Page 24

R ory’s little white top is teasing me, and the short-as-fuck skirt is straight-up torture. I thought I’d be pissed seeing her, furious about her stunt fucking a stranger , but instead, I’m horny as fuck.

On the mission, all I could think about was her—how her body felt, how her pussy tasted, the sounds she made when she came, her lips stretched around my cock. Fuck. Being in the same room with her now is pure agony.

I need to feel her again, and it’s taking everything not to take her right here.

Her defiance, the fire in her blue eyes, the way she struggles—her body betraying her—it’s fucking addicting. Part of her wants to kill me; the other part wants me inside her. I’ve had her once, but this time, she’ll scream my name.

I’ll make her forget anyone else has ever touched her.

I’ll show her how good it feels to be fucked by a monster.

“She’s got a mouth on her. I can’t imagine putting my dick anywhere near it,” Griffen chuckles. “I’d be terrified she’d bite it off.”

Rory glares at us, and Griff grins, handing me a beer.

“That’s half the fun,” I say, taking a swig. “Nothing better than a challenge. She may hate me, but she’ll love my cock.”

“Whatever you say.” He shrugs. “I like her fire, though. She’s tough. She’d put up a hell of a fight.”

My eyes narrow. “Don’t get any fucking ideas, Griffen. You so much as lay a finger on her, and I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”

“So, it’s like that?” He laughs. “She already has a thing for me.”

“She doesn’t have a fucking thing for you,” I snarl. “And you better watch your mouth.”

The thought of him even implying Rory might want him makes my blood boil. I’m fucking sore from my missions, and that’s the only thing keeping his blood off my hands tonight. His laugh echoes through the room as he downs another swig of beer.

As the night wears on, I watch Rory throwback vodka like it’s water, her movements becoming sloppier with every drink. When she finally stumbles toward me, the sharp sting of alcohol on her breath hits me hard.

She collapses into my lap, warm and soft against me. Her flushed cheeks and full lips are almost too tempting.

“Axe,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder. Her body melts into mine, the scent of her hair hitting me.

“Little siren,” I murmur, grinning as my hands glide over her thighs.

She’s wasted, her head lolling against my shoulder, her soft frame fitting perfectly against the hard edges of mine.

“You smell good,” she breathes, her fingers trailing up to my chest, tracing the ink of my tattoos. “You’re so mean,” she whispers, her words slurring.

“Yeah, I am.” My lips brush her neck, feeling the quick throb of her pulse.

“Why?”

“Why?” I echo, my grip on her tightening.

She nods, her hair falling into her face, eyes glassy and lost. “Why are you mean?”

“Because it’s who I am.” I pull her closer, and her body instinctively seeks mine, even if she’s too drunk to realize it.

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“Do you really think I’m a bad girl?”

“The worst.” Her hardened nipples press against me. “But you’re my bad girl.” She pulls on my hair, moaning into my neck, the sound going straight to my cock. Fuck. If she keeps this up, I’m going to lose control and fuck her right here. “You’re going to be so fucking mad when you sober up.”

“Probably,” she admits, her arms pulling me closer, her hips grinding against my hard-on. “But I still hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

She kisses my neck and trails her tongue along my collarbone. I groan, and her hands reach under my shirt, dragging her fingers down my abs.

“Rory! It’s our song! Let’s go,” Kyla calls, trying to drag her away, but I tighten my grip on her waist, possessiveness flaring up inside me.

“Not yet.” I grab her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “No more alcohol. Understand? I want you sober when you come on my cock.”

“You’re so hot,” she whispers, her eyes dropping to my lips. She leans in, kissing me hard. As much as I enjoy her drunken compliance, I don’t want her wasted when I take her. I want her to remember every moment with the monster who owns her. I pull away, and she pouts. “No.”

“Yes.” I grab her hips, lifting her off my lap.

“Fine,” she huffs.

Kyla drunkenly pulls her toward the dance floor, and I’m left with an aching hard-on.

“No shit! The damn Reaper himself!” a familiar, gravelly voice cuts through the noise of the club. I glance up as Arsen muscles his way through the crowd.

Arseny Zakharov. Ex-FSB agent, now a Sovereign recruit instructor—with a reputation that rivals mine.

His dark hair’s cropped short, scars cutting deep into his jawline.

“Arsen, you South Section bastard.” I give him a nod, gripping his hand tight. “Still fucking breathing.” He’s a fellow General, East Coast, but currently stationed with the South. We’ve known each other for years, seen hell together.

“Yeah. Same old shit,” he grunts, taking the seat next to me, his bulk barely fitting in the chair. “Recruits I’m stuck with? Bunch of soft fuckin’ pussies. They’re not making ’em like they used to.” His Russian accent grinds out each word like steel—rough, cutting.

He motions for drinks, sliding a beer my way. I snatch it, twist the cap off with a flick, and take a long pull.

“Heard you stirred up some real shit with your latest Bond,” he quips.

“Something like that.”

“Always leave it to a Hawthorne to start something.” He laughs, looking between Griff and I.

“It’s a talent.” Griff grins, clinking his bottle with mine.

Arsen’s eyes shift to me. “I saw you’re listed as the General for the Red Arena.”

“Yeah, Isaac told me earlier,” I reply, letting the annoyance bleed through. No point in hiding it.

The Red Arena is more than an event. It’s a blood-soaked spectacle dressed up as tradition, where Sovereigns claw their way up the ranks.

Back in the day, you had to challenge someone to a fight to the death to rise—no mercy, just raw brutality. Now, they’ve made it all about assessments and evaluations, but the spirit of those savage duels still hangs in the air, lingering in the bloodstained sands.

In that pit, Sovereigns who crave power don’t just fight—they wage war. It’s ceremonial now, but still a brutal, bone-breaking battle where you either tap out or get scraped off the floor when you can’t stand anymore.

As General, I’m expected to endure as many rounds as possible against the Sovereigns who earned their new rank.

I’ve been a General for years, but this is the first time Isaac’s put me in the Red Arena. I know he’s punishing me— trying to remind me who’s in charge after that whole Bond payment with Rory.

But I don’t give a fuck. If they want blood, I’ll give them blood. Every drop.

Griff’s drunken laughter cuts through the tension. “The Reaper is gonna fucking slaughter everyone. This’ll be hilarious.” He staggers back to the bar, ordering another round.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” Arsen mutters.

Two Sovereign bastards close in, eyes locked on us. My muscles tense as they strut over to our table.

“Hawthorne, didn’t think you were the partying type,” one of them comments, sliding into the seat beside Arsen. His hair is perfectly styled—slick and polished like he’s afraid to ruffle a strand. The stench of old money and entitlement rolls off him like rot.

“Fuck off, Harrison,” Arsen growls, but Harrison just smirks—arrogant little shit. North Section High Chancellor’s son. Walks around like Daddy’s title makes him untouchable.

“You should be careful who you associate with, Arseny.” Harrison smirks, eyes flicking between us like he’s got something on us. I take a slow swig of my beer, my gaze drilling into him. “Axe has a target on his back. Wouldn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

“What are you doing here, Harrison?” Arsen asks. “Thought your old man kept you locked up in his mansion. Outside world’s too dangerous for a pretty boy like you.”

Harrison’s smirk falters, his jaw tightening.

He turns his attention to me. “The North’s heard the rumors. The Dolore Brotherhood’s got a special interest in you. Conrad issued the Bond, but you delivered the kill.”

“Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand,” I growl, my patience snapping.

“I’m just saying, Hawthorne, your days might be numbered.” He shrugs. “They put a bounty on your head. Maybe The Reaper will finally meet his match.”

Before he can blink, I lunge, slamming his face into the table with a bone-crunching thud. Blood splatters across the wood as his minion scrambles to his feet. I’m faster. My blade’s out, pressed against his throat before he can even think of running.

“Don’t speak to me. Or you’ll be next.” His eyes go wide, the color draining from his face. Slowly, I drag the knife across his throat, just enough to draw blood, enough to make him tremble. “Don’t fucking move.”

I turn back to Harrison, who’s slumped in his chair, bloodied and dazed.

I shove him down with a hard thud. “Disrespect me again, and I’ll fucking gut you in front of your father. Remember who I am.”

Harrison scrambles to his feet, his pet trailing behind him like the coward he is. The music blares on, the crowd completely unaware of the violence that just unfolded.

“Holy shit,” Arsen says, leaning against the table, a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “Didn’t think the kid had it in him.”

“Fucking pussy,” I mutter under my breath, already dismissing it.

Arsen’s tone shifts, growing serious. “If the Dolore are gunning for you, that’s big. You need to watch your back.”

I shrug, trying to shake off the weight of his words. “I’ve handled worse.” But I know he’s right. If Harrison wasn’t just talking shit and the Brotherhood’s got a bounty on me, things are about to get real messy. The Dolore aren’t street thugs—they’re fucking relentless. If they’re after me, Conrad’s next. I need to figure out why Conrad wanted Marco dead.

“Axe, I’ve got your back. You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count. If things go south, just say the word.”

I give him a quick nod. I’m not one to live paranoid, but I’m not stupid either. The bounty on my head will be like hitting the fucking lottery, and seasoned hitmen will be lining up for a shot at The Reaper.