Page 3

M y breath is steady beneath the mask, each exhale muted by the fabric pressing against my face. Dressed in black, weapons strapped to my body, fingers itching for action, I blend into the night.

I navigate the back alleys like a shadow, slipping past cameras and guards with practiced ease. The target window is three stories up. Scaling the brick wall is child’s play.

This mission has been in the works for over a week. Every detail is meticulously planned; timing is everything—there’s no margin for error. The guards switch shifts at 3 a.m. sharp.

I wait in the darkness, muscles coiled, senses sharpened. My heart pounds in time with the ticking seconds, adrenaline fueling the fire in my veins.

It’s time.

The window opens without a sound, and I slip inside, my feet landing on the marble floors. The mansion’s layout is imprinted in my mind—every corridor, every corner mapped out with precision.

At the end of the hallway, the target’s bedroom door is slightly ajar. I push it open with barely a sound, slipping inside and closing it behind me. The room is pitch black, his form barely a shadow beneath the covers. I move closer, each step deliberate, each breath measured. The knife slips from its sheath, cold steel eager to taste blood.

I hover over him, the blade raised above his chest. One breath. One final heartbeat. And I strike.

The knife sinks into his flesh with a satisfying wet sound. His eyes snap open, a strangled gasp caught against my gloved hand. Terror flares in his gaze as he takes in the skull mask above him. His struggle weakens as blood pools beneath him, soaking the sheets as the light fades from his eyes. His last breath shudders beneath my palm.

I pull the knife free, blood dripping from the blade.

The job is done. The leader of the Dolore Brotherhood is dead, and with him, Conrad’s reckless move has birthed a powerful enemy. They will retaliate—hard.

Retracing my steps, I slip into the dark, unseen and unheard. The estate’s walls rise before me, topped with lethal spikes. I scale the barrier, muscles straining as I pull myself over. Landing softly on the other side, I vanish into the night.

Pulling out my phone, I send Conrad a single text

It’s done

Death Bonds don’t expire. Payment comes on my terms, not theirs. There are Bonds I’ve yet to cash in, letting these arrogant bastards forget they owe me. They think their titles and wealth protect them, that they’re untouchable. It’s laughable.

Conrad’s reply pings seconds later

Come to the Iron.

The Iron—the East Coast Sovereign section headquarters—is buried deep beneath the filth of New York’s streets. The Sovereign isn’t just an organization; it’s a beast, sprawling across continents, carved into sections—East Coast, West Coast, North, South, Europe. Each section has its own rulers, all answering to the Sovereign Council but clawing at each other’s throats, always hungry, always scheming.

My base is the East Coast. Conrad's a Commander here, but power in this world is always on borrowed time, and Conrad’s clock is ticking.

After sixteen hours of travel, my body’s wrecked—muscles stiff, every bone screaming—but pain’s nothing new. Travel. Fight. Kill. Repeat. Rest? That’s for the dead, and I’m far from finished.

The drive to the Iron is quiet. No distractions. I savor it. The calm before the storm. The moment when Conrad finally realizes how badly he’s fucked up.

The Iron is a fortress, Sovereign power wrapped in concrete and steel. It’s a city beneath a city—hospital, weapon vaults, training grounds, living quarters for recruits. Every inch designed to keep the Sovereign’s secrets buried.

At the metal door entrance, I punch in the code, the lock snapping open with a cold, mechanical click. The elevator’s descent is slow into the Sovereign underworld.

When the doors slide open, I step into the core of the Iron—a hive of motion and control. Operatives move like clockwork, their faces grim, their tasks clear. This place runs on discipline, hierarchy carved into its bones.

Field agents are the Sovereign’s lifeblood, the ones who kill and crush skulls without hesitation. They handle the dirty work. Above them sit the Commanders, the puppet masters pulling strings, managing resources to maintain control.

As a General, I command fear and respect, a combination that grants me the freedom to choose my assignments from any Sovereign section. My reputation spans continents—I’m the one they call when the job is too brutal, too demanding for anyone else. General is the highest rank a field agent can achieve before stepping into the political cesspool of Commanders, but I couldn’t care less about that. Politics and power games bore me. I thrive in the shadows, where blood and darkness reign.

Every Sovereign starts as an Initiate, clawing their way up through violence and death. It’s a brutal climb, but the rewards are worth it—money, power, control. Each of us has a signature, a way of killing that sets us apart.

For me, death is a fucking art form. They call me The Reaper for a reason. I don’t just kill—I annihilate. Pure evil —that’s how they describe me. I don’t flinch, I don’t hesitate, and I damn sure don’t fail.

At the peak of the Sovereign hierarchy stand the High Chancellors, the ultimate power. Isaac Gomez, the High Chancellor of the East Coast Section, rules with an iron fist, leaving no room for failure or weakness. Conrad answers directly to him, but even Isaac doesn’t cross me.

The air shifts when I pass; nods of respect, wide-eyed stares, fear bleeding into every glance. My reputation didn’t just grow—it carved itself into this world.

I reach Conrad’s office and push the door open without knocking. He sits behind his desk with a cold indifference, but unease flickers in his eyes.

“Axe,” he starts, clearing his throat.

“I’m here to collect my payment,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him.

“You were fast,” he exclaims, as if surprised.

“I’m a professional. When I take on a task, I see it through.”

“You’ve certainly lived up to your reputation.” His smile is a smirk—arrogant and sly. He’s trying to mask the unease beneath his bravado, but I can see it. “So, what will it be? How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t want your money.”

Curiosity and doubt make him raise a brow. “What do you want, then?”

“Victoria. As my wife.”

His composure shatters, his eyes widening in shock. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Your daughter. She’s my price.”

For a moment, the room is silent, his mind racing to process my words. Then his anger flares.

“Absolutely not. I am not giving you my daughter.”

“You don’t have a fucking choice, and neither does she,” I say, rising from the chair with slow, deliberate movements. “Bring her here. I want to see her face when you tell her she belongs to me.”

“No. She is not marrying you.”

“I’m going to make her mine, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.” With that, I stride out of his office, leaving him seething in his seat.

As I head down the corridor, I catch his barked order to his assistant. “Get Rory here!” The sound of his panic fuels my satisfaction. I settle into a seat in the waiting area, ready for the inevitable confrontation.

Victoria Valentine—Daddy’s little princess, the apple of his eye.

I’ve spent countless hours thinking about how to bring Conrad Valentine to his knees, how to make the bastard bleed for turning the Sovereign into his personal game of chess. He sits on his throne, sending others to die while he stays clean. Comfortable. Untouched. That’s not Sovereign.

Those Sovereigns who died knew the fucking risks. They shouldn’t have been stupid enough to accept a Death Bond from Conrad. It’s no secret he’s drowning in deep shit, throwing out Bonds like candy to clean up his messes. What gets me is that Conrad doesn’t do the killing himself. He’s a fucking coward who’s forgotten what it means to be a Sovereign. He needs a goddamn reminder. And I’m the one to deliver it.

Bastards like him care about two things: power and legacy. Sons are groomed to inherit their roles, if they survive the training. But daughters? They’re molded, shaped, trained to be the perfect obedient little Sluts. That’s their purpose—to serve, to be traded like cattle when the time comes. Fathers like Conrad dangle their daughters in front of other Sovereign leaders, world rulers, anyone who can expand their empires. They marry them off to cement power, alliances—legacy.

But not this time.

I’m going to take his daughter—the bright, untouchable jewel in his fucked-up world—and make her my own personal plaything. A toy to break whenever I see fit. She’ll beg, she’ll bleed, and she’ll suffer—all for my amusement.

I’ll make him fucking watch as I destroy his daughter and shatter every illusion of control he clings to. This isn’t just about ruining his chance to expand his power—it’s about revenge. I’ll remind him, brutally and without mercy, what happens when you forget what being a Sovereign truly means.

The familiar flash of blonde hair and blue eyes stride down the hall. Victoria Valentine. She moves like she owns the place, long legs and toned body on full display. Years of dancing have carved muscle into her slim frame, her crop top showing off toned abs. Tight pants hug her hips, drawing eyes she doesn’t mind having on her.

She storms into her father’s office, enraged. I follow her without waiting for an invitation, planting myself in the corner with my arms crossed.

“What the hell is going on?” Her voice is sharp, full of anger and impatience. “I was in the middle of rehearsal.”

“Sit down, Rory,” Conrad orders. He looks rough—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and that pristine image slipping away fast.

“No. Tell me what’s going on,” she snaps, crossing her arms like she’s got any real control here. Her defiance only adds fuel to the fire.

But Conrad’s eyes are already on me.

“I hope you understand the gravity of your request, Axe,” Conrad hisses, barely containing his fury. “You’re asking for something...unthinkable.”

Her gaze snaps to me, eyes narrowing, fully aware of my presence now. Good.

Smirking, I step forward. “ Unthinkable ? Funny, I thought it was rather poetic, considering the circumstances.”

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening. “You think this is some kind of joke?”

“No, Conrad. This isn’t a joke. This is about consequences. The kind you thought you could outrun. It’s time you learned you can’t.”

Rory stands frozen, her gaze darting between us.

I take another step toward him, the air thick with tension. “You sent four Sovereigns after DeLuca before me, and not one of them came back alive. You should have taken him out your fucking self after the first one failed.”

His face pales, fists tightening at his sides. The fire in his eyes burns with pure hatred. I feed off it.

“Rory, leave us,” he barks, his voice booming like it’s supposed to scare me. His sudden outburst makes her flinch, but I step in before she can.

“No. She stays.” My eyes lock onto his, daring him to challenge me. “You’ve forgotten what it means to be a Sovereign, so I’ll fucking remind you.” I let the threat hang in the air, savoring the moment before twisting the knife. “And I’ll start with her.”

I take a step toward her and just like I knew she would, she shrinks back. Fear ripples through her, she won’t meet my eyes—can’t. Conrad’s face twists with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple, but he can’t stop me. No one can.

"This has nothing to do with her! Name another price, Axe."

"No. It’s got everything to do with her," I snarl. "She’s another power move, isn’t she? Well, not anymore. She’s mine now."

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he threatens. “I have friends in high places. I have power and connections!”

“And yet, here we are,” I sneer. “Because all the money and power in the world can’t protect you from the inevitable.”

“You’re fucking dead,” he snarls.

“Maybe,” I say with a casual shrug, “but not before I have her.”

“I’ll never be yours,” Rory spits, her voice firm and defiant.

Conrad’s gaze softens as it flicks to her, a mix of anger and helplessness twisting his features. “I’m sorry, honey,” he mutters, weak and defeated. “There’s nothing I can do. You will marry Axel Hawthorne. That’s final.”

This is just the beginning.

“No! What the fuck?!” Rory screams, her voice cracking with fury. “Who the hell are you?! No fucking way!”

I savor every word, every moment of her rebellion.

Conrad sighs, running a trembling hand through his hair, his composure unraveling. “You have no choice, Rory. You’re a Sovereign Servant, bound by duty and honor. You’ll do as he demands.”

Her face hardens, and her voice trembles with defiance. “I’d rather die.”

I take a step closer, smirking. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”

She glares at me as if she’d set me on fire if she could. “Fuck you. I’m not marrying you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Conrad snaps, trying to regain control but he’s lost—lost the moment I stepped into this room.

“No!” Rory’s scream shatters the room. “I won’t do it. I’ll run away.”

“Makes no difference to me. I’ll hunt you down and drag you back. There’s nowhere you can hide where I won’t find you. You’re mine now.” The weight of my words slam into her like a sledgehammer, making her flinch. I can practically see the walls closing in around her, trapping her in a cage she never saw coming.

The room falls into an enjoyable, suffocating silence. Conrad’s pinned, powerless, and we both know it. Rory’s chest heaves as she struggles to steady her frantic breathing. Her wide, panicked eyes dart between me and her father, searching for some kind of escape. There isn’t one.

I watch her fall apart with a detached smirk.

She’s going to be fun to break.

“As much as I’d love to stay and watch this family drama unfold,” I say, my tone dripping with amusement, “I’m a busy man. One week. Make the arrangements, or I’ll do it for you. And trust me, you won’t like my methods.”

I take one last look at her, committing her face to memory.

“See you soon, princess.”

“You can’t do this! You can’t fucking do this!” Rory’s scream echoes down the hallway as I walk away.

I laugh, knowing I’ve already won the battle. I’m going to enjoy every second of destroying Rory Valentine, just as much as I’ll relish watching her father suffer.