Page 11 of Always A Villain

“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 forviolence, 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. Eachdrop 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.