those who clawed their way to the top. But first, let’s kick off the night with the hottest Sirens of the East!”

Black lights flare to life, painting the stage in neon colors. Sirens flood in from every angle, the crowd roaring. Then the song hits—“Superfreak” by EMM. The hard bass shakes the stands. None of that matters the second I see her.

Rory.

She’s descending from the rafters on an aerial ring like she owns the stage. White bra, thong, glowing ink outlining every curve. The place goes insane—hell, I almost lose it too.

Then I spot it: a neon-green “H” on her ass, glowing like a goddamn beacon. My brand.

“Fuck, Axe, is that what I think it is?” Arsen leans over, but his eyes stay glued to her.

“Yup.”

“Jesus, I’ve never been into branding, but that?” Staring like the bastard he is, he whistles low. “That’s fucking hot.”

“Back off, Arsen.” My gaze hard as steel, narrows on him. He just grins, cocky motherfucker.

On stage, Rory moves like sin incarnate, twisting in ways that defy reason. I’m tempted to gut all these horny bastards drooling over her. Every time she flips through the air, my stomach knots—visions of her missing the net flicker in my mind.

Spinning upside down, her hands grip the ring. Each drop has me holding my breath like an idiot. I barely realize it until my lungs burn.

The song builds toward its climax. She’s flying between rings with another Siren, the rest settling into final poses. She aims for her last descent—and then I see it.

Alicia’s bitch sister, Olivia, stepping right into Rory’s path.

“No.” It’s barely a growl. Rory’s arms flail for something to grab. “No. No. No.”

Her chest slams into Olivia’s shoulder, and Rory spirals off course, crashing hard on the stage, nowhere near the landing.

“Fuck,” Arsen mutters, but I barely hear him over the static in my head. The crowd cheers as the lights dim, but confused murmurs quickly fill the new silence. Blind with rage, I shove through the stands.

“Move!” I roar. Adrenaline spikes, blood pounding in my ears.

By the time I reach backstage, Rory and Olivia are tangled on the ground. Clawing at each other, ripping hair. My lips twist into a smirk. Watching Rory tear into that bitch is the hottest thing I’ve seen all night.

I force my way past onlookers, ignoring the announcer droning on about the next event.

“I’m going to kill you!” Rory’s scream pierces the air.

“Get off me!” Olivia yells back, both of them thrashing on the concrete. Rory’s straddling her, fists flying, breaking through Olivia’s guard. A crack echoes as Rory’s knuckles slam into her nose.

“Fuck!” Olivia shrieks, blood streaming down her face .

“Rory! Enough!” I grab her around the waist and yank her off. She twists against me, shouting as I drag her away, half-carrying her.

“Rory!” I bark again. No response. She’s seeing red, still screaming at Olivia.

I hoist her up, her legs wrapping around my waist on instinct. Blood stains her face and hands, her cheek swelling, lip split. She’s fucking hurt, and I’m seconds from losing it myself.

“Rory. Baby, look at me.” The word slips out before I realize it, and her eyes snap to mine, filled with surprise. Hell, even I’m surprised. I called her baby —that’s not me, not how I talk. Her chest heaves, nipples straining against her top as she stares at me.

In the next blink, she’s crashing her mouth into mine, hard and desperate.

I taste blood, metallic and hot. She yanks at my hair, and we devour each other like we’re starving.

My cock throbs, and I slam her into the wall, grinding my hard-on against her.

I swallow her moans as she arches into me, and it’s a fight not to lose control.

“You did amazing, baby,” I murmur, her scent messing with my head. “Fucking amazing.”

She exhales, sagging against my neck. A sudden knot tightens in my gut—protectiveness—and it’s unsettling as hell.

I tilt her chin up. She’s a mess of blood and bruises, but those blue eyes are calmer now. My jaw clenches at the sight of her injuries. Rage floods me all over again.

“You need to go to medical.” I brush the blood off her chin with my thumb. “Get patched up. ”

She gives me a small, dazed nod before sliding down my body, her bare skin dragging against my pants.

My cock aches, straining with every inch she moves.

Fuck. I watch her walk away, eyes locked on that neon brand—my mark—glowing on her ass, streaked with blood.

She’s a mess, but I’ve never wanted her more.

As she disappears backstage, my attention snaps back to Olivia, sprawled on the ground, clutching her bloody nose.

My boots hammer the concrete as I close in. Her hand is splayed out like a target. I stomp on it, hard, the crunch of bone and cartilage rattling through me. Olivia screams gutturally, in agony, but I don’t blink.