Page 6

T he drive back to the estate is quick, no distractions, just the hum of the engine and the darkness swallowing the road. The mansion comes into view—sitting on 100 acres of thick, untamed forest, with a wrought-iron fence that screams keep the fuck out. No one’s stupid enough to test it.

It’s not just a house—it’s a fortress. Built to withstand anything, like the Hawthorne bloodline. The mansion, with its tall towers and massive stone walls, feels more like a curse than a home. Each floor, each room—it might as well be empty. Like the rest of my family, buried in the ground.

Inside, Griffen’s voice echoes from the living room. “Yo! Axe, in here!”

The living room is cast in shadows, the firelight flicking at the dark wood and leather furniture. Griff is sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, a whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers.

“You look like shit, Axe.” He smirks.

I rip the bottle from his hand, taking a long swig.

A low growl cuts through the tension, dragging my attention to the doorway. Kane, my black Belgian Malinois, stands there, muscles coiled, eyes locked on Griffen like he’s ready to rip his throat out. He’s a fucking beast, more wolf than dog, and the only soul loyal to me.

“Fuck your dog,” Griffen mutters, throwing a scowl at Kane, but that only makes the growl deepen.

Chuckling, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. “ GA Liggen ,” I snap, the Dutch command rolling off my tongue, and Kane backs off immediately, settling into his spot by the fireplace, eyes still glued to Griffen, just waiting for the order.

Griffen crashes at my place more than I’d like, always slumming it in one of the guest wings like it’s his personal fucking hotel. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve threatened to throw his ass out.

“I’ve got the information you wanted. No surprises, except for her finances.” Griffen’s specialty—digging into people’s lives like a vulture picking a clean carcass. He’s good at it. Real good. He’s got connections that crawl out of the sewers, people in places you don’t even know exist.

We could pass for brothers—same dark hair, similar build, and an equal thirst for violence. But his carefree attitude and constant chase for pussy are a far cry from my rigid and controlled lifestyle.

He doesn’t share my reputation, though he’s racked up his body count and enemies.

“What?”

“She’s loaded. Like, fucking rich.”

I take another swig from the whiskey bottle, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.

“From her father, I assume.”

Griff shakes his head. “Nope. Random deposits, mostly cash. Plus, an offshore account. The amounts vary, but it adds up. She’s been smart about hiding it—probably from her old man.”

“Sovereigns she’s fucking?”

She’s clearly fucking someone who is paying her. Probably some high-ranking bastard. A common tactic among Sluts. The higher the rank, the better the money.

“Nope. Doesn’t look like it’s coming from any Sovereign bank.”

“Keep looking.” I want to uncover her every weakness, every fear. Her habits, her routines—everything. If I’m going to break her, I need to know exactly where to strike.

“I’m working on it.” He pauses, staring at me with a smirk. “She’s fucking hot. You’re a lucky bastard. Her pussy is probably sweet as fuck. I see why you chose her.” He’s right. Her pussy will be sweet, and it will be mine.

But he needs to remember his place. I’ll fucking kill him if he even tries to touch her. I will be the only one to use her, the only one to taste her. To ruin her.

“If you touch her, I will cut your fucking balls off and feed them to you.”

“Alright. But if she wants my dick...I’m not saying no. I am the more attractive Hawthorne, after all.”

Clenching my jaw, I ignore his comment and continue drinking.

“Master Hawthorne, will you be dining in tonight or out?” Henry asks, his voice as smooth and polished as his tailored suit. The tall, slender butler has served my family for decades, his graying hair always neatly combed and his beard meticulously trimmed. Before I can answer, Griff cuts in.

“Both. We want steak, medium-rare. And a blow job.”

Henry’s expression remains unwavering.

“I will inform the kitchen, sir.” With that, he turns and exits the room.

My phone dings, and I pull it out. The tracker on Rory’s G-Wagon shows she’s on the move. My jaw tightens. It’s time for the games to begin.

Without a word, I grab my keys and head for the garage.

“Where are you going?” Griff questions, his tone amused.

“None of your goddamn business.”

The black Ford Shelby Mustang’s engine roars as I tear down the highway, the tracker guiding me through the city’s streets. I pull up to a nightclub—loud, crowded, and clearly not Sovereign territory.

She’s easy to spot. Rory strides toward the entrance, her blonde hair and tiny dress catching the light. She’s obviously looking to attract attention.

My cock hardens at the sight of her—barely covered, braless tits straining against the fabric, her legs on full display.

She saunters up to the front of the line, flashing that enticing smile at the bouncer. He opens the door, and she glides in like she’s on a red carpet. I don’t bother with the line; my presence is enough to clear a path.

The crowd parts, eyes wide with fear as I approach. A thick wad of hundreds does the trick, and the bouncer reluctantly lets me in.

Inside, the music pounds obnoxiously, drowning out everything but the bass. The air is a sticky mix of sweat and booze, clinging to every surface. The dance floor is a chaotic mass of bodies thrashing to the rhythm. Booths and tables line the walls, creating a claustrophobic maze. Typical nightclub—except, it stinks of desperation.

She’s in the VIP area, laughing at something a middle-aged man is saying. I find a shadowed spot at the bar, blending into the darkness while I watch her. He’s no Sovereign, just some regular asshole in a cheap suit.

Why’s she with a non-Sovereign?

The guy’s dressed down—white button-up shirt, khakis, short hair, glasses. He’s gotta be pushing forty. No match for Rory. She could have any Sovereign she wanted. Why the fuck is she with this clown?

He runs his hand up her thigh, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh, her hand sliding up his leg in return. Their bodies press together as he moves from her thigh to her back, his lips trailing over her neck.

My jaw tightens, teeth gritted against the surge of rage. I take a swig of whiskey. The burn does nothing to cool the fire inside me as he paws at her.

A man steps up to the bar and tries to shout over the music. “I want something after hours. What do you recommend?”

The bartender glances at him, shrugging. “Depends. What’s your poison? Beer, whiskey, wine?”

The man leans in, smirking. “Something off the menu.” The bartender’s eyes dart toward Rory and her date. His tone drops, his gaze shifting back to the man.

“The woman in the black dress? Her name’s Jade. She’s new but worth every penny if you’re up for it.”

The man turns, eyeing Rory. “How much?”

“15K. But trust me, she’s worth it. You won’t regret it.” The bartender winks as the man hands over a stack of hundreds and walks away. What the fuck? My gaze snaps back to Rory, and the puzzle pieces fall into place.

I follow the bartender into the back room. A faint buzzing hums in the air, mixing with the stench of stale alcohol and cigarettes. The room is cramped, cluttered with stacked boxes, and the flickering light barely illuminates the space.

Before he can start texting, I grab him, shoving him against the wall.

“Tell me about Jade,” I growl.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I tighten my grip, pressing harder. “Tell me about Jade.”

He chokes, gasping for breath. “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “I-I don’t know her real name. She’s new here. I help her with clients, and she gives me a cut.” He swallows hard, his body quaking.

“Does she work here often?”

“Yeah, a couple nights a week. She’s popular—rich bastards pay top dollar for her.”

I try to figure out what the fuck this is…she’s selling herself. Selling herself to these non-Sovereigns. Why?

This guy’s a convenient target for my rage, so I slam his head into the wall. The satisfying crack of bone against concrete echoing through the room, as his body collapses to the floor.

Storming back into the bar, I find Rory’s disappeared. Her date’s nowhere in sight either. I head straight for the parking lot, her car is here, but she’s not. Damn it, they must’ve left together.

I slam into my car, ripping out of the lot. The wheel’s a vice in my grip, knuckles white as I tear into the night. Rory’s whoring herself out, and I’m going to find out why.

I pull into my driveway, each step toward the house fueled by anger. Griff’s sprawled in the living room with a half-naked Slut. I don’t even glance at them. Straight to the basement I go, Kane shadowing my every step.

The basement is my domain—a grim playground for training, torture, and execution. The gym’s the centerpiece, a heavy bag swinging from the ceiling. In the back room, a steel door opens to my soundproof chamber—a cold, clinical room with a chair and restraints. Concrete walls, floors, and a drain in the center make it perfect for cleanup after a session.

I pound the heavy bag, fists colliding with brutal force, knuckles splitting open as blood mixes with sweat. Each hit is a surge of rage, a way to bleed off the fury seething inside.

Rory fucking Valentine.

Why the hell is she in my head? She’s just a whore—a disposable piece of Conrad’s filthy legacy. A tool for my revenge. That’s all she is. A pawn. Nothing more. I slam the bag harder, the chains rattling like the sound of bones breaking.

So why does the thought of her body pressing against mine crawl under my skin like this?

Leaning my head against the cold wall, I let the chill soothe my aching muscles. The familiarity of the room grounds me, the scent of blood and sweat a reminder of my purpose. This is where I belong— The Reaper , the monster that lurks in the shadows. A creature of violence, the Sovereign’s perfect weapon. The world is a dark, cruel place, and I’m the harbinger of its worst nightmares.

My knuckles are raw, blood smeared across the mat. The sting of each split grounds me. I close my eyes, forcing out a deep breath, trying like hell to erase the image of Rory from my head. Her body pressed up against mine, that soft skin, those fiery blue eyes daring me to break her. Every fucking detail lingers, gnawing at me.

But it’s not just the rage that haunts me. It’s the thought of her naked, vulnerable, tied down—under my control. It pisses me off more than it should.

Growling, I push off the mat, ignoring the ache in my muscles. I need a fucking shower and sleep. All these fucking thoughts about a woman I don’t even want. This wedding is a goddamn inconvenience.

I don’t need a wife. But I’ll do what I have to. Conrad Valentine will suffer for his sins, and Rory will pay the price.

I clench my fists, blood dripping onto the mat beneath me.

This little fucking arrangement of hers? It’s over.

I will destroy Rory Valentine—body and fucking soul.