Page 6 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

I kneel, grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her face close. Her sickly-sweet perfume makes me want to gag.

“Nobody makes my wife fucking bleed,” I snarl.

Her eyes widen, terror radiating off her.

“Make no mistake, you pathetic cunt. Your days are numbered. You will die at my hands, so savor every miserable second before I come for you.”

Her tears flow faster, and for a moment, I consider smashing her skull right here. But a scrap of rational thought pulls me back—for now.

Shoving her head down, I leave her broken and sobbing. I turn away without a second glance. The night’s not over, and neither is my rage.

I’ve only called Rory “my wife” one other time. But fuck, the way it felt just now—too good. Too natural. Like it belonged. It shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have said it.

She’s doing something to me. Changing me. And I fucking hate it .

Storming into the med bay, my head’s pounding with one thought. I should be thinking about the arena, about the blood I’m about to spill. The door slams open, ricocheting off the wall. My eyes lock on her instantly.

“Everybody get the fuck out!” My voice ricochets.

The room freezes.

“NOW!”

They scatter like roaches, nurses and doctors scrambling for the door. Even Associates aren’t dumb enough to cross the Reaper.

Rory’s wide eyes meet mine, her lips parting like she’s about to speak. I don’t give her the chance. I’m on her in a heartbeat, yanking her into a kiss that’s more possession than affection. My tongue invades her mouth, tasting her, owning her. I can’t fucking control it.

She’s mine. My drug, my obsession, and I’m overdosing.

My hands clamp down on her hips, pulling her into me before slamming her back against the counter. Medical supplies clatter to the floor. I grab her thighs, lifting her onto the counter, forcing my way between her legs.

That skimpy stage outfit still clings to her, barely patched up, half her wounds exposed, blood smeared across her body. The sight makes me rock hard—and pissed as hell. Her hands slide under my shirt, nails dragging over my abs.

“I need to be inside you, Rory.” I fist her hair, forcing her head back. Dragging my tongue along the curve of her neck, I taste blood and sweat. It’s fucking addicting. “I need to feel you wrapped around my cock.”

“Axe,” she whimpers, her hips grinding against me. My hands tear at her clothes, her tits bare, nipples hard, and I’m already yanking her off the counter.

I flip her over in one brutal motion, bending her over the edge, ass out, perfect, waiting for me. My cock pulses with the need to fuck her. I pull it free and slam into her with one deep, savage thrust, burying myself balls deep.

The sound of her gasping, the slap of skin against skin and her wetness, fills the room. My grip tightens on her hips, driving harder. I’m not gentle, never am—but she’s not fucking fragile. She can take it. She wants it.

My fingers dig into bruises I didn’t leave, jaw clenching.

I’m the only one allowed to mark her. The thought snaps something inside me, and I pound into her more powerfully.

Hips crashing against her ass. When did I get like this?

So fucking obsessed. She moans, her pussy clenching around my cock like she was made for this—for me.

I snake a hand around her waist, fingers finding her clit. Her body jerks, a desperate cry slipping from her lips.

In a blur of heat and sweat slicking our skin, her cunt tightens around me, her perfect body trembling, and I know she’s close. My fingers circle her clit faster; her moans spiral, frantic, until she comes—spasming around me, her cum flooding and dripping down my shaft.

That rush—the way she screams, the way her body milks my cock—sends me over the edge. I bury myself to the hilt and come hard, shooting my release deep inside her. Pure fucking ecstasy courses through me as I grip her waist, holding her tight, our bodies convulsing together as we ride the high.

As we come down, panting, I’m still buried inside her. Her scent fills my lungs, her skin slick against mine, and for a brief moment, I just stay there—pressed against her, chest to back.

“You good?” My fingers trail down her spine, feeling her shudder beneath me.

She nods, breaths still uneven.

“That a yes?”

“Yes,” she exhales, the sound ragged, but...something else lingers in her voice.

I pull out, watching my cum trail down her thighs.

A twisted sense of ownership flares in my chest. Tucking my cock in my pants, I haul her upright, spinning her around.

She studies my face, searching for something, but I give her nothing.

I fucking hate this feeling creeping in—something I can’t name but know she’s causing.

“I’ll send the doctor to patch you up,” I mutter.

She nods, reaching for her joggers on the chair. I turn away, done with this. A fight’s waiting, and that’s all that matters. Whatever she’s stirring in me…I’ll handle it later.

Arsen flags me over, standing with Griff and Priest near the back of the arena. Isaac, the High Chancellor, is already center stage, launching the Red Arena spectacle. The air hums with tension, the crowd eager for blood.

“How is she?” Griff asks.

“She’ll be fine.”

Priest watches me with that dead-eyed stare, picking me apart like he always does. He’s no polished High Chancellor heir—never was, never will be. We’ve shed enough blood together for me to know exactly who he is—a sick fucking bastard, like Arsen, like me.

“Your Bond payment sure knows how to put on a show,” he says with a smirk. Hearing him call her that stirs up a possessive anger I’m barely keeping in check. “Never figured you for the marrying type.”

“I had my reasons,” I grunt.

He shrugs. “Plenty of Sovereigns hate Conrad’s methods; he’s a fucking coward.” Stepping in, his voice drops. “When you face the Dolore, I’ll be there. Could use a decent bloodbath.”

We’re not friends. Never have been. But he’s a bastard I can count on when shit gets real, and in our world, that’s worth something. I give him a curt nod—enough said.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the stadium—bones shattering, blood splattering across the sand, the crowd in a frenzy. I scan the stadium, locking in on the first fight. It’s brutal, and the fighters are desperate.

I'll have to endure nine rounds. Nine goddamn battles of raw violence.

No rules. No mercy. Knockout or death.

They’re here to prove something, to show why they earned the rank of General. But me? I’m here to remind them of one bloody fucking truth.

They’re nothing compared to me—the Reaper.