Page 5

I push through the heavy doors of the Starlight Pavilion, the dim glow of the bar barely touching the edges of the theater. Rows of plush seats stretch out before the stage, and a well-stocked bar hums in the corner. It’s quiet now, the calm before the show—no crowd, no noise, just the stage set for its circus-meets-strip-club spectacle.

Fire dancers, pole dancers, acrobats—all are ready to put on a show for idiots who think seduction’s some kind of art form.

The Sovereign lap it up. Every damn show is sold out. But me? I don’t give a shit.

I move to the back row, sweeping the empty room. The Sovereign have a thing for these performances. Sirens, glorified whores prancing around, acting like they own the world because they know how to dance. It’s a fucking joke. There’s nothing here I can’t get in a more satisfying way with a Slut tied up in front of me, begging for mercy.

The door slams open, and the girls file in. Their chatter cuts through the silence as they spill onto the stage. It only takes a second for my eyes to land on her. Rory. That blonde hair, that perfect lean body—years of training show in every line of muscle, every sharp curve. In joggers and a sports bra.

She’s a fucking Siren, and she looks the part.

Perfect. Controlled. Hot as hell.

And mine to destroy.

“Alright! From the top!” a man’s voice echoes from the side of the stage.

Rory strips off her joggers, revealing shorts that leave nothing to the imagination—just barely covering that perfect ass. Fuck, she has a great ass.

She moves to the center, poised like she owns the place. The opening notes of “River” by Bishop Briggs pulse through the speakers, and the room shifts. Her body moves in time with the beat, her hips rolling and swaying, each movement practiced, fluid, and smooth. It’s almost hypnotic—the way she flows from one move to the next, like water.

As the song builds, aerial rings descend, and in a blink, she’s airborne. Her limbs stretch out in perfect control, like gravity doesn’t apply to her. The rings spin, her body twisting through the air, effortless. For a moment, I’m almost impressed.

Then the final notes hit, and she drops, catching the ring inches before she hits the ground. Her chest heaves with each breath, her skin slick with sweat, muscles taut from the exertion.

My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket, the screen lighting up with a message from Griffen.

Griffen is a fellow Sovereign. My cousin. Close enough to be a brother, at least in his eyes—not mine. I don’t do attachments, but Griffen has a way of forcing himself in, whether I want him there or not. A royal pain in my ass.

Where I thrive on control and focus, he thrives on chaos. Arrogant, cocky, and ruled by his dick. If he wasn’t busy fucking half the Servant population, he might actually be half the assassin I am.

Griff: Saw your new pet last night. She was fucked up.

Me: Where?

Griff: Jamie Harper’s. Heard them fucking. She sounds like a wild one.

My jaw tightens, my grip on the phone turning knuckle-white. This bitch is mine. Guess I’ll be making another stop today.

The director onstage shouts for a break, and Rory staggers off, barely making it to the side before she’s doubled over, puking into a bucket. Hungover, weak, struggling to stand—just another day for a party girl like her.

She heads backstage, and I seize the opportunity. I weave through the crew, slipping unnoticed into the shadows.

I follow her as she walks to her dressing room, slipping in just before the door swings shut. Her face pales as she turns, eyes widening with recognition.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands, trying to hide the fear in her eyes, but I see right through it. Up close, she’s even more stunning—those light blue eyes, full lips that scream trouble, and a lean, athletic frame. She’s at least 5’7” but I tower over her at 6’5”.

“Relax, sweetheart.” My smirk widens as I close the distance between us. “I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Oh, I’m going to enjoy gagging that pretty little mouth of hers.

I step closer, backing her into the wall.

“Or what?” I taunt, watching a flush of rage spread across her face. She tries to wriggle free, but there’s no escape. She’s trapped, and she knows it.

Her jaw tightens, her fists clenching at her sides. “What do you want?”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a measuring tape. The flinch that crosses her face is almost too satisfying. I slip the tape around her neck, pulling it tight enough to press against her delicate skin.

“I need the size for your vow-bound collar.”

“I’m not wearing a goddamn collar,” she snaps, shoving her hands against my chest. I press harder, pinning her between the wall and my body. Her breath hitches, her pulse quickening under my touch.

She’s terrified.

Good.

Before I can savor her fear, her knee crashes into my balls.

“Fuck!” I grunt at the sharp pain radiating through my body. I regain my composure and grip her throat—tightly. Slamming her against the wall, I watch as her hands claw desperately at my fingers. “Wrong move, Rory,” I growl, squeezing her throat. “You will learn to obey, or you will learn to suffer.”

Her eyes blaze with a mix of anger and fear. She’s strong-willed; I’ll give her that. But she has no idea what’s coming. I release her, and her hands fly to her throat, coughing and gasping for air.

“Now,” I say coldly, closing the space between us again, “let’s try that one more time.”

I pin her against the wall with my body, my hand grazing her soft skin, and she shudders, tensing under the pressure. She squirms, trying to break free, but I hold her tightly. She’s no match for my strength. Being so close, I catch a hint of her perfume, a mixture of flowers and vanilla.

Fuck, she smells good .

I let my hand linger on her soft skin, savoring the warmth, then I draw the tape slowly around her neck, enjoying the feel of her trembling skin and the tautness of her body against mine. Every second of this is a twisted pleasure.

“Get off me!” she screams, her voice hoarse.

“Shut the fuck up, or you won’t have a voice to use ever again.” I press closer, letting her feel my hard cock. Short, panicked breaths escape her lips, her chest rising and falling erratically.

Her pulse thrums violently beneath my fingers. When I finally get the necessary measurements, I retract the tape and slip it into my pocket.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I taunt, gripping her tight little waist, digging my fingers in with purposeful pressure. She stiffens further, her body rigid under my touch. I revel in her fear, her panic, her utter helplessness.

The faint click of a gun and the cold barrel pressing against the base of my skull interrupts the moment.

“Get your fucking hands off my sister.”

“Easy, Valentine,” I say, releasing Rory and turning slowly to face Spencer. “Wouldn’t want your funeral to ruin the wedding celebration.”

Spencer is furious, aiming his gun directly at my head. He’s a spitting image of his father, and it makes me sick.

“Rory, get out of here,” he barks.

She bolts, the door slamming behind her.

I waste no time. With a swift motion, I disarm Spencer, sending the gun skidding across the floor. My hand wraps around his throat, and I slam him against the wall, my forearm pressing into his windpipe. He’s no match for me; very few are.

“Next time you point a gun at me, make sure you pull the fucking trigger,” I snarl. His face flushes deep red as he gasps, struggling to pry my arm off. “You got that, pretty boy?”

“Fuck…you,” he chokes out.

I smirk, a cold, ruthless grin. “Oh, I’ll be fucking something.”

I release him, and he collapses to the floor, coughing and wheezing.

“Why are you doing this, Axe? She’s nothing to you,” he manages between ragged breaths.

“Your old man knew the risks when he handed me a Bond. Maybe he should’ve been smarter about the people he deals with.” I stride toward the door, glancing over my shoulder. “See you at the wedding.”

His expression twists with pure hatred, and I chuckle.

Outside the theater, I pause to plant a tracker on Rory’s G-Wagon. Keeping tabs on her will make things easier. Sliding into my black Lexus LFA, I fire up the engine and peel out of the parking lot.

My next stop: the notorious Jamie Harper.

Time to send a clear message to the Sovereign—Rory is my property now, and no one fucks with what’s mine.

The engine roars as I weave through traffic, the cityscape a blur. I soon pull up to his apartment building, bypassing the doorbell with a single, forceful kick. Inside, the place is a mess—beer bottles and empty liquor containers strewn about. It’s not long before I hear the front door open and Jamie’s voice drifts in from the hallway.

“Yep, the usual. 10k,” he mumbles into his phone, barely glancing up. Christ, he’s a pathetic excuse for a Sovereign. Even a blind man would notice a door kicked in.

He hangs up, shuffling deeper into his apartment’s wreckage, oblivious to my presence.

I clear my throat deliberately.

Jamie jumps, his eyes snapping to me. “Jesus! Axe.”

His reaction is cliché, but it’s no less satisfying. I’m not someone you want showing up unannounced.

“Harper.”

I catch the unmistakable scent of fear wafting from him.

“Axe, what can I do for you?” he stammers, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. He may be a Sovereign, but he’s a weak link—more interested in getting high and fucking Sluts.

I don’t respond, letting his fear build.

“If this is about Rory,” he continues, nervously raking a hand through his messy hair, his body swaying slightly. “I didn’t know she was yours, man. She didn’t say anything until this morning.”

“You fucked her.” It’s a statement, not a question.

He swallows hard and nods.

“Look, I’m sorry. I had no idea. We’re friends. We’ve fucked before.” I tighten my grip, my jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t have touched her if I’d known.”

I step closer, drawing my switchblade with a metallic click. His face pales, his body locking up.

“Do you know why they call me The Reaper?” Every fucking Sovereign knows the answer. Jamie doesn’t respond, only stares back, trying to mask his fear, but it’s all too visible and delicious.

I see the flicker of indecision in his eyes—maybe he’s weighing the possibility of drawing a weapon and taking me on. I welcome the challenge, eager to see if he’s stupid enough to try.

“Touch my property again, and I’ll kill you. Slowly. Painfully.” Without hesitation, I drive the blade deep into his thigh, hitting bone. His scream tears through the room as he collapses to the floor. “If I have to come back, Harper, I’ll carve you open and make you fucking walk as your intestines spill out.” I yank the blade from his thigh, and turn on my heel, leaving him writhing in a pool of his blood.

I exit the apartment, a surge of euphoria hitting me. There’s nothing quite like the rush of inflicting pain.

I burst out of the dressing room, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, and slam the bathroom door behind me. Collapsing onto the cold tile floor, I clutch at my chest. My throat burns, my heart pounding widely against my ribs.

I fucking hate him. He’s a monster. No, a beast, wearing a human mask.

The memory of his hands on me, his suffocating presence, makes my skin crawl. I press my fists against my eyes, trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. My body trembles uncontrollably, as if it’s trying to rid itself of the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. The weight of this twisted reality is suffocating, and I feel like I’m drowning in it.

I have to get ahold of myself. I will not let that monster break me. I take another deep breath, focusing on the feeling of the floor beneath me, the sound of my breathing—the feeling of the cool air on my skin.

I’m stronger than he thinks. Determined to regain control, I push myself up and shuffle over to the mirror. Wiping the tears from my face, I stare at my reflection, trying to piece myself back together.

Axe doesn’t own me—no one does—and I sure as hell won’t be wearing his collar.

The vow-bound collar—a symbol of ownership. It’s a Sovereign’s claim over a Servant, a declaration that they are theirs and no longer available for other Sovereigns to use. The collar locks tight, only removable by the Sovereign who placed it. It’s the final act of surrender, the ultimate symbol of submission. But not for me. I refuse to be anyone’s property.

I’m not a dog, and I’ll be damned if I wear a fucking collar.

He thinks he can just show up and scare me into submission? He’s got another thing coming. I will not go down without a fight.

He wants a bride? Fine, he’ll fucking get one, but I’ll never be his submissive.

“Dom, we need to talk,” I call out, spotting him mid-conversation with a stagehand. His eyes flick to me, and with a nod, he waves me over. We duck into his small office.

“I want to switch up the finale,” I announce. He arches a brow. “I’m thinking fire...and knives. Lots of knives.”

Dom meets my smile with one of his own. “Let’s make it happen,” he replies, nodding in approval. We hash out the details, and I can already feel the adrenaline, the thrill of turning the tables. This isn’t just a performance—it’s a middle finger in the form of a show.

As we leave the office, Spencer approaches, his jaw tight with barely restrained anger. Dom gives me a knowing nod and strides off to oversee the preparations. Spencer follows me into my dressing room, his presence heavy. I sink into the vanity chair, reapplying my makeup in silence until he clears his throat.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Rory.”

“What do you want me to say, Spence?” I snap, tossing my makeup brush down in frustration. “Who is he? I’ve never even heard of him. He just shows up and says we’re getting married. How is this even allowed?!” I explode, facing him. “And why is everyone so scared of him?! He’s just another Sovereign, right?”

“Rory, Axe is not like the others. He’s dangerous. Really fucking dangerous.”

I shoot him a pointed look, unconvinced.

He lets out a sharp breath. “I don’t know how you haven’t heard of him. Maybe if you paid attention to things outside the Pavilion once in a while, you’d know what you’re dealing with.”

I roll my eyes—he’s starting to sound more and more like Dad.

“He comes from a powerful line of Sovereign. They’ve always been feared, but Axe...he’s different. If you’re his target, you’re dead before you even see him coming.”

I scoff. “You kill people too, Spence.”

“No. Not like him. We call him The Reaper.”

The nickname almost makes me laugh, sounding cliché and over-the-top. But the memory of the piercing darkness in Axe’s eyes sends a chill crawling up my spine. I shake my head, unwilling to accept Spencer’s warning.

How could I possibly fear a man simply because of a nickname? Am I supposed to believe that the entire Sovereign organization is terrified of one man?

I shove hangers aside in the wardrobe, trying to calm my nerves, while Spencer paces the room like a caged animal.

“So, what now?” I ask, still focused on the clothes.

“I’ll figure something out. But for now, I need you to do what he says. Don’t give him any reason to hurt you.” I can’t believe he’s asking me to act like some obedient puppy. I shoot him a glare, but he pleads with a desperate gaze, “Please, Rory. I’m begging you; don’t provoke him. Just give me some time.”

Our conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door, and a stagehand announces that rehearsal is starting. I shoot Spencer one last pointed look before walking out, my silence sharp with unspoken anger. It’s not his fault, but I’m too overwhelmed to talk.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of rehearsals and adjustments. Dom and I work on the new choreography, meticulously refining every detail for tomorrow’s performance.

A notification about a client meeting later provides a welcome distraction—a small escape from the crushing presence of the Sovereign.