Copyright © 2026 by Darma Day

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, and events are entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods or otherwise, (quotes allowed for the purpose of reviews and promotions) without the prior written permission of the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover Design: ArtistaGráfico

Edited by C.J. Primer

Proof Reading by: Kelly’s Book Blog

ASIN: B0GQK25XCF

PLAYLIST

Haunted - Laura Les

party - STOSLIV, LOVIXX

Good Citizen - iyah may

Cry Evil! - ILUKA

Bite Marks - Ari Abdul

SINS - Red Leather, Sueco, WesGhost

New Americana - Halsey

lonely bitch - Bea Miller

Worms - Ashnikko

Fuck Me Like You Hate Me - Jutes

Back to Life (Birthdae) - ScurtDae

EVIL - Melanie Martinez

Neon - LOVIXX

Don’t tell your dreams - STOSLIV, LOVIXX

Vendetta - UNSECRET, Krigarè

Listen to the full playlist on Spotify

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hello reader,

This book is a work of DARK fiction that contains explicit and graphic content in a dystopian setting. While fiction, some events/experiences can and may resonate with readers and be triggering.

Mental health matters so please proceed with caution. There is graphic content on and off page, so be sure to review the list and read at your own risk.

As some readers might find these to be spoilers, a full detailed content list can be found at the end of this book and on my website.

See Full Content

Today’s feisty girl horoscope: 

A six-foot-four blond villain with a wicked smile and questionable morals is coming to hunt you down, spit in your mouth, and claim what was never his.

WELCOME TO NORTHBROOKE

EMERGENCY BROADCAST ALERT

ERROR 506

INFRASTRUCTURE: OFFLINE [ECONOMIC FAILURE]

MODULE: UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT

ERROR_SYSTEM_UNABLE_TO_LOCATE_HOST

STATUS_OVERRIDE_INITIATED_CTRL_THEREGISTRY

REBOOT_ATTEMPT_CONGRESS... [FAILED]

MODULE: THE REGISTRY

SYSTEM: ONLINE

1

JERSEY

A311

Aviolent surge of electricity tears through me, every muscle locking as searing heat unfurls beneath my skin. I jolt upright, choking on a gasp as my gaze sweeps wildly around the room, searching for the source of this rude as fuck awakening. The screen on my Guardian cuff glows in the darkness, tattling on itself.

I slouch back against the headboard with an irritated sigh, the residual shock still crackling beneath my skin. The other side of the bed is empty, the ensuite’s dark, and Commander Martin's phone is gone from the charger. Knowing nothing’s lurking in the shadows, my nervous system starts to settle.

Well, nothing besides the usual threat, and it seems he's already downstairs.

The screen flashes again, and I scowl down at the matte-black device permanently fastened to my wrist as his message scrolls across the screen.

Bring coffee to the office.

I huff out a breath, swiping the message away and kicking back the tangled duvet. As I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, I cast a resentful glance toward the photograph on the nightstand, muttering, "Bet he never tased you awake for coffee."

Grace smiles brightly back at me from the framed wedding picture while Commander Martin presses a kiss to her temple. It creeped me out at first, the way she seemed to stare into my soul while her husband used my body to purge his aggression. Eventually, it became my distraction. I'd let my mind wander, studying the intricate details of her dress, counting the roses in her bouquet– twenty-six, to be exact– and trying to understand the happiness shining in her hazel eyes.

The eyes he claims I have.

The reason he had to have me.

Sliding off the bed, I grimace when my bare feet hit the hardwood, a dull throb radiating from between my legs. My jaw tightens with each step as I head down the hall, tugging off my oversized sleep shirt and discarding it on the bed as I pass through my room. With as rough as Commander Martin was last night, I half expect to see blood when I glance down, but there isn’t any. And the pain is nothing some ibuprofen and a hot shower can't fix– more than I can say for the bruises littering my thighs from his harsh grip.

I twist the water on, finger-combing my hair into a messy bun before setting a fresh towel on the counter. Steam billows around me as I pull back the curtain, and I step beneath the scalding spray without flinching, water pelting my body and dissolving the tension from my muscles in seconds.

He's not always brutal. Most of the time he’s playing out the sick fantasy of making love to his dead wife. Calling me by her name as he pairs soft kisses with tender strokes, savoring every minute. I like it when he’s rougher, when his movements pulse with rage, rather than the sensual courtesy of a Hallmark card. I’m sure it’s a fucked up preference, but I’d rather be punished for being me than be worshipped as his perverted stand-in. But last night was different.

Stress etched his features as he flipped me over, yanked me by the ankles to the edge of the bed, and slammed into me. The first time that happened, I tried to fight back, then spent weeks recovering from a bruised trachea and dislocated jaw. The most fucked up part was that I still had to service him daily.

Now, I just lie still.

Commander Martin doesn’t like to acknowledge those moments. When he loses control; when I can’t soothe him the way she apparently did. He wants the evidence washed away so he can go on ignoring his shortcomings.

The soap lathers beneath my palm as I scrub at his marks. The bruises sting as I rub harder, as if I can erase them with more pressure, more soap. But even if that were possible, it'd only be a matter of time before he left new ones.

I'm his Asset. That's what he bought me for.

Too bad I'm the one paying the price.

I cut the water off, pat myself dry, and pull out a soft grey lounge set.

Between last night and this morning’s crass wake-up call, I don’t waste time getting dressed. I'm not stupid enough to provoke the devil when he's already on edge.

Silence stretches around me, the hazy glow of sunrise beginning to seep in through the windows as I descend the stairs. The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air as I pad into the kitchen and pluck two cups from the shelf, making sure my guardian’s is full to the brim before pouring my own. The carafe hovers in my hand as I try and fail to hold back a yawn, staring down into the mugs while gnawing on the inside of my cheek, watching the dark liquid swirl around temptingly.

Should I take Commander Martin's cup in to him? Yes.

But is my exhaustion-riddled body practically begging me to take a drink? Also yes.

Fuck it.

The glass pot clinks against the burner as I rush to replace it and snatch up my mug. I hum in satisfaction as the coffee hits my tongue in all its caffeinated glory, my shoulders sagging in relief.

The joy is tragically short lived.

My muscles seize, knees buckling as I drop to the floor like a ragdoll. The mug shatters, scalding liquid splashing my skin as an electric current rips through my system, my back arching and limbs jerking uncontrollably as sharp, blinding pain splinters through my body.

Five excruciating seconds later, the convulsions stop, the screen of my cuff lighting up with another message.

Now.

My fingers tremble as they curl around the edge of the countertop. With a groan, I slowly pull myself up, leaning on the cabinets for support. My palms splay against the granite, my pulse thrumming in my ears as the last tremor races up my spine. Unsure of how long until he’ll issue another zap, I choose to ignore the mess around, pluck his mug from the counter and force myself down the hall.

The Registry already got paid, so my Guardian can do whatever the fuck he wants with me– nothing is off limits for the lawless elites of Northbrooke.

Hell, no one even batted an eye when Commander Martin sent me on an all-expenses-paid trip to the infirmary.

For the most part, he’s not a particularly cruel Guardian. He rarely uses the cuff's compliance functions, and his rougher moments mostly stem from piss-poor moods. But the fact that he was rough last night and has already shocked me twice over a goddamn cup of coffee leaves unease prickling beneath my skin.

Anxiety burrows deeper in my chest with every soft thud of my feet against the floorboards. A sliver of light spills through the cracked office door, and as I move closer, the frustrated murmur of my Guardian’s voice gives me pause. My throat aches with a phantom pain, my mind flooding with every twisted way he's tortured me over the years.

No.

He already owns my body, I won't let him have free rein of my mind.

Shoving away the fleeting thoughts, I push open the door and steel my nerves as I step inside.

Commander Martin darts me a glance as the hinges creak, his jaw tightening while his eyes return to his computer screen. He waves his hand, the smoke of his cigar scattering as he motions for me to come in.

"It's almost done," he mutters into the phone, depositing his cigar in the ashtray.

He swipes a hand over his stubbled chin as numbers cascade into rows across his screen, data quickly populating. Registry documents scatter the surface of his desk, my eyes flicking over them as I search for a place to set the mug down. Right as I start to lower it, his hand shoots out to grab on and I flinch, hot coffee sloshing over the rim.

He doesn't react. He just takes the cup, raises it to his mouth, and takes a sip while humming absently into the phone.

Too uncertain to leave and too nervous to ask whether I can, I linger in silence, picking at the skin around my nails. My focus shifts to the flow of numbers on his screen, the seconds stretching as I watch in a trance.

The computer chimes, a notification popping up, and the sharp clap of his hands makes my pulse stutter. The chair creaks as he leans back, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, disheveling it further. "Nineteen hundred hours," he barks, hanging up and tossing his phone onto the desk. Then he turns toward me with a sigh, slapping his thigh. "Sit."

Without argument, I move closer, lowering myself onto his lap. He huffs softly, arching a brow as his hand circles my waist possessively. "So you haven't forgotten how to follow orders after all."

I swallow thickly. "No, sir."

"That was a very important and stressful call, I needed that coffee," he grumbles, his other hand resting firmly on my bare knee.

"I'm sorry," I reply softly.

"You should be," he scoffs. "I take care of you. I give you a home, a comfortable life– an easy life– hardly asking anything from you."

I bite back a laugh.

What goddamn life? The Registry killed my father, hunted me down, and auctioned me off like a prized poodle. But even Commander Martin’s dogs are better off than me. I would know, since I attend to them, too.

"Isn't that right, my pet?" he presses.

"Yes, Commander."

"Yes, what?"

My jaw clenches, the words bitter on my tongue as I amend, "You take such good care of your property."

"And yet you couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to bring me a single cup of coffee this morning without me having to use the compliance functions of the cuff. Maybe I've been too lenient with you." He pauses, his hand abandoning my knee to collar my throat. "Maybe you need a firmer hand."

My breath hitches, my spine going rigid as I await his next move. He studies me, the cruel edge of his gaze dulling with a memory as he murmurs, "just like her." The moment fades just as fast as it appeared, his eyes darkening again, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"That's why they advised me not to buy you. Said I'd be fixated by the illusion and forget you were property." The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. "Guess we both could use a reminder."

In one swift motion, he rises from his seat, his hand never leaving my neck as he forces me forward and pins me against the desk. His mug crashes to the floor, the contents of his pen holder spilling across the desk as he folds over me. "You are nothing without me," he snarls, his hot breath skating across my cheek. "You aren't Grace, you are property. My property, and the only reason you have for breathing each day is to serve me."

“Yes, sir,” I squeak, wincing as he sinks more of his weight onto me.

"And I decide when you no longer have a reason," he continues, his grip tightening to restrict my oxygen. His own breath quickens, his erection grinding against my ass cheeks. "So, if you value your pathetic little life, you'll stay still and serve me. Understand, A311?"

Even though he’s choking me too much to speak and my face is pressed against the desk, I give a slight nod that seems to be answer enough. He releases his hold and I inhale sharply, but the relief I feel as air fills my lungs is immediately snuffed out by the sound of his zipper lowering.

Commander Martin yanks down my shorts and panties, and I yelp as the palm of his hand strikes my bare skin. He positions himself behind me, my stomach knotting and body tensing as the head of his cock nudges against my back hole.

"Let's see how easily you forget your duties when I'm through with you," he growls.

Searing pain ripples through me as he forces his cock into my ass, the tight ring of muscle straining to stretch around him. I blink back tears, frantically searching for something to focus on; for somewhere else my mind can go. My gaze catches on the glint of a silver letter opener lying on the desk amongst the scattered pens, and I stare at it until my vision blurs out of focus.

"So tight," he grits out as he slowly inches further inside.

My nostrils flare, my molars gnashing together as my vision sharpens, eyes tracing the intricate details carved into the letter opener’s handle. I follow the etched pattern over and over, committing it to memory.

Swirl in. Swish up. Flourish out, swoop down. Swirl, swirl, straight up, monogram M.

The shrill chime of the doorbell makes me flinch, Commander Martin groaning as he jerks back and pulls out of me just as roughly as he entered.

"Go get that," he grumbles. "And if it takes longer than I think it should, I'll test the limits of your cuff’s compliance functions."

Panic seizes in my chest at the promise in his words. Pushing up from the desk, my fingers tug at the waistband of my shorts as I stumble out of his office, the dull ache in my ass throbbing with each wobbly step as I rush down the hall.

A rapid burst of knocks reverberates around me when I step into the foyer. A wave of apprehension ripples through me, my Guardian’s lingering threat ticking down seconds on an invisible timer as my fingers fumble to undo the locks.

I ease the door open to find two men crowding the front entrance, their hands settled on their holsters. A broad-shouldered redhead looms behind an older man with tightly cropped silver hair, both of them expressionless and clad in navy camo.

Registry Enforcers.

"Identify yourself," the older one barks.

"Asset A311," I rush out.

"Confirmed, Lieutenant Stewart," the redhead states, shifting to hold a tablet out in front of him.

With a curt nod, his focus swings back to me. "Is your Guardian home?"

"Of course." I hook a thumb over my shoulder. "Let me just get him."

"Take us to him now," Lieutenant Stewart orders, his palm slapping against the door as he pushes inside.

"O-oh, okay," I reply, my voice faltering as I pivot on a heel.

Commander Martin is The Registry's treasurer, but it's rare for him to do much business outside the walls of The Vanguard. A last-minute meeting would explain his recent mood, but surely he'd have had me prepare the den instead of fetching coffee if he was expecting guests. That feeling of unease returns, goosebumps prickling across my skin as we move down the hall.

And if the Enforcers were invited, would they have had to ask if he was home?

"Commander!" I call out, an involuntary sense of loyalty weaving through me as I quicken my pace.

The Enforcers follow suit, the menacing sound of their boots thudding behind me.

"Commander Martin!" I call again, darting into his office.

"What!" he barks, shooting to his feet and reaching out to snatch me by the arm.

"Isaiah Martin," Lieutenant Stewart shouts, drawing his gun as he enters. "You have been deemed an Enemy of The Registry."

My Guardian drops his hold of me, hands lifting in the air as he struggles for words. "Wh-what? What for?"

"For acts of sedition, you are hereby stripped of your position. The Registry assumes immediate ownership of all assets."

"No, no, you have it all wrong!" Commander Martin shakes his head as he reaches for his phone. "Let me call–"

The crack of a gunshot cuts him off. I jolt back with a yelp, knocking into the desk as a million little pieces of the phone rain down around me.

"Play it, Dillons," Lieutenant Stewart instructs, the barrel of his gun drifting back to Commander Martin.

The redhead– Dillons, apparently– swipes at the tablet, his finger stabbing at the screen. A recording starts playing: a group of men are discussing a plan to form a new society and separate from The Registry. Commander Martin pales as his voice suggests skimming funds and details how easily he can divert them to burner accounts. The others have security concerns, but he assures them it can be done without ever flagging the system because he's been doing it for years.

"That's not–" Commander Martin goes to take a step forward, but before his foot even leaves the ground, Lieutenant Stewart fires again. Bits of flesh splatter on the desk, warm blood spraying across my face as I scream and my Guardian’s body crumples to the floor.

Blood trickles down Commander Martin’s expressionless face, pooling around Lieutenant Stewart’s feet as he holsters his gun. Shock galvanizes me where I stand– all I can do is watch as he crouches down and wraps his arms around the lifeless body, hoisting the corpse onto his shoulder before directing Dillons to transport me to Station 4 for appraisal.

Appraisal?

Labored breaths saw from my lungs as memories of the auction crash into me. Dillons strides closer, and panic poisons my system. My ears start to ring, my father’s voice yelling for me to run among the phantom sounds of Enforcers banging on our apartment door.

No. They aren't taking me again.

My brain short circuits, and in one swift movement, I swipe the letter opener off the desk and lunge forward. The tip pierces the Enforcer’s flesh with a pop, the silver blade sinking deep into the side of his neck. It squelches as I pull it back out and his eyes round, his mouth hinging open as his hands dart up to the wound. Blood pulses out from the gash, seeping between his fingers and soaking the collar of his uniform.

Shit.

Shit, shit, SHIT!

I turn on a heel and run from the office, my pulse pounding in my ears. Lieutenant Stewart jerks around as I burst out the door, grabbing for his gun and firing a shot. The bullet ricochets off the side of the garage as I rush past, my eyes trained on the perfectly manicured trees lining the property. I know that beyond them, there’s a small plot of land we exercise the dogs on. There, I'll have cover and can maybe even escape.

I could disappear.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, my arms pumping wildly as I use everything I have to carry me closer to the trees. The air crackles as he fires again, and this time, white-hot pain erupts on my skin. Slicing across my bicep, the bullet pings as it clips my Guardian Cuff. The screen glitches and distorts before going dark. And, for the first time since I was fourteen, The Registry can’t see me.

2

TALON

"You've got twenty minutes until cameras are active again," I say.

Wade looks down at the address scrawled on the torn piece of paper in his hand. "Twenty minutes," he repeats, slipping it into the front of his dingy apron. "Got it. I'll have Sammy get over there and–"

"I don't give a fuck who does it," I grumble in annoyance, fingers drumming on top of the matte black gas tank. "As long as it gets done discreetly and I get paid, we won't have any problems."

"Oh-oh yeah." He chuckles nervously, passing me a wad of cash. "Dad mentioned you're not one for small talk."

By some miracle, I manage to resist the urge to break his fingers as I take the money from him.

I thumb through the bills, making sure all two hundred and seventy-five dollars are there before pocketing it. It isn’t much, but I’ve been outsourcing to the Blackwells for years. It's my responsibility to dispose of the bodies– the one part of the job I can't stand. Torture, mutilate, dismember, peel off their skin like it's a flesh colored glove? That part's easy. The hunt. The kill. That's where I thrive. But scrubbing blood and hauling remains off afterward? Hard fucking pass.

Lucky for me, desperation knows no financial bounds, and animals don't give a shit about what kind of meat gets ground into their kibble. So to help tip the societal scales, I started supplying the Blackwells with locally sourced ingredients.

Reduce, recycle, and reuse– or some shit.

Shifting back onto the seat of my bike, I kick back the stand and twist the key. The Yamaha R1M roars to life with a menacing snarl, my boots scraping against broken asphalt as I roll on the throttle and tear out of the alleyway.

Industrial factories and dilapidated buildings slowly morph into sleek structures and glass towers the deeper I get into Northbrooke. One of the first things The Registry did after taking control was jack up the taxes and rent prices, forcing every non-million-dollar-company to move south. And while it's still technically part of Northbrooke, I've never heard anyone call it anything other than the Fringe.

That's where working class festers– far enough from the skyline for the wealthy to pretend it doesn't exist.

High-rises loom around me as I ease off the gas, leaning into the curve of the exit ramp to leave the parkway and head for the compound. The breeze whips past, the smell of damp earth growing stronger as the city lights fade from sight behind me. My hand moves to rest on my thigh as I draw in a breath. The air has a chill to it, the early signs of Fall creeping in more and more each day. There aren't many who live along this stretch of highway, making it one of my favorites to ride. People ruin everything– just look at society.

I downshift as a windowless structure comes into sight. Home sweet home. Before it was the Mercenary compound, it was supposed to be a cost-effective data center. Then salt from the lake corroded the cooling system, and The Registry decided rebuilding closer to Northbrooke's municipal water supply would be cheaper than admitting someone fucked up.

Nothing says efficiency like a billion-dollar tomb.

Pulling into the parking garage, I throw my bike in neutral and kill the engine, maneuvering the handles as I walk it back into the stall beside my Raptor. Dismounting, my footsteps echo through the underground structure as I re-adjust the straps of my backpack and stride towards the elevator. A swipe of my access card, and the elevator carries me to the main– and only– floor of the compound.

No one forces mercs to live here, but in the twenty-eight years I've been alive, it's the only place that's ever felt like home.

My phone vibrates against my thigh as I pass the corridor leading to meeting rooms and other amenities. Turning down the residential hall, I slide it out of my pocket, finding a text from Wade on the screen.

Wade

No need to come in. Got somebody to cover your shift.

The corner of my mouth tips up in a smirk. Using code– smart. Maybe the kid isn't as incompetent as I thought.

I fire off a thumbs-up emoji before unlocking my apartment door. Another notification comes through before I can even step inside.

Client: The Registry

Request: Asset Recovery– Alive

Completion Payout: $2,000

It’s almost painful how hard I roll my eyes– pass.

Isn’t that why they have Enforcers?

I swipe away the request as I move inside, the quiet stillness greeting me as I shrug off my backpack and turn on the lights. After two weeks of back-to-back assignments, I want nothing more than to be left alone for the next twenty-four hours.

Well, that, and a goddamn drink.

It's not like I can't turn down assignments– that's the glory of being part of the Mercenary Syndicate and not one of The Registry's brainless foot soldiers. Sure, I still take on their jobs, but make no mistake, I'm always the one with the upper hand. When they solicit one of the mercenaries, especially me, it means they're desperate… and desperation is my favorite currency.

I'm the Repo man– a monster for hire. The bastard rich pricks pay to do their dirty work– extort, kill, or reclaim.

Toeing off my boots, I empty my pockets onto the kitchen island and swipe open the music app on my phone. The Bluetooth chimes as it connects to the sound system, and the low, hypnotic beat of Ecdysis by Deftones thrums through the built-in speakers.

I reach a hand behind my head as I move toward the bathroom, fisting the collar of my shirt and tugging it off in one motion. Metal clinks as I undo my belt, shoving my jeans and boxer-briefs down, kicking them aside. Steam fogs over the mirror as I crank the water to its hottest setting, and just as I round the glass shower wall, the music cuts off as another notification pings through the speakers.

I swear to god if that's Wade saying his guys botched it, I'll string him up by his entrails and crack him open like a fucking piñata.

Arthur assured me when he got sick that his son was more than capable of not only running Blackwell Pet Supply, but handling our little deal, too. I don't like many people, but Arthur was one I could stand. His family was one of the last to get pushed out to the Fringe. Those new data centers were using chemical coolants to reduce water consumption and in their rush to build, corners got cut. Toxins seeped into the groundwater, multi-organ failure killing the guy within weeks. So, after bearing the full cost of relocating, the Blackwells had to get creative with their budgets. And that’s where I came in.

My bare feet slap against polished concrete as I charge into the kitchen and swipe up my phone from the black granite island. The screen lights up, and relief flickers through me when I see it isn't Wade, but another push of The Registry’s contract request through Exchange.

There really isn’t any rest for the wicked, is there?

The heavy build-up of some club remix starts to pulse from the speakers as I hit resume and discard my phone on the counter with a thud.

Pathetic.

Striding back towards the bathroom, I finally step under the spray, my shoulders sagging as hot water assaults my tired muscles. With a forearm braced against the cool surface of the tiles, two weeks of sleepless nights spent doing recon, days of being confined to the shadows, and endless hours on my bike swirl the drain. I let my eyes slip shut, water beading off my chin as my head tips forward with a contented sigh.

By the time I’ve finished, the water’s gone cold and my skin’s bright red. Cutting the tap, I pull a towel from the rack and swipe it across my body, tossing it into the hamper before snagging my grey sweats from the hook on the door. The waistband hangs low on my hips as I tug on the soft cotton pants and switch off the lights.

For the most part, all the units in the compound are the same– open concept living room and kitchen with industrial finishes throughout. The bedrooms and bathrooms vary, some mercs still even living here with their families. They think it’s safer that way, but if you ask me, it increases the risk. I prefer to keep my distance from people anyways. Without leverage, there’s only room for physical retaliation. And fortunately for me, I revel in the pain.

In the living room, a bottle of whiskey sits beside the PlayStation controller on the coffee table where I left it. My fingers curl around the neck of the half-empty bottle, flicking off the cap as I sink down into the soft leather of my recliner. Heat blazes a trail down my throat as I bring it to my lips and take a long pull.

Fuck, it feels good to relax.

Shifting forward, I set it down and grab the controller, blue light glowing from the console as it hums to life. The title screen loads as I recline back and open the same campaign I’ve been playing for months. And without anyone to bother me or reasons to leave, I should be able to finish it before my next assignment.

The cinematic back story plays out before dropping me at my save point. I select my weapon and mount my horse, the character cutting across the Wild West to gather supplies for the mission.

All the real-life bullshit ceases to exist as I get sucked into the game's trance. Until another ping cuts through the speakers, that is.

For fucks sake.

With a sigh, I hit pause and rock forward, my controller skittering across the glass table. I pluck up the whiskey and swallow another mouthful as I push to my feet. I knew I should've put it on silent the second I got that confirmation text from Wade. I don’t bother to check who it was from before I start holding down the side button, the phone starting to power off as the notification pops again.

Client: The Registry

Request: Asset Recovery– Alive

Completion Payout: $4,500

I release my hold, and out of sheer curiosity I open the contract. A set of hazel eyes stare back at me from the screen as it loads, 'A311: Level Three Threat' flashing in red beneath her picture. I skim over the asset’s profile, not a single thing clueing me in on how a meek little girl managed to achieve level three status.

Leaning forward, I rest on my forearms and scroll through the report.

Apparently, her guardian defaulted, so yesterday morning The Registry sent a set of enforcers to collect. Standard process, blah, routine procedure, blah. Then somehow, this 5'3" unassuming house pet stabs one in the neck, barely missing the carotid, and takes off running. Instead of giving chase– the logical fucking thing– the other armed idiot fired off two shots, only managing to damage her cuff and knock it offline in the process. They attempted to search, but without her tracker actively updating, they quickly lost her trail. Morons.

I click back to her picture and prop a hand under my chin. There's something in her eyes. At first, I mistook it for resignation, but the longer I study her, the more I think it's defiance.

Interesting...

Most of the assignments I receive involve some affluent prick going through predictable routines. They’ll throw a weak left hook before crumpling to the floor, begging me to stop. Some even offer to pay me, never realizing it’s the same money that put me on their doorstep in the first place. One man’s blood money always bankrolls the next bastard's downfall.

But this one feels different. Exciting, even.

I finish off the rest of the whiskey, glass clinking as I drop the empty bottle into the recycling bin before walking towards my room. My thumb clicks accept, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. It spreads across my face as I start gathering up my gear.

Guess the day off will have to wait.

Time to hunt down some prey.

3

JERSEY

A311

"Shhh, Jersey girl," my father coos, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "It's just a bad dream, you're safe."

Leaning against him, I bury my tear-stained face in his flannel. The gritty, artificial citrus scent of the mechanic's soap he always uses floods my senses and my heart rate starts to slow.

"But it felt so real," I say, my voice thin.

"I'm sure it did," his knuckles brush gently against my cheek. "The cruelest nightmares are those disguised as dreams."

I sniffle, brows furrowing as I glance up at him. "How do I tell the difference, then?"

"Because monsters aren't real," he chuckles, pressing his lips to my forehead. "Now get some sleep, my sweet girl."

"Okay," I whisper, yawning.

Snuggling down beneath the blankets, he tucks the quilt in around me before pushing to his feet.

But as he rises, something changes. His features distort, dark eyes replacing his green ones, his chestnut hair morphing to a peppered grey. A scream rips from my throat as his flesh liquifies, steadily dripping to the floor. My voice fades– no matter how hard I scream, the sound is gone. I try to move, try to run, but I can't.

A gunshot tears through the silence, cracking open Commander Martin's face. He stumbles forward, and I cower beneath his mangled figure as he reaches out. Blood mixes with the melting skin, trickling down onto my forehead.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I swipe at my face, my head whipping back and forth as my eyes blink open. Years of leaks have discolored the plaster surrounding a crack that runs across the ceiling overhead, water beading along it before another drop lands beside me on the mattress in this vacated apartment.

My father was wrong.

Monsters are real, and Northbrooke is crawling with them.

As if on cue, my hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, my fingers instinctively drifting to the scar on my belly. I trace the smooth ridges of healed skin absentmindedly as I stare up at the stained and crumbling ceiling tiles.

It's been a while since I've dreamed about my dad. Every time I do, it's a bittersweet moment stolen from the past that makes me homesick for a place I can never return to. But even with that somber tone when I wake, there's a sense of comfort in seeing him– hearing him– that keeps me pushing through.

My father was strong. He pushed back against The Registry when they started tearing through our neighborhood. It may have gotten him killed in the end, but he didn't go down without a fight, and neither will I.

The metal bed frame creaks beneath me as I shift onto my side, pain instantly shooting through my arm. I wince, rolling onto my back and lifting it. Fresh blood seeps through the makeshift bandage on my bicep. Peeling back the strip of fabric, I freeze when it catches.

Fuck, this is going to hurt like a real bitch...

I draw in a breath and rip it off.

My stomach drops, a muttered curse leaving my lips as rivulets of blood bead to the surface. The gash is a few inches long, the skin around it red and angry. The edges of the wound are raw, caked with dirt and dried blood. I pin my bottom lip between my teeth, debating whether to peel it further. Oh, what the hell. It’ll scar either way, so I let the intrusive thought win and dig my fingernail beneath the edge of a scab, gritting my teeth as it starts to lift. The twinge of pain competes with the feeling of satisfaction as I pull it free.

It doesn't look infected, but I know it still should be cleaned and wrapped with something besides an old dog bandana. I'm just lucky to have found anything to stem the bleeding. It was snagged on a branch– probably by one of Commander Martin's dogs when they were exercising in the field beside the house. It's not like he would've noticed the bandana going missing. I seemed to be the only property he kept track of.

With a sigh, my arm drops onto the mattress. I should keep moving. Getting to the Fringe was as far as I'd planned. And now that I'm here, holed up in this rundown apartment, I realize I have no idea what’s next.

Staying in Northbrooke isn't an option; not with the Registry Enforcers after me. They mentioned appraisal, but… appraised for what? Reassignment? Another Auction? Absolutely the fuck not.

Of course, that was before I stabbed an enforcer in the neck and made a run for it. The other enforcer wasn't exactly trying to avoid hitting me when he was firing, so what'd stop them from shooting me dead in the street now?

I don't know what's worse– being some rich asshole’s plaything or public execution.

"Okay," I breathe, scraping together enough spite to force myself to move. "I'm getting the hell out of this place."

I ignore the throb in my arm as I push upright and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Dirt and grit crunch beneath the soles of my bare feet as I make my way through the apartment.

I know this wasn't our building– at least I don't think it was– but as my gaze sweeps over the layout of the space, a lump forms in my throat.

Surely I'd still recognize my own home… right? I refuse to believe that seven years of ownership can erase the fourteen years of memories that came before them.

"Ew, fuck!" I choke, stumbling back a step as a blur of grey fur scampers across the grungy tiles.

A fucking rat.

My nose wrinkles and I hurry down the hall, reaching for the switch as I turn into the bathroom. It’s a complete gamble if this place has electricity or not, but it’s not like I’ve got much to lose. Surprisingly, after a few metallic clicks, the bulbs above the sink hum to life.

The pipes groan as I twist on the faucet and murky water surges into the basin of the sink, sputtering a few times before running clear. Well, mostly. I lean forward and cup my palm beneath the spray to take a drink, willingly ignoring how much it looks like pee. Bleh. It's like licking a handful of coins. The acrid taste lingers on my tongue, but I'm just thirsty enough to not care.

Three handfuls later, I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and shift to rest my elbow on the counter. Hissing through my teeth, I pluck fuzz and little bits of debris from the wound and start to rinse. Cool water soothes the offended flesh as I rinse and rinse until there's hardly a trace of blood in the water that swirls the drain. I flick my fingers, drops of water scattering as I turn off the tap.

It's not perfect, but it's clean and feels so much better already. Now, something to keep it that way…

Reaching for the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, I flinch back with a squeal, hand slapping against my chest as an old toothbrush falls into the sink. Fuck, I thought it was another rat. I blow out a breath, willing my heart to slow as my eyes scan over the contents. A tube of hemorrhoid cream has oozed out on a roll of antacid tablets on one shelf, and a suspiciously sticky looking bottle of lube sits on another.

Gross.

Nothing even kind of useful right now.

The door clinks shut behind me as I head off to rummage through the kitchen. All I find in the cabinets are a few plates, some takeout menus, and a very expired tub of protein powder. I check the drawers, too, finding most of them empty– but one sticks on something inside as I tug on the handle.

“C’mon, open up,” I coax, wiggling and yanking until a pair of pliers springs free and clatters to the floor. Without them, the drawer glides the rest of the way open with ease.

I shuffle through a few appliance manuals and uncapped pens to find a plastic box beneath that looks promising. But it’s only full of keys– not helpful.

I'm about to give up when I pull out a tangle of cords and uncover a travel first-aid kit. Jackpot.

There's no antibiotic cream, and the alcohol wipes are dried out, but there's gauze. Only half a roll, but hey, I can work with that.

Bumping the drawer shut with a hip, I twist around, looking for a place to wrap my bicep. The arm of a sofa juts out from behind an overturned bookshelf across the room. Sidestepping a broken ceramic pot and the carcass of a house plant, there’s an uncovered spot practically begging me to sit. I sink down on the cushion, tucking a leg beneath me. The suede surface may look worn, but there’s still plenty of padding to mold around me.

God, how is this more comfortable than Commander Martin's overpriced furniture?

Not that I'll ever see any of it again.

My stomach drops at the realization, a strange sense of sadness washing over me. Commander Martin wasn't the nicest, but there are definitely worse men out there.

When I was at the infirmary having my jaw reset, another Asset was brought in. Old bruises littered her arms and neck, a bloody cloth wrapped around her hand. I overheard the nurses talking about her as I was leaving– apparently, she lost a fancy fork down the sink and her guardian made her retrieve it immediately, not even letting her turn the disposal off first.

I wasn’t delusional enough to think living like that was normal, but I hadn’t developed Stockholm Syndrome, either. He bought me, for god’s sake, and he could be cruel. But after losing my dad, Commander Martin was the only constant in my life. There was never going to be peace for me inside those walls, no comfort to cling to, but it was all I had. It was familiar. And sometimes, that’s as easy to latch onto as the feeling of being safe.

Tying off the gauze, the sleeve of my t-shirt falls back into place as I slouch over the arm of the sofa. There’s a pang of sadness in my chest as I take in the room around me. It’s in worse shape than the bedroom was. I wonder if it's from the Enforcers ripping people from their homes or from the raiders that came after. Either way, I blame The Registry.

They taught us to work hard and save our money. “You can have it all,” they said. A nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a yard for your 2.5 children and golden retriever to play in– the American dream. But they didn’t teach us what to do when corporate greed took over and the basic cost of living became a luxury.

When they took over, they promised what they were doing was for the best. This place was going to be great, we’d see. They even started an assistance program. My father and countless others got fucked over by their supposed “economic relief” funds. They hid the asinine interest rates deep in the terms. No one living in the Fringe could fully repay those loans in thirty days– so by design, when you defaulted, that's when they really turned a profit. Repo men were contracted to collect, and people became assets for auction, stripped of their dignity and rights just so someone with too much money could own another person.

Desperate people needing to repay their own loans or just lowlifes looking to make a quick buck came next. Raiders would pick apart homes and have the stuff pawned within hours.

A sick feeling heats my throat. It doesn't matter if this was my building or not, it's all the same story. Another grotesque display of the moment someone's life was destroyed by The Registry's overpowered hands.

My jaw tightens as hot tears prick behind my eyes.

It's not fucking fair.

I have nothing, no one, no…

I shudder a breath, shaking my head. I've already mourned the life they stole from me. I even came to terms with the life I was sentenced to. That's all they’re getting from me, because I'm getting the hell out of Northbrooke.

Pushing to my feet, I snatch up a flowered duffle bag from beside the door and stalk down the hall. The dresser is mostly empty, but there's still containers in the bedroom closet. I pull off a lid and timidly sort through a pile, pinching and tossing each piece of clothing on the off chance the rat had friends. I manage to find the basics– a pair of too-long jeans, an oversized hoodie, socks, and a pair of beat-up hiking boots that are only a half size too big.

I grab the letter opener from the nightstand, my thumb tracing over the ornate pattern as I turn it over in my hand. The dried blood on the blade proves it's as good a weapon as any. I slide it into my hoodie pocket and unzip the bag. Shoving my clothes in first, I start scouring the apartment for anything left I can pawn. Whatever appears to have value goes into the duffle– and while it isn’t much, at least it’s a start.

Get some money, get out of Northbrooke.

Let’s just hope I don’t die trying.

4

TALON

"Heading back out?" Slade asks, adjusting the strap of his rucksack on his shoulder as I walk past him into the parking garage.

I shrug. "When you're actually good at your job, you get contract bids," I say, my metallic grey Raptor glowing to life when I hit the unlock button on the key fob. "Not just the pity ones Chief Pierce assigns you."

"Fuck off," he chuckles, slamming the tailgate of his Jeep Wrangler shut and striding closer. "Some of us just have a more specialized offering."

"I wouldn't classify being able to fist a bitch with one hand while decrypting a mobster's phone with the other as much of a specialty." I yank open the driver door, tossing my duffle onto the passenger seat and turning to face him.

"I wasn't just decrypting it," he scoffs. "I was bypassing military-grade encryption at gunpoint, asshole. And it still takes more skill than blowing out an eyeball from eight hundred meters away."

"Nine hundred," I correct, climbing into the cab and switching on the ignition. "And that's all I need for these pricks to keep bankrolling my cabin project."

"The same cabin you never have time for because you're a workaholic?" Slade snorts, pulling his phone from his pocket and studying the screen. "Looks like Sergei needs my basic-ass skills," he mutters, typing out a reply.

He glances up, a rogue smile spreading across his face as he tips his chin, "Want to make it interesting?"

I raise a brow. “What you got in mind?”

"Last one done with their assignment buys the drinks at Eleventh House?" he suggests.

"You're on." I throw it in drive, tires squealing against the pavement as I stomp on the gas.

He flips me off as I tear past him and peel out of the garage.

Slade isn’t my only friend, but the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. Hell, I’d claim him and his dad, Chief Pierce, as blood over the narcissist who brought me into the world.

I was never one of her priorities. Wasn’t even an afterthought. I was an inconvenience that she kept shoving behind locked doors.

Chief Pierce didn’t ask what I could do for him. Didn’t question whether I was worth saving. He just threw me in his truck, took me back to the compound, and gave me a life.

Turning towards the city, the highway disappears into the night as my headlights cut through the darkness. My phone connects to the truck, sending a heavy bass beat pulsing steadily through the speakers. The rhythm builds, distorted vocals layering in, and my focus sharpens into something primal.

I switch over to the GPS, a light blue circle encompassing a shitty neighborhood in the Fringe that I tracked A311 to earlier. My tech abilities may not encompass attracting infamous Russian crime families like Slade's, but I can hack and code better than most.

Better than anyone at The Registry.

When that Lieutenant shot at A311, he hit the primary transponder in her cuff, killing its direct feed to The Registry. Those lazy idiots never even bothered to check if the GPS receiver was still functional, but I did. It's been pulling satellite coordinates and using the nearest cell towers to relay her position, mapping out the little stray's trail across Northbrooke. It won't report an exact location anymore, but all the towers downtown made it goddamn child's play to hone in on a quarter-mile radius.

The tracker has been pinging from the same area for the last six hours. A little house pet like her isn't used to covering twelve miles on foot through the slums and overgrown lots, so she's likely exhausted, if not injured. Probably both. So unless my coordinates are wrong– which they fucking aren't– she's stopped moving.

Splitting off from the highway, I follow along a stretch of cracked blacktop into the outskirts of the Fringe. East of here, where I was with Wade, that's the closest you'll get to a suburb; blue-collar workers and struggling businesses going on about their days to the best of their ability. The West side though, it’s seedy as fuck. The Registry's Enforcers even steer clear of this place.

Once upon a time, they'd planned to build another data center out here. Came through, bought up property, forced people from their homes, and got as far as starting demolition. When they realized the infrastructure was not only old, but couldn't support the demands of the center, they did what they do best– fuck it all up. Instead of upgrading the systems, they just increased the outputs to force it all through the existing systems and– fucking shocker– it failed. They backed out, relocated, and started over again, leaving this place a shell of what it once was.

Squatters moved in, gangs made it their headquarters, and the few average folks that were left learned to survive amongst the riffraff. After a few Enforcers came back with missing limbs, The Registry stopped patrolling altogether. Over the years, more people that were hard up migrated here too, claiming what they could and trying to start over. Technically, The Registry still owns most of the properties, but once they realized that leaving the lights on was keeping the low lives out of the city, it became a tax write-off.

The coordinates take me to an ominous-looking area with just a few working streetlights, the boarded-up houses and buildings left to rot in the shadows. Deciding it'll be easier to hunt her on foot, I ease off to the side of the road and kill the engine. Reaching for my duffle, I drag open the zipper and pull out my handgun. The familiar weight of the Glock settles into my palm as I rack the slide and holster it at my hip. The contract said to bring her in alive, but it didn't say I couldn't subdue her with a little bit of lead.

Giving the GPS a refresh, I slide out of my truck and pocket the keys. Lucky for me, the signal still shows her in the same area, so she must be holing up here– unless she's already fucking dead.

That’d ruin all my fun.

Broken glass crunches beneath my boots as I continue down the street with my head on a constant swivel. Raiders and strung-out douchebags don't scare me, but I'm not in the mood to waste time with their bullshit, especially now that Slade upped the ante.

In my peripheral, light leaks from between a row of boards haphazardly covering a broken window. I pause, watching as a few young guys linger near the entrance of a rundown structure, the cherry of a cigarette glowing brightly as they lean back against the bricks. At the same time, a middle-aged man holds open the door for a couple of kids. Evidently, that shithole is one of the livable apartment buildings.

The perfect spot for a stray Asset.

I can't decide if she's smart for running to the west side or just goddamn dumb. No one out here has the means to help her. And even if they did, they wouldn’t. Everyone is here for their own self-preservation. But if she knew that, and just slipped in and kept to herself, they'd disregard her completely.

"Who are you?" one of the guys scoffs, flicking his cigarette at me as he pushes off the wall. In a pathetic attempt at intimidation, he saunters forward and steps in front of me. “I said–” he stops, eyes widening as he catches sight of the syndicate patch on my tactical vest.

That's what I thought, dipshit.

He doesn’t try to finish his sentence. Doesn’t even make a sound when I shoulder-check him, knocking him off balance as I pass.

One look at the insignia on my chest was all it took for the wannabe tough guy to back down like a little bitch. The mercs skull and dagger emblem warns most to keep their distance– pretty sure the only one who'd get a colder shoulder is the grim reaper himself.

A single fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead as I enter the building, damn near tripping over a scruffy-looking man passed out on the ground with a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. The low murmur of voices drifts down from the second floor as I move towards the stairs, reaching for the banister. The sight of a bloody handprint smeared on the dingy white rail gives me pause. There’s no telling where it came from, but my gut tells me I’m on the right path. And my instincts have never failed me before.

Each step lands with a dull thud against the concrete stairs as I take them two at a time, following the sporadic trail of blood drops. The pungent stench of stale cigars and cheap weed hits me as I round a corner at the end of the hall, tendrils of smoke curling around me as I come to a stop in front of two men on a tattered sofa sharing a blunt.

An entire minute passes before they even register my presence.

"Whoa bro," one startles, choking on his inhale as he holds the blunt out to his buddy. "Where'd you come from?"

"Oh, shit," the other says, barking a laugh. "How's a guy your size move so quietly?"

"Dude, did my ears stop working?" the first asks, slapping the back of his hand against the other's chest.

"MICAH!" his friend twists his head and yells.

"Why’ya yelling?" he responds, and they both start laughing.

Good fucking god.

Slipping my phone from my pocket, I open A311's profile and click on the picture. Her impassive stare fills my screen, dark brown hair framing her face in waves.

"Seen her?" I ask, annoyance tightening my jaw as I hold my phone out towards the dynamic dipshits.

Micah squints at the screen as he leans forward. "She's hot," he drawls, bloodshot eyes lazily flitting up to mine. "What's it worth to you?"

In one smooth motion, I draw the Glock from my hip and press the barrel firmly between his brows. "Less than the lead I'm about to bury in your fucking skull."

Whether he’s faded to oblivion or just plain stupid, the guy barely even reacts to the threat, a smug grin curving his lips as he glances up at me. "C'mon man. Help me, help you," he says with a laugh. "That tight little body looked yummy, I'd gladly pay five–"

I don't have time for this.

A twitch of my trigger finger, and brain matter splatters against the wall behind him, the gunshot echoing off the concrete as his corpse slouches to the side.

"OH FUCK MAN!" the other guy shouts, clutching a hand to his chest.

"Your turn," I deadpan, swinging the blood-splattered Glock in his direction.

The unmistakable smell of piss floods my nostrils. I glance down, rolling my eyes as a dark spot spreads across the front of his jeans. "Th-there," he stammers, pointing down the hall. "Tw-ent-ty s-sev-ven, I th-think." His mouth hinges open and shut with every word like a broken puppet, eyes wide with terror.

I drink in his fear like oxygen, a smile coming to my lips as I holster my gun and pivot on a heel.

My pulse kicks up, the thrill of violence mingling with adrenaline as a twisted smirk spreads across my face. As much as I like the hunt, the struggle is the real moment of pure fucking bliss– when they realize they're caught and give everything they have at a last chance. I bask in the thrill of it, soak up that terror until they wear themselves out.

Then I go in for the kill.

Something dark and primal unfurls beneath my ribs as anticipation spikes. I hope A311 puts up a fight.

"Knock, knock," I drawl, twisting open the door for apartment 27 and kicking a busted lamp out of the way as I step inside. "Repo Man."

My eyes sweep over the place in a quick assessment. There’s light spilling from a room to my right, so I stalk down the hall, half expecting to find her cowering in a corner when I turn into the bedroom.

She’s not.

It’s fucking empty.

Well… almost.

A torn piece of bandana lies discarded on the mattress. My eyes narrow as I pick it up and roll it between my fingers, crimson staining my skin in the process. It's still fresh, so she can't be far.

I turn to leave, barely making it two steps before a loud clatter echoes behind me. I whip around, crossing the room in three strides and ripping back the curtains.

A rusted metal ladder sways beneath the open window, a set of hazel eyes peering back at me from the bottom rung.

Found you, little stray.

5

JERSEY

A311

The crack of a gunshot echoes from the hall, my spine going rigid at the sound, one hand hovering above the doorknob. Pressing my eye to the peephole, my heart seizes in my chest at the sight of the guy who’d hit on me earlier slumped over. My gaze snaps from his lifeless body to the hulking figure with a predatory grin carved into his face. Dressed in all black, he stalks toward the door, a tattooed hand reaching up to adjust his vest.

Not just any vest, one with a skull and dagger emblem stitched on it.

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

My pulse kicks into overdrive as I whip around and sprint for the bedroom. Tearing back the curtains, my fingers fumble with the stupid window latch as I pry it open, every nerve ending in my body screaming at the sickening familiarity of my motions.

With practiced precision, I swing a leg through my bedroom window, the worn sole of my favorite Vans finding the top rung of the fire escape with ease. My other leg follows, and as quietly as possible, I descend to the dimly lit alley below.

There's no way I'm missing the Retrograde concert. Especially since Cody and Zeke are going to be there.

"Hurry up!" Hannah whisper-shouts. "We'll miss the subway!"

"No," I say, jumping down. "We won't."

Linking arms, we start running towards the subway station.

"Wait!" I shout as I throw my arm between the closing doors of a train car.

They slide back open, and we push inside, collapsing against the bench as we try to catch our breath. We get a few side-eyed glances from people as we jerk forward and surge towards downtown Northbrooke.

"How do I look?" I ask, running a hand through the 'effortless' waves I spent an hour perfecting.

"So hot," Hannah smirks. "If Zeke doesn't ask you out, I will."

"Stop," I roll my eyes and give her a playful shove. "I'm so freaking excited for tonight."

"Same. I'm so glad you decided to sneak out."

"Hush!"

"Oh, like anyone here cares!"

"You're right," I sigh. "I just don't want my dad finding out."

"He won't," Hannah reassures. Unscrewing a tube of lipgloss, she swipes it across her lips before holding it out towards me as she asks, "What was his deal, anyways?"

I pluck it from her fingers, doing the same. The sugary sweet smell of cherries floods my senses and I have to resist the urge to lick it off as I hand it back.

"I guess there was an incident in the city earlier. Enforcers got into it with some people who were protesting or something."

"What's that have to do with the concert?"

"Dunno." I cross one metallic clad leg over the other and lean back. "He just said it wasn't safe."

"Laaaame," she sighs, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Right?" I scoff. "I spent months sorting through junked parts at his garage to collect enough scrap metal and copper wire to buy this ticket. I'm not missing it."

I pull out my phone, and she leans her head on my shoulder as we scroll through social media, trading gossip the rest of the ride.

The concert is absolutely amazing. Retrograde plays every one of my favorites, and at the end, they play a song that hasn’t even been released yet.

"Jersey, wait up," Zeke says, jogging up beside me afterwards.

Hannah and I share a look as she slows, falling into stride with Cody behind us.

Butterflies swarm in my stomach and I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot as Zeke slings an arm around my shoulders.

"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you tonight," he says with a smile.

"Me too," I laugh nervously.

"There was this one thing you did though, that made me sad."

My feet grind to a stop as I stare up at him, dumbfounded.

He dips his head down and whispers, "You didn't take a single picture with me."

A blush heats my cheeks. "Oh."

"It's not too late," he muses.

"Oh, ha." I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, sliding my phone from my back pocket and waving it between us. "Wanna take a picture?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he winks.

Holding the phone up, I smile as the camera focuses. Right as I snap the picture, Zeke presses a kiss to my temple and I swear to god I forget how to breathe.

"I hope that was okay," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd wanted to do that all night."

"Really?"

"Well, actually, I really wanted to do this…" He tips my chin up and crushes his lips against mine.

Air whooshes from my lungs and a flurry of chills races up my spine as I lean into the kiss. I'm so lost in the moment that I hardly even notice when Hannah and Cody start whooping behind us.

Zeke pulls back, shaking his head as he glares at Cody.

"We gotta go, dude," Cody says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "My brother's waiting."

"Alright," Zeke replies begrudgingly. With a grin, his attention shifts back to me, "Would you maybe wanna do something next week–"

"Yes," I rush out before he's even finished the sentence, mentally scolding myself for sounding so eager.

"Cool." He nods, the faintest bit of pink creeping over his cheeks. "I'll text you."

We say our goodbyes, Hannah and I rushing down to the subway platform as the boys dart across the street.

"Oh my god!" Hannah squeals as we plop down into two open seats. "To think, you almost didn't come!"

"I know, I know!"

Cody apparently asked Hannah out too, so we spend the entire ride home planning all the double dates we’re gonna go on.

I'm still reeling as I crawl back into my room and ease the window shut. This night was everything. I still can't believe he asked me out and kissed me. Gah, how am I going to sleep?

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I toe off my shoes. I pull it out, the screen lit up with a text from Zeke.

Zeke

Send me our pic ;)

With a smile, I stare down at the message, reading it over and over.

Nope, I'm definitely not going to sleep tonight.

“Don't forget to lock the latch,” my dad says, flipping on the light.

My head snaps up, eyes wide. I expect to see a look of disappointment on his face, but instead, he just looks sad. He takes a step closer, and I mentally prepare myself for the lecture, ready to apologize and offer to work at the shop– for free– for the next month as a punishment.

Without a word, he closes the distance between us, wrapping his arms tightly around me.

"Dad?" I murmur, face smooshed against his chest. "You're scaring me."

"I'm sorry, Jersey," he says, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

He sucks in a breath, releasing his hold as he leads me over to sit on my bed. I can think of exactly two times I've seen my dad cry. One, when Nana died. Two, when I fell off the car lift and broke my arm when I was five. And now tonight, makes three.

"I had to take out an assistance loan," he starts, a tear cutting a path down his cheek. "I was going to lose the shop, the apartment, too."

I sit there, listening, my heart sinking further and further as he goes on. Telling me about the protest downtown being about the terms of these loans. How The Registry had hid them, causing so many people to fall victim, including himself, and it was only a matter of time before they came after him.

"What do we do?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"I don't know, Jersey girl," he sighs. "We could head up to the mountains. Find someplace to camp for a few days while I try to figure it out."

"Camping sounds really good, Dad."

"Camping it is, then." The muscle in his jaw feathers as he forces a smile. "Pack up a few things and we'll take off bright and early."

Pushing to stand, he pulls me into another hug, "I love you, Jersey girl."

"I love you too, Dad."

He leaves, and I can still hear him sniffling as he heads down the hall to his room.

I don't fully understand what's happening, but I start to shove some clothes into a backpack anyways. Mentally, I start a list of questions to ask in the morning and selfishly hope we’re back by the weekend for my date with Zeke.

Oh my god Zeke!

I forgot to text him back. Ugh, if he thinks I've left him on read, it won't matter if I'm back this weekend.

I grab my phone from the charger, staring at our picture as I add it to a message and hit send.

Jersey

How cute are we?

All of the sudden, the front door rattles, someone banging on it harder than necessary. My dad charges out from his room, hunting rifle in hand as he looks out the peephole.

"Registry Enforcement."

Sheer panic is etched in his features as my dad turns to face me. "Run, Jersey. You run and don't you dare look back."

"What?" I worry my bottom lip. "Where?"

"Just run, okay? I need you to run. Can you do that for me?"

The pounding on the door continues, harder this time. "Jeremiah Ellis, by order of The Registry, open the door."

A sick feeling heats my throat, and I can't talk, I can't move. I just stare at my dad, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Jersey!"

Wood splinters as they start to force open the door. My dad cocks his gun, leaning his weight against it in a feeble attempt to buy just a few more seconds.

"Run. Just run!"

Metal groans, pulling me from my thoughts as a rusted bolt at the top of the ladder suddenly snaps. I yelp as it pitches to the side, slamming against the building.

I curse under my breath.

I wonder if he heard that?

Who am I kidding? Of course he did, the whole West side heard it.

I grit my teeth, slowly tilting my head up towards the window.

Please don’t be there, please don’t be there…

A set of icy blue eyes lock onto mine as the Repo Man’s lips curl into a devious grin that sends a ripple of terror through me.

Shit.

My knuckles whiten, grip tightening as the fire escape sways, the behemoth of a man clearing the window in seconds. My boot slips past the bottom rung, palms skidding across the pavement as I catch myself. Scrambling to my feet, I reach for the strap of the duffle bag and loop it over my neck as the ladder creaks.

Fuck, is he part cat?

He jumps down, rocks and glass grinding beneath his boots as he lands with unsettling ease behind me. I take off running, barely making it two steps before heat prickles across my scalp. His fist tangles in my hair, wrenching me backward.

"Not so fast," he growls, whirling me around. Tightening his grip, he jerks my head back, ragged breaths sawing from my lungs as he forces me to look up at him. His eyes are impossibly blue, a jagged scar cutting over the left one. "And where do you think you're going, little stray?"

"None of your business," I snap, twisting in his grip.

He arches a blond brow, watching with twisted fascination as I thrash and shove against him.

"Let go, Sasquatch," I spit, clawing at the hand buried in my hair.

"Keep it up," he taunts, lips quirking with amusement. "I've got all day."

Muttering a string of curses, I drive the toe of my boot into his shin over and over, throwing all my weight into every kick. The fucker doesn't so much as flinch. My motions slow, chest heaving as a frustrated snarl rips from my throat.

"That all you got? The struggle’s my favorite part." He smirks, head dipping down. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he adds, "And my dick was just starting to get hard."

An unwelcome flush heats my cheeks, and he chuckles in response, the sound low and thick with dark satisfaction. This asshole thinks he’s won, but I’m not done yet.

My fingers close around the handle of the letter opener and I pull it from my hoodie pocket, plunging it into his thigh. It makes a slick, wet sound as I yank it free, blood dripping from the blade.

"Fuck," he grunts.

Using the split-second distraction, I jerk myself free from his grip. A fresh rush of adrenaline floods my system as I take off running, weaving through the back streets, the duffle bag slamming against my hip with every hard slap of my boots. My muscles start to burn as I careen around a building, skidding to a stop in front of a chain link fence.

With my hands braced against my knees, I fold forward, fighting to catch my breath. I sweep my gaze over the alley, spotting a gate next to the building. Moving closer, I see a chain and padlock, but there’s just enough slack for me to squeeze through.

Thank god, because I’m not in the mood to climb anything. And unlike that overly coordinated freak, I won’t land gracefully if I fall.

A lamppost flickers at the edge of the lot, casting a hazy yellow glow onto a small utility shed. I move closer, using it for support as my body sags. After a beat, my pulse begins to slow and I let out a groan as I slide to the ground. Sweat and dirt smear across my skin as I drag a hand down my face, but I'm too exhausted to care. Letting my eyes slip shut, I bang my head against the metal exterior.

How the hell does this keep happening to me?

A gnawing ache flares from my stomach. I dig the heel of my hand into the scar, waiting for the phantom feeling of the mercenary's bullet ripping through my skin to pass.

He wasn't supposed to shoot me that night. They were just supposed to collect me. I'd heard the two of them arguing about it right before searing pain erupted from my gut. The other one– the one who didn’t try to kill me– came to check on me. "Insubordinate fucking nepo baby," he'd murmured, applying pressure to the wound as I passed out on the cement.

Tonight’s Repo Man didn't even pull his gun.

Well, not on me, at least.

Insects hum, tree branches creaking as a gentle breeze filters through the property's neglected landscaping. And for a brief fragment of time, my mind stills, an arbitrary sense of comfort settling my nerves.

I'm not lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of Commander Martin's footfalls on the stairs. There's no lingering dread about what mood he’s in. There's no more expectations... and I don't know if that excites me, or terrifies me.

Because the universe is clearly offended by my moment of peace, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance cuts through my thoughts. I try to figure out where they're coming from, but the sound weaves through the maze of buildings, throwing me off.

There's a flicker of relief as I remember The Registry's already outsourced my collection to the Mercenary Syndicate, so those Enforcers aren't coming for me. And a Repo Man wouldn't give warning to his approach. He'd watch in silence, stalking me like an apex predator until I let my guard down. Then he’d go in for the kill, and right now, I'm the perfect prey.

I need to unload this shit at a pawn shop and get a hell of a lot further away. Somewhere he can't find me.

Except...

Unease begins to prickle beneath my skin as I push to stand, the duffle bag slipping from my shoulder.

How did he find me?

I bend at the waist, reaching for the strap when a faint light pulses in my peripheral. My brows furrow, gaze snapping to my wrist and bile rising in my throat as the cracked screen of my Guardian cuff glitches.

Fuck.

My fingers scrabble at the composite casing, desperately trying to remove the godforsaken thing.

How is it even still working?

Not that it matters because it's already fucking tattled on me.

Is that why he didn't chase me harder? Why he didn't shoot?

A flush creeps across my skin. I'm such an idiot. I thought I one-upped him, thought I got away. But no, he knew I could run until my lungs collapsed and he'd still be able to find me.

Huffing in frustration, I slam my wrist against the shed over and over. The thin metal rattles violently with every blow but the cuff still refuses to break.

Goddamn it.

Unshed tears burn my eyes as I desperately clutch the letter opener and start stabbing at the matte black band. My hand trembles as I keep digging, blade slipping and piercing my skin more than once. I swipe the opener across the crest of my thigh, smearing mine and the Repo Man’s blood across the denim. Jamming the tip into a split along the edge, I twist and pry until the shell finally cracks apart.

Pieces of the casing fall to the ground, exposing wires and microchips– the lifeline of their toxic control. And to think there was a time when being told I couldn't go to a concert felt unfair. Turns out, being stripped of your agency and sold makes the latter feel downright laughable.

But I'm not laughing.

Wires bite into my skin as my fingers wrap around them and rip them off. I shudder a breath as I throw them to the ground, stomping the heel of my boot onto the screen until it's beyond repair. The tightness in my throat slowly ebbs the longer I stare at the remnants.

My jaw flexes as I spit on the pieces. Track that, Sasquatch.

Having wasted more than enough energy on the tracker, I start across the lot, blood already crusting over the handful of jab marks on my wrist. It's ironic that my now naked arm offers me concealment. There's a sentiment of victory in that thought, but also a taunt of embarrassment.

Why didn't it occur to me to remove it sooner?

Even if I thought it wasn't tracing me, it was still a shackle. Broadcasting my status as property– as A311 and not a person. Not as Jersey.

The thought gives me pause. Maybe that's why the destination doesn't matter as much as creating distance; a separation from the world designed solely for people like me to fight to survive in, never to thrive.

At the edge of the property, a corner of rusted chain link fence curls away from a post in its own act of defiance. Shoving the duffle through first, I crawl through the opening on my hands and knees, dusting off my jeans as I straighten on the other side and stand. The dirt brushes away with ease, but the streak of deep crimson from the letter opener is encrusted on my thigh. So much for clean clothes.

My teeth sink repeatedly into a raw spot on the inside of my cheek as I take in my surroundings. To my left, I spot a cluster of lights and buildings, and I'm betting it's one of the business hubs in the Fringe. Well, I'm hoping it is, anyway.

Call it luck or cosmic pity, but as boarded up buildings give way to storefronts, a neon pawn shop sign is the first thing I see.

An electronic chirp announces my entrance as I step inside, the steel-barred door clanging shut behind me. Old tablets and used air fryers line one wall, mismatched furniture crowding the other. Glass display cases filled with trinkets and comics flank my sides as I move towards the register.

"What can I do for you, doll?" a middle-aged man asks as he emerges from the back office. His thinning hair is slicked back with enough grease to rival the stains blotching his dingy undershirt, but who am I to judge? I'm a fugitive slinging looted goods.

"I, uh, just need some money," I say, hoisting the flowered duffle bag up onto the counter.

He rolls a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, his gaze drifting from the bag to me before he gives a curt nod. "Let ole' Sal here see what you got."

Dragging back the zipper, I pull each item out, covering the surface in a haphazard pile of everyday crap. "What can I get for all this?"

"I'll run the numbers," Sal says with a dry laugh. "Wait here."

With a tight-lipped smile, I tip my chin in acknowledgment as he moves to his computer, shaking his head as he starts typing.

Shifting my weight, I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and amble past shelves lined with the discarded pieces of other people's lives. Funny how this world has reduced the value of life to secondhand inventory. You either sell what you have to survive another day, or you get sold instead. Sometimes you can sell everything you’ve got– even your soul– and still come up short.

Absentmindedly, my hand drifts to my collar, fingers toying with the heart-shaped locket around my neck. It’s the only possession I have to my name, and it's not even mine, it was hers.

Commander Martin gave it to me the first time he took me. The first night he brought me home, he was kind. We had a nice dinner. Cornish hens, roasted carrots, and wine– so much wine. I even had a glass while I sat in a giant soaker tub with lavender scented bubbles up to my chin. I could barely stand when it came time to get out, but he was there to help me, slowly caressing my body with a fluffy towel as I giggled nonstop. After, he led me to the bedroom, setting me on the bed as he pulled out a small velvet box.

He told me how he gave it to Grace on their first anniversary. How she wore it almost everyday. But as she got sicker, she stopped wearing it. Too many procedures, too many days in and out of hospitals… it was just easier for her to leave it off. When she passed, it was one of the last tangible pieces of her– and now he was giving it to me, to make this night special. Like somehow regifted jewelry would atone for what he was about to do to me. In my drunken stupor, it seemed sweet. Hell, I remember even feeling bad for him as his eyes glassed over while he secured the clasp and the cold metal fell between my breasts.

But it was never for me; never to make me feel special. Everything about that night was for him. The wine to dull my senses, the bath to relax my body, and a sentimental gift to make a naive girl feel beholden to a man she hardly knew. A man who, after all the build up, still tore into me with no regard for anyone but himself. No matter how hard I cried and pleaded for him to stop, he didn’t. After he finished, he tucked himself away and told me to wear the locket at all times. He didn't even look at me as he left me there bleeding on the bed.

I was a walking shrine to the love of his life, but there was never any love for mine.

"How's $75?" Sal asks, his voice coaxing my fingers away from the locket.

"What?" I question, voice cracking in the slightest as I swallow thickly and return to the counter.

"I'll give ya $75 for everything," he says.

"No, I understand that." I roll my eyes. "But we both know that's a lowball offer."

"Do you know how long I have to carry stock?" he replies. "These items will sit around for weeks before they sell. And I'll probably end up knockin' off a few bucks at the time of sale."

"But you said it yourself," I fire back, arms folding across my chest as I raise a brow. "You will sell them."

Sal's palms splay across the counter as he leans forward with a sigh. "How much ya need, sweetheart?"

"Enough to get away," I murmur without thinking.

He doesn't respond at first, eyes roaming over me before he points to my chest and asks, "that real gold?"

"Huh?" My nose scrunches as I look down. "This?" I ask, touching the locket. "Yeah, it's real."

"Listen, doll, I'll do a buck twenty five," he drawls, swiping a hand over his chin. "And I know a guy who'll give ya a heck of a deal for the necklace. He, uh, might even be the kinda guy that could help with what ya really need."

My eyes narrow. "What's the catch?"

Lifting his hands in mock surrender, he lets out a laugh. "No catch, you just happened to catch ole Sal here in a generous mood."

Before I can overthink it, I shove aside my cynicism and stick out my hand. "Deal."

6

TALON

Irefresh the GPS, the coordinates still showing A311 near the old distribution center that sits between the East and West sides of the Fringe. When I accepted this job, I figured it'd be eventful. What I didn't expect was for her to be a little feral.

The corner of my mouth twitches with amusement. This little stray doesn't just bark, she bites.

I'm not threatened by resistance or that she ran. Hell, I respect it. Too many people think success or failure is born from a single moment. Sometimes it is, but more often than not, it's the sum of many. Every step the prey takes, every choice the hunter makes. People remember the kill, but forget everything that made it inevitable.

Kicking a chunk of splintered wood out of my way, I cut through another alley to find a chain link fence, a sign mounted across it warning that the building is condemned.

The dumpster lid bows beneath my weight as I plant my hands and haul myself onto it. I catch the galvanized top rail, swing over the fence, and drop down. The scorched skin along my thigh pulls tight as I straighten to stand. Bitch must've nicked an artery for the way it leaked like a goddamn sieve. It took two seconds to sear the nerve endings and stop the bleed– quicker than taking the time to stitch that shit up. I actually like the pain. The way it builds, the way it shifts from uncomfortable to unbearable. Then it’s numb, the only reminder it even exists when the skin around it stretches. The smell is another story. Burning flesh has no business smelling like rancid pork fajitas.

I stride towards the back entrance, steel rattling as I try the handle. Locked. My eyes sweep over the building as I step back, looking for any other access points. Most of the windows are boarded up. There are a few busted ones on the second floor, but there’s no fire escapes or footholds to climb. The roll-up doors on the docks are padlocked, but I still yank on the handles. There's a little give, but only about an inch before the chain goes taut. Unless she can fucking teleport, she's not inside.

The location from the transmitter isn’t exact, I know that. But it still irks me that she's not here. Pulling my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, I stalk the perimeter for my prey. Half the block is already demolished– businesses forced to sell for next to nothing and then run into the ground. Just more casualties of The Registry.

That's what really pisses me off about these totalitarian fucks. All the posturing, the bullshit morals they pretend to have but are easily bought. If you’re going to gut someone open, at least have the balls to look them in the eyes while you do it. Fucking cowards.

With a flick of my wrist, a flame rises from the Zippo, lighting the cigarette hanging from between my lips. I take a drag, the bittersweet burn of nicotine filling my lungs as the cherry glows brightly.

Smoke lingers beside me as I exhale, my eyes landing on a small maintenance shed across the lot. Looks like an easy place to hide. I stab the cigarette out on my vest, the soles of my boots grinding against the cracked pavement as I move closer. I’m practically salivating to see the fear erupt in her eyes as I ease the handle down and drive my shoulder into the door. The wooden frame splinters, hinges groaning as it flies inward.

Empty. Goddamnit.

My jaw tightens as I pull out my phone to reset the satellite connection, because it’s not my fucking coordinates that aren’t right. Something crunches under my foot as I pivot around. Curiosity mingles with annoyance, creeping up my spine when I see the pieces of her Guardian Cuff in the dirt.

I stoop down, inspecting the bits of wire and cracked shell. There's blood smears on some of the pieces, more drops darkening the ground around them. These cuffs are reinforced. Designed to withstand impact, water, heat– anything an Asset might use to remove one. Heat settles low in my stomach at the realization of how resourceful the little stray is with a knife.

This hunt just got even more interesting.

Worn vinyl squeaks beneath my weight as I sink into a booth at some seedy bar in the heart of the Fringe. Without the cuff, my target’s completely offline, not leaving a goddamn clue as to where she went. And if I have to do recon, I’m gonna do it with a fucking drink in hand.

Swiping open the Exchange app, I click into her profile and scan over what they have– height, age, build, eye color. But it’s not enough. I need to understand her motivations to predict her movements.

I feed her profile into HAKR and let it run.

Slade and I built HAKR a few years back. Letting us crack credentials, find hidden files and bypass basic encryption– all from our phones. The more complex stuff still requires our computers, but it’ll work for this.

A middle-aged waitress moves from one table to the next, checking on others before stopping beside me. "Something to drink, hun?"

"Whiskey, neat."

She nods, scribbling onto her notepad. "Anything else?" she asks. Her smile falters as she glances up, spotting the patch on my vest.

Her imagination is already doing all the work as I meet her gaze.

"Actually," I start, watching the way she sucks in a sharp breath as I shift forward and rest my forearms against the laminate tabletop, "Make it a double.”

"O-okay." She exhales shakily, turning on her heel and heading straight for the bar.

Too easy.

The Mercenary Syndicate has a reputation, and I enjoy exploiting the fear that comes with it. Recognition breeds panic. And no matter how hard they try not to stare, they do. Wondering whether they're the reason I’m here.

"Here you go," the waitress says as she sets down the glass and rushes off to another table.

I swirl the amber liquid around before taking a drink. The familiar burn settles low in my chest as my phone lights up with a completion notification from HAKR. Perfect timing. With a tap, my target’s profile reloads, a new folder on the screen.

Jersey Ellis, Asset 311.

Jersey.

Somehow, I hadn’t expected a name.

Seized by The Registry at fourteen, she spent a year and a half at a state-funded boarding school before being marked for Appraisal and sold at auction when she was sixteen to Commander Isaiah Martin.

The Registry's own Treasurer defaulted?

With a quick swipe of my thumb, I open a text and fire off a message to Slade.

Me

Can you tap into the Enforcement Directives?

Slade

I'm offended you even asked.

Smartass.

It’s not that they're hard to access, they’re just classified. And outside of HAKR's parameters.

Me

In?

Slade

Almost. Was finishing off my assignment for Sergei.

And if I'm doing this, it means you're still out. I win.

Me

Asset Defaults for the last 48. Isaiah Martin.

Slade

You could start with, 'Congrats Slade, I shouldn't have doubted your brilliant skills.'

Me

Feel better?

Slade

A little.

Looks like it came down at 2:47 this morning. Charged with two counts of sedition, two counts embezzlement, and one count treason. Resisted forfeiture. Executed by Stewart and Dillons at 6:16 a.m.

Me

Send me a copy?

Slade

Already done.

Reaching for my glass, I take a long pull of whiskey and swap back to her profile.

She grew up in the Fringe. Both parents are out of the picture. Father's deceased– killed by an Enforcer after not paying back a relief loan. Mother– status unknown, rights terminated at birth.

I wonder if that makes it easier. Just never knowing them, not being able to feel the resentment. See the way it grows stronger with every bump of Coke…

I force the thought back into its unmarked grave before it gets a chance to breathe.

Jersey’s initial appraisal rating was high. No recorded incidents until after becoming an Asset, the most recent one added today. There's some academic transcripts, immunizations proving the bitch doesn't have rabies, and the last page is a Disposition of Remains order.

"If expiration is reached while not under Guardianship, viable organs to be transferred to Medical Management and all remaining tissue designated for incineration."

My hand hovers above my glass.

Not even twelve hours ago, I was peeling every inch of skin from a man and eating a bowl of cereal as I waited to see who won– Hypothermia or blood loss. Surprisingly, it's hypothermia. It's always hypothermia. And every time I find it just as fascinating.

Then I handed what was left of that bastard off to be turned into kibble.

Morality’s a fickle bitch.

I swallow the rest of my whiskey, closing out of her file and leaning back in the booth. My fingers idly drum against my thigh as I determine my next move. A311 didn't come here, trying to return home or hide. She knew there was nothing– no one– here for her. This was never her destination.

The Registry has controlled her life for the last seven years. That’s more than enough time to break someone's spirit. Reduce her into a submissive warm hole.

But she isn't.

My hand drifts to where she stabbed me, thumb grazing over the frayed material of my pants and the scabbed skin.

Would she do it again?

Eager to find out, I reach down and adjust my thickening cock. Grabbing my wallet, I toss a few bills on the table and stand just as my prey walks straight into my sights.

Jersey takes a hesitant step forward, brows pinching together as she scans the room. Her chin dips with recognition as she seemingly finds what she's looking for. One hand reaches up, clutching something around her neck as she crosses the room. The hem of her oversized hoodie catches on the silver handle of the knife tucked into her back pocket as she leans against the bar.

An older man turns to face her, slinging the towel he'd been drying glasses with over his shoulder before tipping his head toward the end of the bar. She scurries that way and he strides to meet her, his arms folding across his chest as they exchange words. He points to the door, gesturing as if he's giving her directions.

Looks like the little stray is getting ready to run again.

Her back’s still turned to me, so I seize the moment and rise to my feet. Tugging up the hood of my sweatshirt, I make my way to the door and slip outside unnoticed.

The air’s crisp, the clouds hanging low with the promise of rain. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I lean back against the bricks with one foot propped up, hood slung low to conceal my face. Pieces of muffled conversations drift over from a group of people clustered across the street, but I couldn't give two shits what they're talking about. My only focus is her. The chase. The sweet satisfaction of capturing my prey.

Primal urges coil beneath my skin each time the door swings open, my fingers twitching with anticipation.

My head snaps toward the sound of metal banging against the building, a few drunks tripping over each other as they stumble out the door. The little stray trails behind them, her boots scuffing against the concrete as she darts around the group and hurries away down the block.

Let the hunt begin.

The tip of my tongue traces across my teeth as I linger in the shadows, letting her gain some distance before I pursue. Her steps are quick and eager, and I shorten my own long strides when I follow, preserving the distance between us so as to not give up my position.

She cuts across a wooded lot, and a flicker of movement catches in my peripheral. Seems like I’m not the only predator out tonight. She hops over a metal barricade, veers to the left and disappears out of sight– someone else just a few steps behind.

My molars gnash together. I don’t share.

A metallic crash erupts as I clear the corner, trash spilling from an overturned can as she grapples with a hooded figure on the brick beside it.

She writhes beneath him, one hand shoving at his face as the other slams into his ribs. Leaving herself unguarded, he takes the opening, landing two shots to her stomach. She grunts, flailing her legs and kneeing him in the nuts. They trade a few more half-assed punches before she manages to clip his jaw.

Bored of watching, I draw my gun and fire off a round. She lets out a guttural scream as blood splatters and his body goes limp on top of her.

“You’re fine,” I murmur, holstering my gun and taking a step closer. “But your technique fucking sucks.”

7

JERSEY

Blood sprays across my face, a scream tearing from my throat as my attacker collapses lifelessly on top of me. His weight barely settles before it's being ripped off and tossed aside.

"I had it handled," I wheeze, pushing up to my elbows and scrambling backwards in the dirt.

"Clearly," Repo Man deadpans, shoving up the sleeves of his hoodie and resetting the overturned trash can.

I brace a hand against the wall, my pulse pounding in my ears as I drag myself to my feet. "Go play hero somewhere else," I growl.

"If he killed you, I wouldn't get paid," he replies flatly, his face void of emotion as his inked forearms fold across his chest.

A strange sense of relief washes over me with the knowledge that he's not here to kill me. That doesn't mean The Registry won't when he hands me over, though. If I can just keep him at arm's length long enough to catch my breath, I can make it to the salvage yard…

I think.

I fucking hope.

Mack– the guy who bought my necklace– said if anyone can get me out of the city, it's the woman who owns the salvage yard.

"How chivalrous of you..." I trail off, squinting at the patch on his vest. "Riggs."

Velcro rips as he pulls out a set of restraints from his vest. "Due to the default of your Guardian, The Registry has issued a reclamation order for you,” he states, his icy blue eyes locking with mine. “I'm here to collect."

"So, uh…" I clear my throat, tracing a hand along the hem of my sweatshirt. "Does that pickup line usually work for you?" My fingers brush over my back pocket in search of the letter opener. Still there.

Without a word, he advances, one deliberate stride bringing him closer.

Too close.

I quickly match it with one of my own backwards, refusing to surrender the distance between us.

"While your bubbly personality makes that seem tempting, I've got to see a guy about a thing." I gesture vaguely behind me as if that explains everything, taking another step back.

"Don't," he warns, his voice low and even.

The threat is clear in his tone, but I'm still latching desperately onto the hope that if I just keep moving, I can get away. My boots scrape against the concrete as I pivot and take off at a dead sprint.

Unlike last time, he follows.

Each one of Riggs' long strides erases two of my own. His boots hammer against the pavement behind me, matching the frantic cadence of my heartbeat as the buildings crowd in around me until there's no way out.

Dammit.

God fucking dammit.

The world tilts, fear garbling my thoughts as I rush through an unfinished doorway and nearly bust my ass when my toe snags on a pile of bricks. Mack's directions jumble together in my brain as I wind past scaffolding and stacks of lumber before darting towards the first door I see. I fling it open, but it catches halfway, brutal strength slamming it shut.

In one jarring motion, he twists me around to face him. I choke on a gasp as my spine rams against the metal door.

Riggs erases every inch of space between us. My blood runs cold with dread as he cages me in, bracing a thick, corded forearm above my head. Shadows cling to his features, stripping away any illusion of humanity and leaving me caught in the predator’s grasp. My eyes trace the tattoos snaking down his neck, disappearing under the collar of the black hoodie stretched across his broad fame.

I don't know what's heavier– the weight of his icy glare or his body pressing against mine.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he drawls, "Now what?"

Now or never.

With a stilted breath, I hook the letter opener from my back pocket, driving it in his side.

Something dangerous glints in his blue eyes as his hand flies out and clamps around my wrist, my bones grinding together beneath the pressure of his grip. I grit my teeth with a wince, struggling against his hold, and there's barely a snag in the material of his hoodie as the blade clatters against the cement.

"That's it," he chuckles, the sound cold and callous as it scrapes from his throat. "Keep fighting, little stray."

Lowering his head, Riggs' warm breath ghosts across my skin as he drags my hand between us and presses it against the hard bulge in the front of his pants. "It only makes my dick hard."

I choke on a gasp and try to wrench my hand back, but the more I fight his grip, the harder he pushes his erection into my palm. My traitorous pulse ratchets higher as every sharp contour of his body crushes against mine.

"Borrowed courage," he murmurs, smoke and whiskey coating his words. "That's all adrenaline is. But when it bleeds away and you hesitate..."

His other hand shoots up and wraps tightly around my throat. A broken whimper parts my lips as he flexes his fingers, crushing my windpipe.

"That's when I'll ruin you."

My eyes go wide, panic surging through me as I buck and claw, trying to break his hold.

Oh god... he could kill me.

The sick realization settles in. This isn't just what he does, it's who he is. A man built for violence. Forged by it. Thriving in it. He's a monster… but that doesn't stop the knot in my stomach from tightening.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A sheen of sweat coats my skin, hot tears pricking at the back of my eyes. Then his grip loosens, drifting to my chin. My chest heaves as fresh oxygen rushes into my lungs. I cough and sputter on every greedy gulp of air I swallow.

The rough pad of Riggs' thumb traces along my bottom lip as he watches with quiet satisfaction while my vision swims and I blink chaotically trying to focus.

I need to get out. I need… fuck. I don't even know what I need.

My jaw snaps, teeth sinking deep into the flesh of his thumb. He doesn't react, doesn't even flinch as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. Instead, he pushes his thumb in deeper, his knuckle raking between my teeth as he forces it to the back of my throat until I gag.

And then… he laughs.

He. Fucking. Laughs.

Riggs pulls back, admiring the marks I left on his skin, and I seize the half-second of distraction. My fists bang against him as I twist and shove, managing the tiniest of sidesteps. But before I can slip around his hulking form, his foot juts out and catches mine, pitching me forward.

I slam face first into the concrete with a strangled scream, pain rippling through my body and stars bursting behind my eyes. My palms splay beneath me, and with every last bit of energy I can muster, I push myself up.

His boot rams down onto my spine before I even make it an inch, and with a bone-rattling thud, I drop. Air whooshes from my lungs as he sinks more of his weight onto me, pinning me against the cement.

"Stay."

I don't move.

I can't.

The world lurches around me, every last nerve ending screaming in pain as I lie there on the concrete, reluctantly accepting my fate.

"Good girl," he rasps, pressure dissolving from my back as he lifts his foot. "Now roll over."

"Fuck you," I hiss.

How dare he treat me like a dog?

As if I could be so lucky. Pets get affection, while Assets get used.

Heat sears across my skin from embarrassment, but it's more than that. Something else weaves among it– something deeply warped. Something I don't have the slightest capacity to start to deal with.

"Borrowed courage," he murmurs.

The toe of his boot jams into my side, sliding beneath my gut and rolling me onto my back.

“Fuck you,” I repeat, glaring daggers up at him.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Only good girls get fucked."

My hands brace beside me and sheer spite pushes me up onto my elbows. "I'm not your bitch."

"You're right." He crouches down, elbows resting on his knees. "You're The Registry's."

He may as well have kicked me in the teeth.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, trying to dislodge the solemn feeling that threatens to stroke his ego.

My eyes narrow as I meet his gaze, and a glob of red-tinged saliva lands on his face as I spit.

It's unnerving how calm he seems. A feral grin splits his face, tongue darting out to lick up the glob.

Then his tattooed fingers curl beneath my chin. "Open."

His brow twitches as I purse my lips defiantly.

With one cruel and calculated movement, he collars my neck, yanking me up to my feet and smashing me against the wall. The impact forces my mouth open, and I flinch as the glob of spit and blood lands on my tongue.

Tears blur my vision as I stare up dumbfounded at those blue eyes and messy blond hair, hearing the unmistakable sound of Velcro ripping apart.

"Maybe, I'll buy you at auction," he says as he pulls a syringe from his vest, the sharp tip piercing into the column of my neck. "If they don't slaughter you first."

He depresses the plunger, sending white-hot heat prickling across my skin. My mouth hinges open with a silent scream, then every ounce of strength drains from me as the world fades to black.

8

JERSEY

A311

The chill seeps through flesh and muscle, dulling every ache until quiet relief settles bone-deep. It becomes soothing, almost merciful as I lie at the edge of consciousness.

Awareness slams into me with the first blast of icy water.

My eyes shoot open with a sharp inhale, harsh fluorescent lights blinding me as the freezing droplets sting my bare skin. I try to scramble from beneath it, but my wrists catch against each other, bound tight.

What the hell did Commander Martin…?

Before the question can even fully form, it all comes crashing back.

The Enforcers.

Running.

The Fringe.

Repo Man.

The flicker of cruel delight in his blue eyes as he stuck a syringe into my neck.

A tremor of rage ripples through me, a knot of dread tightening in my gut as his words replay in my mind…

"Maybe, I'll buy you at auction, if they don't slaughter you first."

No, no, no…

Bile rises in my throat as I frantically take in my surroundings.

White walls around me.

Black zip-ties binding me.

Navy camo watching me.

I blink back hot tears as a wave of panic takes hold, the reality of where I am crushing against my chest.

The Vanguard.

"Clean yourself up," one of the Enforcers commands, tossing a bottle of all-in-one hair and body wash towards me. "No one likes a filthy whore."

"Then don't make us into them," I scoff, rocking onto an elbow as I reach for the bottle.

The words fall from my lips a second before my brain can catch up, and water squelches beneath his boots as he crosses the shower bay in three strides. A guttural scream tears from my throat as his foot drives into my side, and I collapse against the tile, pain exploding beneath my ribs as I instinctively curl around it.

"Uh, Miller…" The other Enforcer shifts uneasily. "Won't they dock your pay if she ends up in the infirmary?"

"IF," he tuts. "It's all about the if, Rookie."

"But what if she says something?"

"That's not how it works," Miller scoffs. "And even if it did, who would they believe? An Enforcer, one of their very own, or some worthless bitch?" he asks, lifting his foot again.

I flinch, body tensing as I brace for another blow. Instead, his boot crushes down atop the bottle beside me, body wash splattering across my bare skin and the sharp antiseptic scent burning my nostrils.

"Better hurry up, Asset," he says, a smile playing at his lips as he turns away. "Water's only on as long as I want it to be."

Scrambling upright, I scrub myself clean as fast as I can, the zip-ties digging into my wrists with every movement. The enforcers mock me, exchanging crude comments about my naked body as red-hot shame prickles beneath my skin. It's not like I haven't heard it before or felt the lingering stares, but it still feels as humiliating as it did the first time I was here.

God, I feel so pathetic.

Hidden beneath the shower spray, I blink softly, letting a few tears break free.

The first time, I was terrified because I didn't know what would happen. This time, I'm terrified because I do.

The water abruptly cuts off and I swallow hard, forcing back the tears that threaten to keep falling.

Don't let them see you cry, Jersey. They don't deserve the satisfaction.

"Here," the rookie says, reaching for a towel. "Dry off and–"

"No," Miller cuts in, his arm barring in front of the other to stop him. "She can get it herself."

I tip my chin back, meeting the challenge in Miller's dark eyes. He wants me to say something– anything– that would give him half an excuse to hurt me again.

My palms splay against the slick tile as I hold his stare, my jaw clenched tight, keeping all my creative thoughts inside my head. Sadistic fucking rent-a-cop. I hope you trip and swallow all your teeth. I get halfway up before my bound hands slip from beneath me, pain flaring up my side as I drop back to the floor.

Ignoring their laughter, I grit my teeth and try again. It's slow and awkward, but somehow I manage to make it to my feet. My chest heaves, eyes locking onto the towel rack straight ahead as I take a careful step. Annoyance lingers just beneath my skin with every squelching step forward.

Grit, breathe, repeat.

"Stop," Miller commands, drawing his combat knife as he closes the distance between us.

My body stills, but my mind careens off in a spiral. I haven't said a word to earn another punishment. Hell, I didn't even look in their direction.

With no warning and a sweep of his hand, the tip of his blade skims my arm as he cuts through the zip-ties. My eyes widen, snapping down to my wrists as I turn them over, expecting to find a cut or blood, but the skin is just red and raw from the restraints.

"I wonder what will come first," he starts, my eyes flicking up to meet his. "Beating the fight out of you, or the life out of you?"

Fear licks up my spine, my lips pressing into a thin line– not from defiance, but to keep them from trembling. This place could kill me yet.

"Dry off and get dressed, Asset," Miller says, ripping the towel from the rack and throwing it at me.

I quickly do as I'm told, the rookie already pulling open the door as I slide my feet into the slippers. They lead me through brightly lit halls and a series of secured doors, stopping in front of a solid steel one labeled C7.

"Rest up," Miller says before shoving me into the room. "The Appraisers will be by first thing in the morning."

The door slams shut, plunging me into darkness save for a pale strip of moonlight cutting through the narrow windows lining the top of the wall. I stand there unmoving, the tension easing from my shoulders with each fading footstep. Once they disappear entirely, my arms drop to my sides, and I pad toward one of the metal cots.

Curling into the center of the flimsy mattress, I hug the pillow to my chest as my eyes lazily sweep over the room. It's just the same as I remember. Cinder block walls painted white, what has to be the world's scratchiest bedding, and folding chairs at the end of each narrow bed. At least I’ve got seating options while I wait for whatever fresh hell comes with tomorrow's appraisal.

Fuck, I hope the wound I gave Riggs gets infected and his stupid dick falls off.

I blow out a shaky breath as the adrenaline ebbs away, leaving behind a dull throb of pain. I've done nothing but fight since the Enforcers knocked on the door. For my life, for my freedom. Against that fucking Repo Man. But as exhaustion settles deep into my marrow and sleep threatens to pull me under, I don't have any fight left. I just let it take me.

Metal crashes against concrete, the harsh clang ripping me from sleep. I jolt upright as a pale blonde is shoved into the room.

"No!" she yells, trying to slip past Miller, but he's quicker. He raises his rifle and slams the butt into her face with a sickening crunch. She lets out a pained scream, blood spilling from her nose as she collapses to the floor.

Because I clearly have a death wish, the instinct to intervene overrides whatever sense of self-preservation I have left. I snap, putting my neck on the line for a complete stranger. Can't accuse me of not being a girls' girl.

"Stop!" I shout, shooting to my feet. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Stupid bitch," Miller swings the rifle toward my face. "Learn your place."

I freeze, unwilling to see how deep this limp-dick douche's god complex runs.

"Let tonight be your only warning," he says, the barrel of the gun drifting toward the blonde crumpled on the floor before returning to me. "As long as you're in my fucking ward, you worthless whores will fall in line, or I'll blow your heads off."

He lowers the gun, adjusting the strap across his shoulder as he pivots toward the hall. "And even then, I'd still fuck your corpses before dropping them in the incinerator."

The door slams shut behind him, the lock engaging with a mechanical whirr. With a sigh, I drag a hand through my hair and sink to my knees beside the blonde. Gently, I cup her jaw. Bruises rim her bloodshot eyes and fresh rivulets of blood trail from her definitely broken nose and down her chin.

Jesus... talk about unnecessary force.

Tilting her head, I inspect the damage. She winces, sucking in a breath through her teeth.

"Sorry." I cringe, letting go and rocking back to sit on my heels. "Just wanted to make sure there wasn't a piece of bone jutting through."

"It's okay," she sniffles, wiping some of the blood with her sleeve. "I'm Kenzie."

"Jersey," I offer, pushing to stand and extending a hand.

"Thanks," Kenzie says, placing her palm in mine as I help pull her to her feet. "Sorry about your shirt."

"Eh," I shrug, glancing down at the blood staining the cuff of my sleeve. "It's not the first– or the second– time that I've had someone else's blood on me this week."

Kenzie gives a polite laugh as she hobbles over to the bed opposite mine and settles cross-legged on the thin mattress.

Too bad it's not the joke she thinks it is.

"So, what's your story?" she asks.

"Guardian defaulted," I start, scooting back on my bed and leaning against the wall. "He was executed and I was reclaimed. You?"

"Mine used me as collateral on a loan, and defaulted..." she rolls her eyes. "Again."

I stop picking at the skin around my nails, brows furrowing as I glance up. "Again?"

"Yeah," she sighs. "He really likes poker but isn't even kinda good at it. Then to soothe his ego, he snorts a bunch of coke or downs a bottle of vodka and plays even worse the next hand. Rinse and repeat."

"Jeez..." I hesitate for half a beat, unsure if I really want the answer to what I'm about to ask. "So, you've been reclaimed before?"

She nods. "Twice. But he usually finds a way to come up with the money while I'm being reassessed. He's got some twisted deal with the appraisers, making sure I'm assigned to the auction tier, then he pays a premium to buy me before the actual auction and lets whatever Enforcer helps use me before he collects."

My mouth hinges open. "What? They can do that? How?"

Kenzie laughs, a sad smile curving her lips. "Because they run the place. Enforcers, Commanders, the rich assholes at the center of the city. They either make the law, are the law, or own the law."

I hum in response, though I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, I'm not surprised. I know The Registry is crawling with predators who are protected like an endangered species. But learning that there's a whole other heinous faction of them makes my stomach sink.

"You said they make sure you're assigned to the auction tier, what else is there?"

"Well, there's auctions, the girls that are visually appealing to buyers. But if they don't think you'll sell for much, they see what skills you have that they can exploit for a profit and assign you to the work duty tier. And last but not least…" She trails off as she shifts her position, arm propping beneath her head as she lays on her side.

"There's black tier, the Vanguard's very own purgatory." She yawns, a fresh trickle of blood sliding down her cheek. "If they can't make money off you, then you’re basically a dud. A liability to their bottom line, and the last thing any of them want is to take a loss. So in order to keep their fucked up ecosystem afloat, they find a way to bleed profit from you. Could be a clandestine auction to a depraved freak from another city or country, medical trials or organ donation, and if nothing else, a training target for new enforcers."

"Ah..." My chin dips, the movement slow and numb as I pick apart her words. I've been an Asset since I was fourteen. I have exactly zero useful skills outside of being some rich creep’s house pet. But will everything I've done over the last twenty-four hours be factored into my assessment?

I roll my bottom lip nervously between my teeth as I pull back the covers and slip beneath the stiff fabric.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You're cute. I'm sure you'll go to auction." She twists around, facing away from me as she adds, "It's not like you stabbed someone on your way in."

9

JERSEY

A311

"Hold still," the nurse murmurs as she uncaps the needle and searches for a vein.

Her wrinkled hand trembles with every attempt, the tip stabbing everything but a vein. On the fifth try, I swear she hits bone.

"Ah," I hiss, jerking my arm back on instinct.

I hate needles– always have. There’s something seriously off-putting about how they look so long, then disappear completely beneath the skin. My brain just refuses to accept that it’s not going to break off in there and float through my body, lodging itself into a vital organ and making me bleed out internally.

The Crypt Keeper lookalike presses her lips into a thin line, hollow cheeks puffing as she huffs out a breath. Like it's my fault her vision sucks and she can’t hit her target.

"If you would just hold still," she grumbles.

My molars grind together as I bite back every creative insult I can think of. After Kenzie's breakdown of the tiers last night, I know there are worse fates than becoming someone else's lapdog. Keeping my mouth shut and complying might be the best chance I have of avoiding them.

Her rubber gloves pinch my skin as she twists my arm in her grip. The tip pierces my skin with a sharp sting, my jaw clenching as she pushes it deeper. Then she attaches the collection tube, dark red blood flowing steadily into it.

One tube becomes two, the nurse scowling the entire time. I wonder what her story is. Is she here because she wants to be? Married to a Commander? Or is she a work duty tier?

By the fourth tube, a dull ache has formed around the puncture and my fingers have gone cold. Good god, how much do they need? The final tube clicks free, and with the same tender care she used to insert the needle, she yanks it out.

"Apply pressure," she instructs, pressing a wad of gauze to the inside of my elbow.

The nurse scribbles something across each vial before gathering them in a tray and pushing to her feet. "Stay here," she adds, swiping her badge to open the door.

Where the fuck would I go, Elizabeth? You just took half my blood and there isn't a door in this place I can open without a key card.

A hollow sensation spreads through me as I ease back against the vinyl chair and close my eyes. Instead of sleeping last night, my brain decided it would be a great idea to agonize over everything I could've done while making my escape. Every moment I should've been smarter, every word I shouldn't have said, every choice I should have made. It’s basically a highlight reel of every way I've screwed up over the past few days.

"A311," someone shouts, startling me awake.

The same Enforcer that brought me here looms above me as my eyes crack open. I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep.

"Time to move," he barks, kicking my chair.

I push to stand, swaying sideways as the room tilts. My hands scrabble for something to steady myself, but the Enforcer seizes my arm before I can face-plant on the floor, wrenching me upright.

"Walk," he spits, jerking me alongside him as he starts down the hall, my bare feet slapping against the tile as I struggle to match his pace.

Asshole.

I open my mouth to tell him to slow down, but clamp it shut again just as fast, remembering Kenzie’s warning. It’d be pretty stupid to talk myself into black tier for the sake of this dickhead.

My fingers curl into fists as I fight the urge to punch him in the kidneys. I have to play their game, move the pieces around the board, pass Go and collect two hundred dollars… or however chess works.

The electronic pad beeps as he swipes his badge over it, the light flashing green before he pulls open the door and motions me inside. I hesitate at the threshold of the exam room, blood draining from my face as I take in the three formidable men in white medical coats gathered around a computer.

Of course it's a group project.

Swallowing my unease, I square my shoulders and bury my fear behind a blank expression as I take a step forward. Apparently, it isn't fast enough for the Enforcer– his palm drives into my back, propelling me into the room.

The white coats’ heads snap up, each wearing their own unsettling version of a smile.

"A311," one of them says, pushing up his dark-rimmed glasses. "I'm Senior Appraiser Kelton, and these are my apprentices, Platt and Crawford."

Am I supposed to respond? What would I even say?

Hi, I'm Jersey, but since names are humanizing, you pricks can call me Registry Asset 311, or A311 for short.

…it's probably best I just don't say anything.

“Crawford, why don't you take the lead?” Kelton instructs. “Platt, record your observations for discussion at the debrief.”

Grabbing a set of gloves from the dispenser on the workstation, Crawford snaps them on as he approaches. "Undress, all the way."

I blow out a breath and tug my grey shirt off over my head. My breasts spill free, nipples stiffening as the cool air skates across my exposed skin. Hooking my thumbs around the waistband of my sweats, I shove them down and carefully step out. All the while, I can feel three sets of eyes raking over me.

Somewhere along the way, the embarrassment of being stripped bare faded into detachment. My body isn't mine anyway. It hasn't been for a long time.

Crawford clears his throat, his arm stretching toward me with an upturned palm. "Panties."

My brow furrows. "Huh?"

"Your underwear, Asset," Kelton cuts in.

No shit. I heard him, I just can't fathom why he wants them.

I pluck my panties from the floor and place them into his waiting hand.

"Natural lubrication present," Crawford dictates as he inspects them. "Asset is inherently receptive. Note that under sexual responsiveness."

My jaw tightens.

That's discharge, you medically licensed pervert, not an invitation.

"Stand up here," he directs, pointing to the biometric scanner in front of their workstation. "Legs shoulder width apart, arms at your sides in a relaxed posture."

The scanner hums beneath my feet as I step onto the cool metal surface of the platform, the faint tingle of electricity traveling up my legs.

"Class two," Platt reads from the computer screen. "Slightly underweight with no significant muscle deterioration."

Swiping a hand over his chin, Crawford slowly circles around me, making note of each flaw he finds as his eyes rake over every inch of my naked body.

"Small laceration on the left bicep, a few on each wrist along with friction abrasions. No medical action needed, but have her switched to an antiseptic body wash to prevent the need for costly interventions."

"Left breast appears slightly larger than the right, though the nipples are uniform in color and size."

"Keratosis Pilaris is visible on the upper arms. Do we want to submit for possible cosmetic correction?"

It'd look less angry if you'd let me shower without my hands being bound together and gave me a decent body wash.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

Breathe Jersey. He probably sits in his mom's basement picking at his butt acne. His opinion doesn't count. None of theirs do.

"Just make note and we'll review non-essential procedures with profit potential at the debriefing," Kelton instructs.

"Uneven shoulders, tilted waist… appears the spine has a slight curvature. Should be able to improve with a basic adjustment."

He pauses on my right side, fingers grazing over the scar on my stomach before turning towards Platt and Kelton. "Is there mention of this scar in her file?"

Platt's fingers fly across the keyboard, eyes narrowing as he reads from the computer screen. "Looks like she was shot by a Repo Man contracted to deliver her seven years ago. At that time she hadn't been flagged as an Asset, let alone labeled for Auction tier, so they only allotted for a field bullet retrieval and wound closure.”

"Well," Kelton starts, adjusting his glasses as he rounds the workstation. "I suppose it could be surgically revised if deemed a necessity for tier classification." Pausing, he leans down as he studies my scar closer. "Though she was previously purchased with the defect."

"If she does get classified as auction tier, her new guardian could request it be revised at the time of ownership transfer," Crawford suggests.

"There are some buyers who like scars," Platt chimes in. "Heck, some of them even carve some themselves."

"Oh yeah," Crawford rushes out, snapping his fingers. "What's his name, Harris? He really loves to whittle his Assets. Remember when his last Asset was in here for reappraisal and his name was carved into her lower stomach?"

"Yeah, there's something wrong with that guy," Platt grumbles, shaking his head.

Kelton murmurs in agreement as he swipes a hand across his chin. "Note the scar, but remove it from the weighted score."

"Yes sir," Platt responds, returning his attention to the computer.

I go somewhere else in my mind, their voices fading to background noise.

"Now, gentleman," Kelton says, folding his arms over his chest as he faces them. "In appraisal, it's always important to consider what lies past the surface. Why some base value around physical appearance and others value physical attributes."

"Oh, like breeders!" Crawford adds, a little too enthusiastically. "Breeders prioritize fertility before vanity."

Bile creeps up the back of my throat. It's one thing to be auctioned like chattel, but to be bought solely to be bred seems like a whole new nightmare.

Are they trying to get the Assets pregnant? Is it one and done? What happens to the Assets after? Or the kids?

I force a swallow, the acrid taste still coating my tongue.

"Precisely," he nods before turning to Platt. "Be sure that is noted. Do we have the results of her blood test yet?"

"Let's see," he hums as he clicks the mouse. "Looks like the blood panel is negative for pregnancy. Fertility is marked for further review. No diseases are evident, though."

"Anything on prophylactics?"

"Uhm, it doesn't say."

Kelton pivots around. "Are you on contraceptives, A311?"

I bite back a scoff. Shouldn't this be something these idiots have in their records?

"She can't comprehend that," Crawford snorts, turning to face me. "Did you pleasure your guardian?"

It wasn't pleasure. It was compliance.

Snide remarks about my body and arbitrary values being assigned to each part are one thing, but having the sheer audacity to suggest I enjoyed what he did to me is fucking despicable. Every vicious response I can think of crowds my tongue, but the last of my restraint keeps them there. I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes, slowly releasing it as I count to eight.

"A311?" he barks.

My eyes crack open, annoyance flaring as my gaze locks onto him. His patronizing smirk lifts the pathetic strip of reddish hair on his upper lip that he's trying to pass off as a mustache.

Crawford chuckles under his breath. "Make note that her hearing is intact. Whether she possesses the intelligence to understand us remains unclear."

Heat blazes beneath my skin, my nails biting into my palms as my fingers clench into fists at my sides.

Keep your mouth shut, Jersey.

"Do you want me to order a remedial evaluation along with the fertility profiling?" Platt asks, glancing at Kelton from around the monitor.

"N–," Kelton starts, Crawford interrupting him with a snort.

"Why waste the resources on either? It's one thing to be stupid, but stupid and unable to–"

"Pleasure?" I spit.

Their heads whip toward me, surprise coloring their features.

"If him coming in whatever hole he forced himself into is pleasure, then yes,” I sneer. “Yes, I pleasured him daily for five years.”

Crawford arches a brow at me before turning towards Platt. "Flag her profile for signs of defiance."

"No, just for an evaluation," Kelton states.

"But she's at risk for rebellion and definitely not suited for auction."

My stomach churns in trepidation. Unfortunately, my stupid fucking temper seems to have the same audacity as these men.

"Easy there," Kelton sighs. "Not every appraisal is a textbook one, boys. The longer you do this, you will learn that female assets tend to be highly emotional. Some are able to manage it better, but they all will have a mood swing sooner or later."

Let's see who's emotional after I kick you in the nuts.

"That's why we have practical assessments after the theory portion," he continues, closing the distance between us before reaching out to cup my pussy. "You learn so much more with your hands."

I want to jerk away, to scream at him to back the fuck up, to do anything besides just standing here like the docile bimbo they want me to be.

"Watch closely, boys."

They do as they're told, their attention shifting from my face to Kelton's hand. My skin prickles beneath his touch, like the finger he drags along my seam is dipped in acid. I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek, biting harder and harder into the shredded skin until blood coats my tongue, focusing on the metallic taste instead of his finger pressing inside me.

After several unnecessary and invasive strokes, he withdraws his hand and pats my mound. "Much better, Asset."

Kelton whirls around to face his colleagues. "So, what'd we learn?"

"That their words may be reactionary, but their bodies tell the truth?" Platt asks.

"Very close," he replies, nodding in approval. "Obedience is a learned behavior. In heightened emotional states, Assets may resort to defiance as a means of provoking the touch they really want."

Not all men, but somehow always a man...

Kelton raises the finger that was just inside me to his nose, inhaling deeply before exhaling with a smile. "She's ripe and receptive. Why don't you each give it a try?"

Fucking sicko.

My jaw locks, chest heaving as Crawford adjusts himself and steps forward. His palm is clammy as it slides hesitantly between my legs, Platt bumping into the desk in his hurry to get around it for his own turn.

I stare up at the faceted tiles lining the ceiling and trace each sharp triangle, recessed lights blurring between them as my gaze flicks from one point to the next. Their voices grow distant, the sensation of their touches fading as I retreat into the pattern until my mind peels away from my body.

I wonder if Retrograde is still making music?

10

TALON

Slade sits behind a multitude of screens as I hand him a bottle of Angler's Ale and drop into one of the lounge chairs in his office. Taking a long, satisfying pull of my own beer, I watch his fingers fly across the keyboard.

After dropping Jersey's unconscious ass off at the Vanguard, the residual high I had from hunting her wouldn't let me sleep. I made some progress on my game campaign I'd abandoned earlier, but something about the whole assignment kept scraping at the back of my skull.

There were no public details about Commander Martin's default or death– just a vague announcement that a new Treasurer has yet to be appointed. Something about the whole thing feels off. The Registry loves making a public spectacle of consequences, but there are clearly pieces of this story they don't want told. The whole thing stinks of corruption. Eventually, I switched off my game, pulled out my laptop, and put my irritation to work trying to get into Jersey’s Registry file.

I managed to get past the first few weak-as-shit firewalls before giving up and crashing. Apparently, giving into the intrusive thoughts after being up for twenty-eight hours straight was the tipping point to finally knock me out. The script I wrote hit a phase of multi-layer encryption that I couldn't crack. Clearly, they outsourced that job to someone with actual brain cells, so I texted Slade. He was out on assignment, but his cocky ass was eager to fuck around with it, calling me as soon as he pulled into the garage.

"Lazy fucking coding," Slade mutters, shaking his head before taking a swig of his beer. "Using the same encryption key twice is just pathetic."

I huff out a laugh and sink back against the leather, propping one boot up to rest on my other knee. The same hungry focus I get during a good hunt is spread across Slade’s face as he mocks every flaw he continues to uncover, but I'm only half listening, my attention shifting to the blood crusted around one of the silver eyelets on my boot.

Being so close to breaking into The Registry's files but not actually managing it annoyed the piss out of me. I don't give a shit about having to ask Slade– I'm arrogant, not ignorant– but when I latch onto something, I get this itch. At first, it crawls beneath my skin. Then it festers, and unless I find something else to focus that energy on, I get reckless. So, I took an assignment. If I'm going to be reckless, might as well make it worthwhile.

It was a standard hit– the client was angling for a political spot, and some rich cuck was threatening to blackmail him. It's painfully ironic watching how these entitled pricks strut around with a false sense of power inflating their egos. In the end, their eyes look the same as anyone else's when I snuff out the lights and they’re nothing more than scraps of tissue on my boots.

I don't know why it matters if the rest of the world finds out how corrupt or fucked up any of them really are when their government does deplorable shit daily. Call it unprocessed trauma, deep-seated resentment, or just pure fucking joy, but watching his paranoia add zeros to his offer, then blowing some jackass’ skull apart and using every piece of his technology as target practice was cathartic as fuck.

"Fuck yeah!" Slade shouts as his palms slap against his desk in triumph. Unplugging my phone, he whips around and holds it out to me with a smug grin carved into his face. "Got you fully integrated with permanent ghost access that will feed you live updates."

The Registry's app is still open on my screen when I swipe my phone from his grip, and I immediately navigate to her file.

"Thanks Slade, I owe you more than just covering one night’s tab," he supplies for me, draining the rest of his beer and pushing to stand.

"Thanks," I deadpan as I glance up and cut him a glare. "I'll pay for whatever feral whore you can convince to be worn like a wrist watch, too."

"And that, ladies and gentleman, is a real fucking friend," he chuckles, slapping a hand against my shoulder before pointing to the empty bottle beside me. "Want another?"

"Yeah," I murmur absentmindedly, swiping a hand over my chin as he heads for the kitchen. My focus quickly shifts back to my phone as I click into Jersey’s profile.

Jesus.

The network facilitation shows there's 52GB of new files available. There's a link to every evaluation, as well as medical and disciplinary reports dating all the way back to the day they labeled her A311. Guardianship Deeds, Property Insurance Policies… even a link to Commander Martin's Auction Affiliate profile. That includes breakdowns of his financials, applications, employment records and–

I frown at my screen.

Tax Exemptions and Rebates for Asset Ownership?

This place is so goddamn twisted it's not even funny.

I've been inside files of bastards with some of the highest clearances in Northbrooke, but never into anyone's Affiliate profile. I just know that if I start digging now, every reprehensible thing I learn about will only shove me closer to the edge until torturing a corpse doesn't do shit for my endorphins.

Grumbling in annoyance, I swipe my thumb across the screen, returning to the main page of her file. The corner of my mouth twitches in sync with my dick as her picture stares back at me in defiance.

Should've torn into that cunt while I had her lips turning blue.

Fuck, I need to bury myself in some bitch’s throat.

Or maybe more sleep.

Hell, probably both.

I tap in and out of links until I find her latest files. The property surrender form I signed is mixed in with her visual medical inspection, shift transfers, and staff notes. There are sections left blank and flagged for review due to incidents or attitude, breakdowns of her blood panels, and finally, her preliminary appraisal.

"Here," Slade says, passing me a beer as he returns to his computer, keys clicking beneath his fingers.

"Do you want to keep drinking this overhyped shit, or go run up my tab at Eleventh House later?" I ask, swallowing a mouthful.

"It's not overhyped," Slade scoffs. "It's artisanal."

My eyes flick towards his desk and I cock a brow.

"And my dad buys it by the truckload, so it's also free." Slade raises his bottle in a half-assed toast. "Cheers."

"You're fucking ridiculous."

"Nah, but I've got to monitor one of Sergei's betting terminals for a scammer. He wants them delivered in pieces to his place in Turks and Caicos by morning."

I narrow my eyes. "To do what with?"

"Dunno," he shrugs. "And as long as he keeps paying my retainer, I don't give a shit."

"Missed opportunity." I shake my head, rolling the neck of the bottle between my fingers. "Could keep him alive and feed him to the sharks piece by piece."

Slade snorts. "Not everyone is as big of a connoisseur of carnage as your deranged ass."

"Compliment me all you want," I point the beer bottle at him, "but your hand’s not coming near my ass."

"Bruh, you wish I was willing," he chuckles, still muttering as he swivels back to face his computer. "These hands should be insured for the raw talent they possess in and out of the bedroom."

I roll my eyes and resume reading the report. Each part of Jersey’s body is broken down with ratings or referrals. There are notes for different avenues of consideration for placement, further mental reviews scheduled, and a suggestion for a clandestine bidding class due to a prominent disfiguration of the abdomen.

Curiosity has me scrolling towards the pictures. I expect to find a close-up of some gnarly scar, but instead, the media icon is a full-body shot of her stripped bare in a sterile medical suite. My first instinct is to find that photo and zoom in on those perky little tits she was hiding beneath her hoodie, but when the album loads in full screen, I see a fresh bruise staining the entire right side of her creamy torso.

I didn’t put that one there.

The muscle in my jaw flexes as I pan up to her throat, pleasantly surprised to see the outline of my fingers still imprinted on her skin. I swipe through the rest of the photos, finally coming upon one at the end labeled 'disfigurement' with a red arrow pointing to a small puckered scar near her belly button.

These are some pretty fucked standards when the majority of their market is shaped like bags of wet saltines.

"Would you fuck her?" I ask, flipping my screen towards Slade.

He leans forward to swipe through the images. "It'd be better if she could manage some more facial expressions," he murmurs, adjusting his glasses and leaning back in his chair. "But she's got a good body. Why?"

"They lowered her value for a scar she's had on her stomach since she became an Asset seven years ago."

I flip the screen back around and zoom in on her face, wanting one last taste of that defiant look she wears so well. But in these photos, her eyes are dull. Irritation slithers beneath my skin as I close out of the app and check the time.

It's only nine, but I'm too tired to think straight. The nap I took before Slade returned wasn’t nearly long enough.

"I'm headed out," I grumble, pocketing my phone as I push to my feet, swallowing the rest of my beer in one long gulp.

"This early?" he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest.

"Still catching up from last week, and I've got to sign for the cabin's off-grid security power cell first thing."

Slade rolls his eyes. "It’ll be outdated by the time you finish that place."

I raise my middle finger in his direction, boots scuffing against the black polished concrete as I head for the door.

"What's the deal with her anyways?" Slade asks.

And even though I know he's clocked the hesitation I feel in my step, it'll be a cold day in hell before I acknowledge it.

"Later," I mutter.

"Rest up kid,” Slade calls as I reach the door. “When I'm back, we're going to Eleventh House."

I just grunt in response, stepping out into the hall.

I head for my apartment, my mind still churning over all the documents I haven't even opened yet. I don't have any real reason to sort through Jersey or her dead Guardian's file anymore, but as today's assignment proved, people can hold more than just their own secrets.

11

TALON

The music from the dance floor vibrates through the walls of the private room, but it’s not nearly loud enough to drown out the breathy, incessant moans coming from the bitch riding my dick.

I close my eyes, tipping my head back against the leather couch and trying to create as much distance as I can from someone I’m literally balls deep in. I try to focus on the way her cunt feels gripping my cock, and for a minute, it actually works. The familiar tingle at the base of my spine builds, and I know I’m getting close.

Then she curls in on my chest, her warm breath skating across my neck with another nasally little whine that makes my dick want to retract into my fucking body.

“I’m close,” she moans.

That severs my final fucking nerve. My hand shoots up, fingers closing tightly around her throat. Her eyes go wide as I flip us over, her back smacking against the leather couch cushion.

I brace one foot on the floor, something sharp from the couch digging into my other knee, but I don’t give a fuck. Before she manages another sound– or I snap her neck– I cut off her air and drive into her ruthlessly, chasing what I came here for.

Her hands clamp onto my wrists, fingernails digging into my skin. I look down, unable to tell whether the streams of azure light pulsing over her face or my grip on her neck is making her lips look blue. She isn’t fighting back hard enough for it to be the latter. She’s compliant in letting me do my worst, and honestly, it’s no fun without the fight.

I flex my grip, a flicker of fear washing over her features, brows pinching together.

There it is.

My balls start to tighten and I quicken the pace of my brutal thrusts. Her nails pierce my flesh as the walls of her pussy flutter around me, the oxygen deprivation pushing her over the edge. Tears slide down her cheeks, and I finally find my release, releasing my grip on her throat as I come with a groan, sinking back against the cushions.

She sucks in a sharp inhale and rolls off the couch, coughing and sputtering on all fours at my feet while cum still leaks from my tip.

Well shit, those noises do more for me than the shrill porno moans she was making earlier.

Rocking back on her heels, she kneels between my legs and stares up at me with red-rimmed eyes, still dazed from whatever she snorted off my cock earlier.

I shift to the side and pull out my cigarettes, flicking my zippo open to light one. Taking a long drag, I study her for a beat.

It’s unnerving how compliant this bitch is. I can’t help but wonder how much difference there is between a stripper and an Asset– beyond the whole choice, free will, and consent shit, of course. Maybe this whole despondent thing is just her vibe.

Is this what most men want? Is that the appeal of having an Asset– just a pocket pussy who does the dishes?

Smoke curls in the air around me as I exhale with a frown.

If that’s the pinnacle of satisfaction, I don’t want it. I need the fight. The fire. That raw collision of instinct and honesty that strips everything down and anchors me to the moment. The primal rush flooding my nervous system as I chase a euphoric release that satisfies something deeper than the need to drain my balls.

I take another drag and tip my chin at her. She shifts forward, crawling closer and nestling between my thighs.

“Now what, big guy?” she purrs.

So much for release erasing my annoyance.

I stab my cigarette in the glass ashtray beside me and tuck away my softening cock. Leaning forward, I brush the blonde hair off her face that’s stuck to the tears and spit, tucking it behind her ear as my fingers glide down her jawline. For the first time all night, she lets out a whimper that doesn't set my teeth on edge, looking up at me through her lashes.

I exhale my smoke in her face, but she doesn’t react.

So much for that.

“Get me a whiskey," I say, running a hand through my hair as I lean back.

“But you have me all to yourself for 20 more minutes,” she says, her hand sliding over the crest of my thigh. “You sure you don’t want something else?” Her palm comes to rest on the still unbuttoned fly of my pants, my dick twitching in fear of being subjected to more of the grating sounds she makes. “See?” she murmurs, giving it a squeeze. “He still wants me.”

My boot comes up between us, the scuffed toe planting right between her fake tits before I straighten my leg and shove her back on her ass.

“Well I want a fucking whiskey,” I snarl.

Her face twists up in a scowl, bruises from my fingers already forming on her throat. Seeing the picture of Jersey with my marks sent blood rushing to my cock, but seeing them on this bitch has it as limp as her performance.

“But…” she starts to protest as she pushes to her feet and adjusts her shimmery thong back into place.

My lip curls in disdain, jaw tightening. “You fucking heard me.”

She rolls her eyes with a huff, swiping up her neon mesh top from beside me and pivoting on a heel. “The best dicks are always attached to the biggest dicks,” she mumbles as she stalks toward the bar.

Two compliments in one.

“Make it a double” I call out after her, zipping my fly.

“You really have a way with the ladies,” Slade remarks with a chuckle.

I glance over to see him peering over the back of the naked woman folded across his lap, one hand resting lazily against the back of her head as she bobs and gags on his cock. The other is buried deep inside her cunt, halfway to the elbow.

It’d probably be a jarring scene for some, but I grew up with Slade. I saw the porn sites he hacked into when we were teenagers, have seen him grabbing medical supplies from the compound’s supply closet before escorting a bow legged girl through the halls, and this isn’t the first time we’ve shared a private room at the Eleventh House. Fisting isn’t my thing, but I don’t really give a shit what gets him off.

“I thought ventriloquists weren’t supposed to move their lips,” I deadpan.

His mouth tips into a smirk as he pistons his arm. The girl moans around his cock, cum gushing down his forearm as she screams.

“That better?” he asks, raising a brow.

I shake my head and slip my phone from my pocket, right as the human squeak toy returns with my whiskey.

“Here,” she huffs. “Anything else?”

I take the glass from her hand, swirling the amber liquid before throwing it back in one swallow. The burn blazes through me, tamping my nervous system better than she did.

I hold the empty glass out to her. “How about another, since you’re still mine for the next eight minutes?”

Her eyes narrow as she snatches it from my grip and turns, pausing briefly at the sight of her friend laid out on her back, cheeks flushed as Slade eats her out. Then she stomps away, blonde ponytail swinging.

Turning my attention back to my phone, I navigate through the ghost door access Slade gave me and into the Vanguard’s security system for the fourth time today. I didn’t even realize I could view the live camera feed of Jersey’s cell until I stumbled upon the link while waiting on the installation guy at my cabin. Now, whenever my attention drifts, I somehow end up back here, staring at her.

She’s lying on the cot with her back to the camera, curled in on herself in the fetal position. I watch for a minute or two, but she remains motionless– likely sleeping– so I swipe the feed to the side and click into my notifications instead.

A few requests from Exchange, a new charge from Eleventh house pending on my card, a new music alert boasting Retrograde’s first album in five years...

Slade and I were contracted to work security for them at a concert downtown years ago to manage the political protests. Their music was decent. I tap to add the Transit album to my playlist just as the Vanguard feed I swiped aside suddenly flickers with motion.

An enforcer enters the frame, stalking toward the cot. Jersey startles, jolting upward as he approaches. The tip of my tongue traces my teeth as anticipation surges through me.

Here we go.

Maybe I’ll get to see some more of the little stray’s fire.

I zoom in as the enforcer crowds over her, hand lashing out to grab her by the bicep and yank her to her feet. She stumbles as she finds her footing, tugging her arm free and stepping back to create some distance. Jersey folds her arms over her chest, and thank fucking god for 4k video, because I get a perfect view of the thin material of her crewneck pulling tight over her tits. I zoom in on them, then pan up to see her plush lips twisted in the same scowl she gave me in the alley.

There she is.

My cock instantly thickens behind my zipper, but then the enforcer lunges for her again, dragging her out of the room with more force than necessary.

“Times up,” the blonde bitch chirps, slamming a glass of whiskey down on the table beside me

Pocketing my phone, I pluck up the drink and take a sip, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she retreats. Slade’s done with her friend, and she slings an arm around the poor girl’s shoulders, giving her some much-needed support to hobble away.

Nothing about the blonde interests me. The little stray, on the other hand….

There’s an itch beneath my skin that’s steadily growing stronger, burrowing its way down and spreading like a goddamn infection.

My fingers drum against the leather cushion as I nurse my drink, the alcohol doing nothing to tamp down my lingering irritation. On the sofa across from me, Slade leans back with an unlit blunt hanging loosely from his lips, an almost tranquil look settling across his features.

Fuck it.

Pulling my black baseball cap onto my head, I shove to my feet, sliding my phone back out of my pocket. “I’ve got to take care of something,” I grumble. “I’ll see you back at the compound.”

He gives me a lazy nod and flicks open his lighter, the rolling paper crackling loudly as I turn and head towards the door.

12

JERSEY

A311

The plastic beneath me creaks as I shift for what feels like the hundredth time under Evaluator Phillips’ unrelenting scrutiny, the chair’s strategically placed bolts managing to scrape against my bones no matter my position. He stopped asking questions five minutes ago, and has just been staring me down with his dead eyes ever since. I tug the cuff of one sleeve down over my hand, slipping it inside to hide my mangled cuticles and prevent myself from continuing to pick at the already raw skin.

Kenzie warned me about the psychoanalysis after I told her about my appraisal yesterday. She keeps telling me not to worry, but it’s hard not to while waiting for them to assign my fate. They’ve run every test, picked apart every flaw, but surprisingly, no one has mentioned the enforcer I stabbed before making a run for it.

Surely that means he’s alive, right?

It must be some form of domestic terrorism to kill an entity of The Registry– probably a ticket straight to becoming a human buffet to some scientist’s fire ant collection. The fact I’m still here, being appraised, must either mean he’s alive or they don’t know I killed him. Or maybe they all know, and they know that I know that they know, so they’re pretending to not know to keep me paranoid…

If that’s their play, it’s fucking working. I’m spiraling hard into the paranoia web they’ve woven around me.

My fingers curl in beneath my sleeve, thumbnail picking at the ragged skin around my cuticles as I will my pulse to slow and this seemingly endless evaluation to be over.

Breathe out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. In, two, three, four.

I startle when Evaluator Phillips suddenly hums to himself, slamming his laptop shut and reaching for the phone on his desk. The corners of his mouth lift into a cryptic grin that offers exactly zero fucking context clues about what’s coming next for me.

He murmurs into the receiver, answering whatever questions being posed with mostly 'yes’ and a few ‘refer to my reports’ before hanging up.

“Good luck out there, A311,” he says with a curt nod as he pushes to his feet, rounding his desk.

Wait, what?

My face screws up in confusion, but I quickly force my expression back to neutral as my head cranes to follow him across the room. He never bothers to look back as he pulls the door open, disappearing into the hall without another word.

Soo… do I just stay here?

“A311,” Miller barks, my head snapping to see his large form crowding the doorway.

“Are you lazy or just stupid?” he spits, his narrowed gaze carrying more contempt than I’ve ever found waiting for me in the mirror.

I know it’s aimed as an insult, but that’s not even what annoys me– it’s that I don’t know what the fuck he’s even talking about. I wasn’t given any instructions or orders.

Is it a prerequisite to be a shitty as fuck communicator in order to work in this place or what?

My lips part, prepared to ask what the hell his malfunction is, but I quickly think better of it. This is not the hill I die on. Instead, I exhale a sigh and wait for him to continue gaslighting me.

“Fucking worthless,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.” He pivots on a heel and stalks out the door, leaving me to scramble to my feet and hurry after him.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I follow him through the biomedical unit, unease skittering up my spine as he takes a right at the end of the hall– the opposite way from where we came. “I thought that was my last evaluation?”

“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” he growls over his shoulder.

A set of stainless steel doors swing viciously towards me as he shoves through them before stopping in front of a second set of doors. These are frosted glass, ‘Procedure Room 1’ emblazoned across them in big block letters. He swipes his badge over a keypad affixed to the wall and the doors whoosh apart. My eyes narrow as the overly bright lights click on, refracting off of every white and stainless steel surface in the medical suite.

A door across the room opens, a doctor stepping inside. White coat, middle-aged, and unremarkable in every way. Apparently, The Registry has a type.

“Is this the implant or Buyer’s Stitch?” the doctor asks, maneuvering a silver table beside the white padded chair in the center of the room.

My whole body goes rigid.

“Implant,” Miller states.

The doctor nods, turning his attention to me. “Remove your shirt,” he instructs, pulling a sterile tray from a cabinet.

My breath stalls, eyes flicking between the medical tools on the table as the doctor snaps on a pair of latex gloves.

“Shirt off and take a seat,” he repeats, irritation bleeding into his words

I hesitate, my mouth running dry and my shoulders curling inward on instinct.

“Now, Asset,” Miller growls, shoving me.

I pitch forward, stumbling to catch myself on the cold vinyl chair before reluctantly lowering down to sit on it. My fingers curl around the hem of my sweatshirt, pausing in reluctance, but the sound of Miller’s gun shifting has me quickly pulling it off overhead.

Goosebumps pebble on my arms as cold air skates over my exposed skin. Then, without warning, the back of the chair abruptly lowers. The doctor looms over me, grabbing my arm and yanking it above my head. Metal clinks as he fastens my wrist into place, then swipes something wet and cold over my inner bicep. Settling on a chair beside me, he lifts a syringe into the air, my eyes squeezing shut while my heart lurches into my throat.

If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist, right?

I inhale sharply at the initial pinch as he implants god-knows-what into my arm.

All the brazen bullshit with The Registry’s officials and enforcers doesn’t shock or scare me anymore. It’s still painful and degrading, but I’m far past desensitized to the physical trauma. The jarring part about being here at the Vanguard is the fucking gaslighting tactics they use.

Codes and abbreviations. No clocks. The natural light that comes in through the windows doesn’t do much to help identify the time when we’re being pulled for appointments night and day. I’ve been here for what feels like a week, but honestly, it could just be a freaking day. It’s the not knowing that’s the worst– the uncertainty slithering around my spine and tightening as paranoia seeps into my marrow.

I’m losing my fucking mind.

I hope I get auctioned soon.

The thought settles in my consciousness like a mic drop. I hate that the idea of being sold off to someone is more appealing than being in the care of the people who literally run this city. I fucking hate this place. And that tiny taste of freedom was enough to make me greedy.

The wheels of the doctor’s stool squeal as he scoots back, yanking me back to the present.

“Done,” he announces, giving me a curt nod– like violating my consent is a routine item on his checklist. “Have it noted that it takes about a week to be fully effective,” he adds, discarding his gloves as he stands. “Without knowing exactly what supplement was being used prior, there will likely be a lapse in coverage. But if she goes to a breeder, removal will restore fertility almost instantly.”

Bile crawls up my throat. I promptly shove away the thought of being some sicko’s fleshy incubator, instead focusing on the subtext in the doctor’s statement– that I’ll soon be going to the auction block. It’s a chance to feel sane again, even if the price of sanity is a new Guardian to serve.

“All yours,” he tells Miller before leaving through the same door he entered from.

Miller steps in closer, mouth set in a scowl. “I don’t know who you’ve sucked off to get cleared for auction,” he snarls, stomping his foot on the floor. The back of the chair slowly rises to bring me upright, my arm still restrained above my head. Miller reaches out, his stubby fingers clamping onto my breast and squeezing roughly. “But I’ll have my turn,” he says, the words dripping with both malice and promise.

My stomach churns with revulsion. It’s clear this man has never touched a woman that was willing. Thank god I won’t have to suffer him much longer.

He reaches up to unfasten the restraint on my wrist, static rushing through my veins as my arm falls limply to my lap.

“Sure,” I huff, the comfort in being assigned to auction giving way to a false sense of bravado.

His hand lashes out again, gripping my face. “Watch who you’re talking to, Asset.”

Before I can think better of it, my teeth sink into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes go dark, regret smothering my satisfaction in an instant.

“Stupid bitch,” he spits, his hand rearing back before his palm cracks against my cheek.

My head snaps to the side, pain blooming across my face.

“Let’s go,” he sneers, his hand clamping over the fresh incision on my bicep as he yanks me up.

Before I can even find my footing, he shoves me to the floor, pain erupting in my skull and the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I recoil with a whimper as his boot stomps down beside my face before he turns and crosses the room.

“Now!” he barks, swiping his key card to open the door.

Eager to curl up in bed and escape into the recesses of unconsciousness, I quickly pull my sweatshirt back on, pushing to my feet with a wince and following him into whatever level of hell I’ve unlocked now.

13

TALON

The keypad chirps, the lock retracting and the hinges creaking as the door swings open. Fluorescent light slices across the floor, stopping just short of the corner I’m concealed in. I sink back further into the shadows as Jersey stumbles into her cell, the door slamming shut behind her.

“Fucking jerk,” she murmurs, raising her middle finger to the door as the lock re-engages with a metallic click.

The corner of my mouth twitches. There’s the attitude I’ve been craving.

With a sigh, she runs a hand through her chestnut waves and turns to pad towards the bathroom, not even glancing in my direction.

She has the spatial awareness of a corpse and shitty fighting form, yet somehow she still managed to stab an Enforcer and make a run for it. Not that those glorified hall monitors qualify as worthy opponents, but the bastard was still twice her size. Apparently, she makes up the difference in pure fucking spite.

A hazy glow spills into the room as water rushes from the faucet in the adjacent bathroom.

Take your time, little stray, I’m in no rush.

I’ve got all fucking night.

The enforcers came for her roommate just before Jersey returned. I’d been waiting in the air duct, my muscles cramping from the way I had to cram my body into the space. I heard them arguing over who got to escort the girl to her evaluation, each wanting his turn with her, so I doubt she’ll be back any time soon.

I slip my phone from my pocket to confirm the looped footage I set up is still running on the security feed, satisfied to find that it is. I don’t want any interruptions while I put an end to this fucking itch.

I’m going to ruin her.

The water cuts off, followed by the quiet scuffs of her slippered feet as she returns to the room. My dick stirs to life as I peel away from the shadows, erasing the distance between us without making a sound. I wrap a tattooed hand around her throat, her shoulders instantly tensing like she’s prepared to fight back.

Too late.

“Miss me, little stray?” I growl, pulling her small body flush against mine.

Her pulse thrums wildly beneath my thumb, tits lifting as she drags in a thin, wheezing breath.

“No one will hear you,” I say, my fingers flexing their grip. “And even if they could, do you really think they’d come to your rescue?” I click my tongue. “You’re smarter than that, Jersey.”

Her breath hitches in response to me using her actual name. She twists against my hold, but I tighten my grip, sinking my teeth into the soft flesh beneath her ear. A whimper catches in her throat, my cock instantly thickening.

“Wh-what…do you want?” she manages between shallow breaths, still uselessly squirming to get free.

My grip loosens around her throat as I band my other arm around her waist, sinking into the chair beside her bed and pulling her onto my lap. “That fire of yours,” I murmur, realizing she’s even smaller than I thought as her weight settles on me. That only galvanizes the conviction when I growl, “I want a fucking taste.”

“Leave me alone,” she huffs.

My hand slides beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, palming her tit. “I will. Right after I find out whether you fight this hard while my cock’s splitting you open.” The beat beneath my thumb kicks faster, my lips curling in satisfaction. “That excite you?”

“No,” she spits, arching away from my palm.

“Liar,” I chuckle, hand sliding down her taut stomach and beneath the waistband of her sweats to cup her pussy.

Her throat bobs with a hard swallow as my fingers glide over the damp fabric of her panties. “Keep lying with that quick mouth, little stray. Your body doesn’t know how.”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” she grits out, squirming and buckling her hips.

I let her keep writhing, her ass grinding harder against my lap until my cock’s straining behind my zipper. Her defiance rips through my system like a speedball, every nerve crackling as instinct burns through the last of my control.

She stills, her breath hitching as I shove her panties to the side.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” I growl, the pad of my finger tracing along her wet slit. “I came for the fight.”

I pinch her clit, and she thrashes.

“Let. Go,” she snarls, her head whipping back against my shoulder. “Riggs...”

“There it is,” I taunt, circling harder. “Say my name like it’s a fucking threat.”

“Ri–” she starts, but it dissolves into a gasp when I shove two fingers inside her. She turns her head, teeth piercing the side of my neck and biting down hard. It’s probably meant to deter me, but it only eggs me on.

“Fuck,” I pant, her warm, wet walls clenching tightly around my fingers as she rocks her hips. “All that fight…” I drag my hand back before driving my fingers in again. “All that rage, you need to put it somewhere.”

Blood drips down my neck as she releases me with a soft mewl, tilting her head back just enough to glare up at me, hazel eyes full of spite.

“It’s fucked up,” I murmur, holding her gaze as I add a third finger. “They tried to use pain as a leash to control you, but you turned it into a fuse.” My fingers drive deeper, my grip tightening on her throat. “Burn for me.”

Her hand scrabbles against my arm, nails dragging along my ink as her struggle starts to wane. She bucks against my fingers, her hips matching my savage rhythm as she grinds her clit against the heel of my hand.

Her breath fractures into ragged pants as her back arches against my chest, her body anchored to mine by my grip on her throat and the fingers buried inside her. Her cunt seizes around them, pulsing as warmth gushes over my palm and runs down my wrist.

Did she just fucking squirt?

My cock is impossibly hard behind my zipper, the primal urge to rut into her cunt skittering beneath my skin. A strangled moan tears from beneath my hand, her inner walls clenching around my fingers as her orgasm slams into her. I fuck her through it, the fight shuddering from her body as she rides it out before sagging in my hold.

I draw my hand back from her weeping cunt and raise it to my mouth. “Didn’t expect a little stray like you to taste so sweet,” I say, licking her release from each of my digits.

Her breath comes out in a panted whimper as I loosen the grip of my other hand, sliding it from her throat and into her dark locks. She gasps as I wind her hair around my fist and roughly tug her head back.

“Taste yourself, little stray.”

Twisting her face toward me, I flex my jaw and watch as my spit mixed with her cum lands on her tongue. The faint light from the bathroom now illuminates half her face, and that’s when I see it– fresh rivulets of blood trailing down her chin from a split in her swollen lip, dried blood crusting beneath her nose.

I shove up to my feet, my fist still tightly wound in her hair as I force her into the bathroom and in front of the mirror bolted to the wall to get a better look. Annoyance hums through my body like a live wire when I see the clear outline of a large handprint covering her entire cheek.

Towering over her small frame, I tip my chin and ask, “Enforcer?”

Her throat bobs with a swallow, hazel eyes glistening as she meets my hardened gaze in the reflection and gives a subtle nod.

Tension tightens my jaw, teeth gritting together as the instinct to react breaches the final barrier between impulse and bloodshed, flooding my veins with violent intent. I didn’t come here to perform a goddamn wellness check, and I sure as fuck shouldn’t give a shit that someone in The Registry laid a hand on her, but…

No.

I grind my molars, driving the thought back into the dark and burying it beneath whatever’s churning through my system.

Too late.

My dick’s already gone soft, my focus shifting from the primal urge to rut into my little stray, to the urge to shatter the bones and cartilage of an Enforcer.

I relinquish my grip on Jersey, slinking back into the shadows. “To be continued,” I promise, heading back for the air duct with the thirst for violence clawing at my insides.

14

TALON

Austin Miller. Twenty-six, Captain of Asset Management at the Vanguard. A thick-necked fuck with a twitchy trigger finger and a temper that makes me look like the patron saint of patience.

He was in the same probationary unit as Slade and I when we joined the Syndicate, but Miller was and still is fucking reckless. Not in the way that bodes well as a mercenary, but in a messy, pathetic way that constantly got overlooked due to nepotism– until he botched a training operation for The Registry.

That was one of my first field assignments, and I wasn't about to let him twist the facts to cover his own worthless ass and fuck with my career before it even started. The bitch who birthed me had already done enough damage for a lifetime.

I knew his dad got him a position with The Registry after he was booted from the Mercenary Syndicate, but I assumed he’d be assigned to maintenance detail or something that didn’t involve a firearm. Guess the right bloodline can turn inherent failure into potential and power.

Tonight, I’ve spent two excruciating hours at some trendy bullshit bar downtown watching him strike out at least half a dozen times. The place is crawling with desperate fucks trying to convince everyone else in the room how much they matter– meaning Austin Miller should fit right in– but he’s evidently out of his depth here. He may have grown up with money and opportunities, but some sort of deep-seated mommy issues have turned him into such an emotionally stunted douchebag that not even an obliterated club whore wants to be prodded with his chode.

I can’t decide if he’s delusional or just relentlessly determined, but rejection doesn’t seem to be a concept he can grasp. He keeps at it until the crowd thins, his pool of potential victims dries up, and he finally closes out his tab.

Anticipation rolls through me as I tail him out into the night, something vicious settling into place beneath my ribs. I maintain surveillance, trailing him discreetly through the streets, fingers flexing with the urge to feel the give of bone beneath my knuckles.

Miller’s been overdue for an ass-kicking since probation. Putting his hands on Jersey– and who knows how many other Assets– just moved him to the top of my hit list.

His boots thud against concrete as he descends the stairs to the subway, swiping his pass before moving through the ticket gate and boarding a train for The Fringe. There’s no way he lives out there, so his destination is anyone’s guess. An electronic voice announces the doors are closing just as I vault over the turnstile and dart into the car behind Miller’s.

The train going from downtown to The Fringe late at night is depressing as fuck. Its primary occupants are overworked middle class people who make just enough to be in the raw ass fucking tax bracket, but too much for the Registry’s Assistance. Not that it’s fucking worth shit anyways. If the assistance did what it was designed to– help people get out of a hard spot– and a single job paid a living wage, then maybe my mother would’ve stayed in The Fringe and built a normal fucking life instead of warming the bed of some powerful asshole she thought could fuck her out of poverty.

I keep my hood up and my head down, finding a vacant spot in the corner to post up for the rest of the ride.

When the train finally reaches its destination, I watch Miller step off, giving him a head start before I slip out into the night and resume tailing him.

The streets here are dark with very few working lights, the weeds growing through cracked pavement the only form of landscaping. He rounds a corner, heading down an alley and disappearing into a back door with a flickering neon light above it.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

With a name like Celestial Desires, this place is clearly a low-rent strip joint. Meaning he hauled his ass all the way out here for some bargain-bin, blown-out pussy he’ll no doubt overpay for just to guarantee it doesn’t turn him down.

I roll my shoulders back in irritation as I step through the door, scanning the dimly-lit interior for my target. He’s wasted no time in cornering some poor middle-aged broad, passing her a wad of bills while she humors him with a brittle smile before leading him over to a corner booth. I claim a booth in the opposite corner of the room, settling in to wait him out.

“Hey, cutie,” a saccharine voice coos, and I lift my chin to find a petite blonde leaning against the table, her eyes glazed, pupils blown wide. She’s wearing a sheer pink bodysuit, and while she’s got a decent pair of tits on her, I’m not here for pussy. Even if I were, the drugged-out look in her eyes is an instant boner killer.

“Have you had a chance to look over the menu?” she asks, nudging the tabletop standee toward me.

My gaze flickers to it, and I skim just enough to discern that it isn’t a drink menu.

“I’d recommend number f–”

“What about her?” I interrupt, flicking a pointed glance toward Miller’s booth across the room. He’s got his arms spread wide across the seatback, the stripper on her knees beside him working his zipper down.

The blonde follows my gaze, squinting, then exhales an annoyed sigh as she turns back to me. “It’ll be a while, she’s booked for a number three.”

My gaze drops to the menu just long enough to garner what that item entails. “Just a whiskey, then,” I mutter.

She frowns, spinning on a heel to head to the bar. She’s quick– back in under two minutes– but she’s barely set my drink down on the chipped formica table before Miller’s already back on his feet, head tipped back to drain his beer.

Jesus Christ, the ‘head over heels’ package is supposed to be a twenty-minute blowjob, not an eighty-three second handjob.

Miller slams his empty bottle down, zips up his pants, and heads for the door.

I throw back my whiskey, tossing a few bills on the table before rising to stand. Then I resume my hunt, pausing on my way out to slip a few more bills into the g-string of the lady who just had to smile through a grown ass man blowing his load on her during the foreplay.

Hazard pay.

As I tail Miller back through the shadows for another overpriced subway ride– this time into Midtown– I feel something dangerously close to pity looking for a place to cling to in the empty cavity of my chest. The asshole spent half the night getting rejected while drinking his weight in cheap tequila, then getting off to just the touch of some down-on-her-luck divorcee who probably had her minivan parked out back. It’s fucking bleak.

Before I have a chance to really ruminate on that, Jersey’s bloodied face flashes through my mind, along with everything I’d planned to do before I found her like that. Come to think of it, Miller fucking cock-blocked me. Pity gone. Hell, what I’m about to do might be the closest I’ll come to community service.

Back in Midtown, Miller moves slowly down the sidewalk, his feet occasionally crossing and sending him stumbling sideways. Somehow, he never hits the pavement– which may be the most impressive thing he’s done tonight.

He staggers through the glass doors of a residential high-rise, and I catch the door just before it latches behind him, slipping inside. Keeping my distance, I watch him step into a waiting elevator, the button for the ninth floor lighting up a second before the doors slide shut. I take the adjacent elevator up to the eighth, and as soon as the doors open, I locate the stairwell. With both hands bracing the railings, I take the metal stairs two at a time up to the ninth.

I’m not worried about Miller noticing me– the asshole can barely keep track of himself. But I don’t need anyone else in the building suddenly deciding to be observant.

Through the narrow window at the ninth-floor landing, I spot him halfway down the corridor, head bowed as he fumbles with one key after another, trying to unlock his door. I creep from the stairwell into the dim hallway and close the distance while he’s still fighting to get inside.

The lock finally gives, but before he can slip into his apartment, I crowd him from behind, my arm barring across his chest as I wrench him back. Pulling my Bowie knife from its sheath, I press the freshly sharpened tip to the fleshy soft spot just above his Adam’s apple.

“Mutter a single sound and I will split you from throat to taint and turn you inside out right here,” I warn.

He reaches for his gun, reflexes sluggish, but I don’t need the advantage. Even under normal circumstances, I’d still be faster. My fingers close around the nine-millimeter before his can, ripping it from the holster and tucking it into my waistband. Then I nudge him over the threshold, toeing the door shut behind me as I shove him forward.

He knocks into the back of a chair, palms splaying over the worn leather. Using it to steady himself, he turns, recognition flickering in his bloodshot eyes. He lunges toward me, his arm rearing back a second too soon. I use the opening to crack the pommel of my knife into his skull, sending him stumbling to the floor. He groans as I stomp down with my full weight onto his junk before driving the steel toe of my boot into his right side.

“What the fuck, Riggs?!” he chokes, curling in on himself.

“I knew you were too incompetent for the Mercenary Syndicate,” I mutter, moving toward the kitchen island at a leisurely pace.

Behind me, Miller starts to push up onto his elbows. I pivot around, flinging my Bowie knife at his arm. He yelps as the blade pierces through the sleeve of his hoodie and lodges into the hardwood, pinning him down.

“As I was saying,” I sigh, grabbing a bottle of obscenely expensive whiskey and inspecting the label before twisting off the cap. “You never did understand the dynamics of precision movement over brute uncoordinated force.” I pour two fingers of whiskey in a lowball glass and take a slow sip. Fuck, that’s smooth. “But what I didn’t know was how much of a goddamn pathetic excuse of a man you were.”

“Son of a bitch,” he growls, grabbing for the hilt of the knife.

I pull his gun from my waistband, the click of the safety snapping his attention up.

“She was more of coke-whore than a bitch,” I muse, aiming the barrel at his forehead. “Coke was her vice, and her infatuation with it is what killed her.”

Stepping over to Miller again, I sink into a squat, the dark denim of my jeans pulling tight as I crouch above him. The muscle in his neck feathers, his pupils shifting slightly to the side. Then he makes a pathetic attempt at pulling the knife free, aiming to drive it into my side.

I shift forward in one smooth motion, my knee digging into his elbow and pinning it against the floor. The knife skitters away as I ram the pistol into his mouth. He gags and chokes around the barrel as I force it to the back of his throat, my knuckles grazing his teeth.

“How hilarious would it be if you died by your own gun?”

His other hand comes in with a sloppy hook that my ear takes the brunt of, and I yank the gun back. Miller sputters and coughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as I rock back and push to stand, reaching for my glass of whiskey again.

“I’ll fucking end you, you worthless bastard,” he spits, sitting upright and swiping a hand over his mouth. “Once I report you to the Vanguard, they’ll issue a death directive.”

I chuckle as I slip the gun back into my waistband and pull out my phone, connecting to the Bluetooth through a VPN scrambler and queuing up the Transit album. Retrograde’s signature rapid fire drums and jagged guitars churn from the speakers, their annoyingly catchy lyrics punctuated with the occasional screamed hook. It’s perfect to swallow any sound he could make as I grab the whiskey bottle for a refill, shaking my head with another laugh.

“You think the Vanguard is funny?” he sneers.

I take a pull straight from the bottle, savoring it. It’s fucking good whiskey– it’d be a real shame to waste it.

“I think it’s funny you don’t see the flaw in your logic,” I murmur, eyeing the label again.

Oh well.

Fisting the neck, I swing the bottle full force against his stupid face. It explodes on contact, shards of glass and whiskey raining down around us.

“Dead men can’t narc.”

His chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, blood beading to the surface of the cuts littering his face. I snatch him by the front of his sweatshirt, pulling him upright and dragging him into the kitchen.

“You can’t kill me,” he huffs. “Don’t you remember who my fath–”

The crack of his skull hitting granite reverberates through the large open-concept condo as I cut him off. “Even with the help of a metric ton of laxatives, I wouldn’t give a singular shit whose balls you leaked out of,” I say, fisting his hair and twisting his face upward. Blood flows from his shattered nose, dripping onto the counter. “Not only can I kill you, but I will kill you.”

I reach for the stove knob and twist, the gas line clicking before a flame blossoms and dances beneath the grate. “My only regret is not doing this sooner, before you could hurt her again.”

“Her?” he slurs, blood coating his teeth and chin as his face screws up. Then realization dawns, and he scoffs. “Which whore is it?”

I don't say a word. I just twist the dial further, the flames growing higher.

“Let me go, you fucking freak,” he snarls, spitting a glob of saliva and blood onto my face. “I should’ve cut your throat that night instead of your fucking eye. You’re nothing but orphan scum, a pathetic errand boy for better men.”

If he’s trying to talk me out of killing him, he’s doing a terrible job at it.

The edges of my vision tinge black, a sharp, shrill sound piercing my ear drums. The world around me goes silent as I shove his face down onto the burner.

His mouth hinges open, but if he screams, I don’t hear it. All I can hear is my father’s words; his fucking posturing while making every excuse as to why he could hardly look my way, let alone acknowledge my existence.

“Goddamnit, Lena!” he yells, glass shattering as she screams at the top of her lungs.

My arms wind tighter around my knees as I rock in the corner of my closet.

He won’t come in here. I know that. He never does.

I promised I wouldn’t leave my room again, not even for the bathroom this time. It wasn’t even the trip to the bathroom that got me in trouble– it was because I remembered Mom finally broke down and let me get the superhero juice bottles, and I really wanted one. It’d been quiet, it was late. But he was standing in the living room on his phone.

He wasn’t even facing me, and I was sure I’d make it to the fridge and back undetected. But before I took a step, Mom shouted my name. She ripped me by the arm, dragging me into my room and shoving me into the closet. I heard the lock click while she muttered something about how this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I can’t keep this up, not any longer,” he shouts, his voice clear through the wall separating us.

“Yes, yes, we can,” Mom begs, her voice thin and fragile. “I’ll make sure he stays away, I-I promise...”

The sound of a slap echoes. “You were already supposed to do that, remember?”

“I’m sorry.” She starts to sob. “I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”

“Better?” he scoffs. “Better would have been if you’d taken the money I’d given you and used it for the abortion, not to put more coke up your nose.”

“I thought it’d do the job,” she sniffles. “Two birds, one stone?”

“Stupid bitch,” he scoffs before a crashing thud follows. “No you didn’t, you thought I’d leave Imogen for you.” She screams again, followed by another crashing noise. “But having some Fringe riffraff as the mother of my child, the heir to the empire I’ve built, was never an option.”

“B-baby…” she stammers. “You don’t mean that. What about all the–”

“All the what?” He laughs callously. “All the pointless bullshit I've bought you? Or how about this very fucking house, huh?”

“Stop, please,” she cries. “Baby, I’m–”

“You’re what? Too good to do the one thing you’re good for?”

“No, I… that’s not what I meant.”

There’s a scuffle, then I hear Mom cry out.

“Ow! That hurts!” she wails, her voice breaking into ragged gasps as he grunts and growls.

Tears stream down my face as I shift to my side, pulling my turtle stuffie over my head and trying to silence it all.

The unmistakable smell of Miller’s ego burning to ash floods my nostrils, anchoring me in the present as I jerk his head up. His pink and red flesh festers and bubbles, stringing from the burner to where it slides off his skull like cheese from a pizza. His eyes are glossy– one with tears, the other seared shut with a sheen of pus and grease.

“It's almost cute isn’t it?” I muse. “Your reckless disregard almost kept me from advancing with the Syndicate when you shot an Asset that night and didn’t wanna own up to it. And now here we are seven years later, and I'm at the top of my game, not just ending your career, but your life, too.”

He moans something incoherently, lips half fused together, hands feebly trying to push me away.

He lets out a guttural scream as my thumb presses into his good eye, the resistance giving way with satisfying pop like one of those boba pearls in the drinks Slade would beg his dad to stop for after Judo practice. Blood garbles from the good corner of his mouth, and as much as I want to skin him and watch hypothermia take its course, there’s no way I’d get a clean enough cut to provide accurate results for my hypothesis. So with a sigh, I take the jagged bottle neck and drag it over his throat, skin opening up with a wet rip.

Blood gushes from the opening, and like some sort of twisted kismet, it squirts out and coats my hand just like Jersey did earlier. And it’s a real close call of whose squirting I enjoyed more.

His body goes limp, and I let go, watching Miller’s corpse thud to the floor. Pulling out my pack of cigarettes, I light one on the stove before twisting off the burner, dragging in an inhale as I look around at the mess I’ve got to clean up. It’ll be a pain in the ass, but the sight of his body racking with the last few residual muscle convulsions before going still fills me with an intoxicating feeling of satisfaction that more than makes up for it.

15

JERSEY

A311

“Pony,” Kenzie says, holding out her hand.

I slip the hair tie off my wrist and pass it back before plucking a beige chunk from the prepackaged fruit cup and popping it into my mouth, suppressing a shudder as its grainy flesh collapses into mush against my tongue.

I miss meat.

Actual meat– not this gray slab of meatloaf on my dinner tray that you couldn’t pay me to risk eating.

Kenzie warned me not to touch anything that doesn’t come sealed, because apparently Enforcers have been known to drug food when they want an Asset to be particularly compliant. During her last stay, a girl had an allergic reaction to whatever they slipped her, and Kenzie overheard Miller explaining how to record the death as an undocumented medical condition so no one would have to answer for it.

“And, done,” Kenzie announces, flicking the finished braid over my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I say, twisting around on my cot to face her.

“Go admire my work, I cleared my whole schedule for you.” She winks, a glint of relief in her eyes.

I laugh softly, popping another pale piece of fruit into my mouth as I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, slide my feet into slippers, and shuffle towards the bathroom.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror bolted above the sink, my hair neatly woven into a Dutch braid. For a split second, my throat tightens. It’s such a small thing, but in a place designed to strip away our humanity and reduce us to inventory valued for the profit we produce or pleasure we can provide, it makes me feel almost human.

My gaze drifts past my reflection to the dead space behind me, my fingers curling around the edge of the sink as my body braces against the memory of Riggs’s broad frame towering over mine, that glacial stare slicing through defenses I've spent years building. My other hand lifts to my neck mindlessly, fingertips searching for something that isn’t there.

I can’t tell if I’m reaching for the familiarity of the locket or the pressure of his hand.

My pulse quickens, guilt festering as heat floods my cheeks. I shut it down before those dark, warped, thoughts can weave together and begin their constant loop through my mind, retreating back to the room.

Kenzie is back on her own bed, curled onto her side with her eyes closed. Her face is still too tense for sleep, every muscle held rigid beneath the surface. Then again, maybe even at rest, we don’t get to look peaceful anymore. Maybe our bodies remain on guard long after our minds have surrendered, bracing for the next unknown threat to come through the door.

We haven’t seen Miller in a while, and it can’t be a coincidence that Kenzie hasn’t been dragged out for any surprise appointments since he disappeared. There was never a legitimate reason for her to be pulled away twice as often– we’re both here for appraisals, and her records are more current than mine– especially at all hours of the night. After what she’s told me and the way I’ve heard Miller and some of the other Enforcers talk, I know this place is a lot more fucked up than what the surface shows.

Whatever happened, she always came back with the same hollow look in her eyes and crawled beneath the covers, retreating in slumber until the next Enforcer barked her number.

Plucking the maraschino cherry from the fruit cup– the absolute best part that should always be saved for last– I pop it into my mouth and savor the sweetness. Then I grab our dinner trays, setting them on the nightstand before pulling back the blankets and slipping beneath the covers of my bed, arms winding around the pillow as I curl up.

“Like it?” Kenzie asks, voice thin.

I tilt my head to see her glancing my way, her eyes fluttering lazily over my braid.

“Love it,” I respond.

She smiles softly, eyes drifting shut again.

I’m glad she’s getting a break from whatever bullshit the enforcers were putting her through.

I like Kenzie. She’s nice, and while the circumstances that brought us together are beyond fucked up, having someone to actually talk to has kept me sane. I haven't had that in years.

In some ways, she reminds me of Hannah. The thought picks at the edges of an old scab, peeling it back just enough for air to sting the raw flesh beneath.

As much as I hope Hannah, Zeke, and Cody escaped this fate, I also can’t help but wonder whether they missed me after I was taken. Whether anyone did.

Did their thoughts drift towards me in quiet moments like this? Were there things they wanted to tell me or show me, only to remember I wasn’t there?

How long did it take them to realize I was gone? Did they ever learn what happened?

I don’t even know what happened to my father’s body after everything was over; I left it all behind. My entire life froze that night as I ran to his auto shop– an admittedly stupid place to hide, but I had to start somewhere– the timeline shattering and forcing me down this path while everyone else remained on the other.

What if they never learned the truth? What if they think I just disappeared? What if they don’t miss me at all, or are mad because they think I abandoned them?

Stop it, Jersey.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing every question I don’t have the spoons to deal with behind the same locked door in my mind. Shifting deeper into the pillow, another stray thought slips through the cracks.

Miss me, little stray?

My breath hitches.

Of all the places my mind could go, it chooses Riggs.

The mere thought of him should make my skin crawl– and it does, but not in the way I expect. Something warm and deeply flawed threads through the unease as my mind catches on the details it had no reason to commit to memory.

The way his form swallowed me whole, the rough timbre of his voice. The jagged scar over his left eye, and the way his icy gaze pierced into me, like he could actually see me and looking away wasn’t an option.

Curiosity, I tell myself. No more, no less. Just another man with plenty of audacity to spare.

That has to be it– why heat's licking up my spine at the thought of him instead of my veins turning to ice. My nervous system has spent years learning all the wrong lessons. I probably just prefer the rougher stuff because that always meant it would be over sooner with Commander Martin.

Yup, that’s it, I was just ready for it to be over.

Except if that were the case, then why did his promise of continuing feel like something to look forward to?

Nope. Sleep Jersey.

I roll toward Kenzie, looking for something tangible to ground myself with. I watch the slow rise and fall of her back and unintentionally start to match her breathing as my eyelids grow heavier. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, catching on the split that refuses to heal because I keep raking my teeth over it.

Enforcer? Riggs had asked as he studied my face in the mirror, the hunger in his eyes hardening into something callous as I nodded.

Come to think of it, that was the last day I saw Miller, too. Which has to be a coincidence.

…right?

A cold unease unfurls inside me as the pieces of a ridiculous conspiracy theory begin to slot together. And despite every rational part of me insisting that the thought should terrify me, it bleeds into something restless beneath my ribs.

Eventually, exhaustion wins out, but sleep offers no escape. Every fractured segment of my dreams is haunted with his lingering stare.

16

TALON

The sensor beside the balcony doors flashes orange as the security system enters into diagnostic mode, HAKR confirming that it’s offline but looping for the monitoring service. I slip my phone back into my pocket before pulling a black balaclava down over my face.

The door handle offers no resistance when I test it. Fucking morons. Just because it’s on the second floor doesn't mean it’s safe to leave unlocked. But hey, just makes my job easier.

I ease the door shut behind me, stepping into the guest wing of the sprawling manor. I’ll never understand the appeal of having a house so obnoxiously huge that entire rooms aren’t used or even fucking furnished.

What’s the point?

Such a waste of– well, everything– just to be able to brag about their excess.

From the footage and blueprints I reviewed, the office should be at the start of this hallway, just off the stairs. The house is completely silent, Maxwell and Lucille Nelson off at a charity gala to pad their public image as he prepares to run for The Registry’s open Treasurer position. After tonight’s assignment, it’ll be a wasted effort.

According to the encrypted job request I accepted, Maxwell caused a wreck three years ago and used his power and connections to make it disappear. His drunk ass crossed the center line, forcing a young single mother from The Fringe off the road as she was coming home from a late shift. He didn’t even stop– just left her stranded in the embankment. By morning, when the accident was discovered, all traffic footage in the area had been wiped. The medical report noted her blood alcohol levels were off the charts, no matter how much she claimed she didn't drink, leading to a ruling that she lost control due to intoxication.

She probably would’ve been better off dying in the accident. She lost her job, medical bills consumed her savings until she couldn't afford her apartment, and she hasn’t had a permanent address since. The father of her child is now fighting for custody, and she doesn’t have the resources to put up much of a battle. Maxwell Nelson’s reckless disregard for humanity ruined her life, and I’m here to find any physical or digital trail that can tip the scales and keep him from gaining even more power to exploit.

I enter the office to find an oversized mahogany desk across from a fireplace, flanked with leather wingback chairs. On the smooth surface of the desk sits a lone laptop, a wireless charging pad, and a formally posed family photo.

To avoid disrupting too many things, I start with the computer, connecting my phone and letting HAKR comb over the local files and cloud servers.

The client account for this assignment had some bogus name attached to it, with a carefully routed and untraceable payment. Even though it seemed a little suspicious, I didn’t hesitate in taking it. If they stiff me on the payment, I’ll survive– this assignment hit too close to home to pass up.

The man whose DNA I unfortunately share was once in the midst of launching his own political career. I don’t know what became of it, and I don't really give a shit.

Why would I care?

Why would I want to put a face or a name to the man who loathed the very fact I existed?

The man wanted nothing to do with me, yet somehow made my mother resent me for being the living proof of what he’d done. He funded and fed her addiction until it left her corpse rotting in one room while my terrified five-year-old self was locked in the closet for fucking days.

Knowing who he is wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. And as much fun as it would be to disassemble him bone by bone until he fit inside a box with more pieces than cheap furniture, I’d rather let him remain the fucked up motivation that drives me to filet a thousand more despicable pieces of shit just like him. I'll spend an eternity in hell with the bastard one day, and there, I'll make the devil look away in horror with what I do to him.

You reap what you sow, after all. Little did he know that fucking the eighteen-year-old intern behind his wife’s back would create a monster that could shatter his pious image before I could even tie my shoes.

The laptop pings as the recovery program finishes dredging through the deleted sectors of his hard drive. A folder resurfaces on the screen, buried three directories deep and surprisingly password protected.

Smart.

Not smart enough to stop me, but a cute attempt.

I launch a script, a cavalcade of letters and numbers flooding the command window as it tears through every possible combination. It takes all of six seconds to crack it.

“Fucking moron,” I mutter as the folder opens.

Inside is a meticulously organized digital confession– messages arranging private meetings, wire transfers routed through shell accounts, and copies of the footage that mysteriously disappeared before it could be entered into evidence– it’s all here, practically fucking gift-wrapped for me.

My cursor hovers over a zoomed-in and sharpened still of the person behind the wheel staring directly at the camera.

Plot twist– it’s not him.

My gaze shifts from the screen to the framed photograph beside the laptop. The vapid smile is gone, but there’s no mistaking that face.

Turns out he wasn’t just covering his own ass, he was covering hers.

“Oh, Lucille,” I admonish, as I start scrubbing my trail. “You blitzed out, bitch.”

Having a cunt doesn’t make someone any less capable of being one.

I send the zip file off to the client, backtracking and cleaning up my physical presence as much as the digital one before slipping out into the night.

I crack the throttle as my front tire hits the parking garage ramp. The exhaust pops in quick succession, every sound ricocheting through the concrete structure. At the bottom, I smash my boot down to lock up the rear brake, my other heel scraping the cement as the back tire whips sideways and wrenches the R1M neatly into the stall beside my truck.

Speed. Control. A quick jolt of adrenaline to dull the hunger gnawing inside me.

For now.

That’s what seeing the little stray was supposed to do, but the taste I got of her didn’t curb the curiosity. It only made it worse, refusing to let me move the fuck on. I spent the night out at my cabin, hoping the change in scenery might smother the rest of my curiosity.

It didn't.

So, I took an assignment. Then another. But not even the high that used to come with those did it for me. Instead, there's a crawling pressure behind my ribs that tightens whenever I think about Miller putting his hands on her. As much as I enjoyed splitting him open with a bottle, I’d rather split her open with my cock.

Fucking nepo bastard. If his dad hadn’t pulled strings to get him a job he didn’t deserve, it would’ve saved me so much hassle. At least he won’t be fucking shit up and touching Jersey– or other Assets– ever again.

The sense of entitlement that comes with social status and bloodlines is fucking ridiculous. None of that makes you better, smarter, faster, or invincible. If anything, it paints a larger target on your back. Going around boasting about your net worth, the valuables you own, and your connections only creates an itemized list of what someone else can steal.

Half the blood in my veins is from an elitist fuck, and it’s fucking worthless. On paper, it might make a difference to other pompous jackasses, but that’s only because they’ve been programmed to believe it actually makes them superior.

Knocking down the kick stand, I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike. My boots thud against the concrete with each annoyed step as I stalk toward the elevator.

I need a fucking drink.

I heave a sigh as I crack open my wallet to pull out my access card, that restless fucking itch burrowing deeper beneath my skin, sinking into my bones where I can’t fucking reach it.

No more.

I swipe my access card to call the elevator, then pull out my phone to delete the goddamn shortcut to Jersey’s video feed. Cutting off my access should finally put an end to this shit.

But before I reach the settings, her feed is already loading.

I’m a fucking liar.

17

JERSEY

A311

Acacophony of high-pitched wails jerks me awake, eyes snapping open to red lights flashing violently from above the door, splintering through the darkness with every burst. My heart lurches into my throat as I shove upright, still in a haze of confusion as the door flies open and slams against the wall.

What the fuck is happening?

Boots hammer against the concrete as two Enforcers charge into the room, flanking our beds with their rifles drawn. A third blocks the door, respirators covering all of their faces.

“On your feet,” one barks. “Possible gas leak, we’ve got to evacuate.”

“Hey!” I shout as an Enforcer tears off my blanket.

“Shut the fuck up,” he fires back, his gloved hand clamping around my ankle and yanking me to the edge of the mattress. “Hands,” he commands, pulling plastic cuffs from his pocket.

I cast a nervous glance towards Kenzie as I swing my legs over the edge of the cot. Her eyes are wide, lips pressed in a thin line as she gives the smallest shake of her head.

Something isn’t right.

My throat bobs with a hard swallow while I steel myself for whatever comes next. Plastic bites into my skin as the Enforcer cinches the restraints tightly around my wrists, his fingers curling around my arm. His thumb jabs into the still tender flesh of my bicep as he shoves me toward the door.

Kenzie’s shoulder knocks into mine as we stumble forward in tandem, the menacing glare of the third Enforcer forcing us to a stop.

“Identification,” he states flatly.

“You don’t–” I start to say, but then the barrel of a rifle stabs into my spine, reminding me that resistance is futile. “A311,” I rush out, fisting my hands so tight my fingernails pierce my palms.

“A297,” Kenzie chimes in.

The Enforcer jerks a nod at the others, slipping his phone back into his pocket and pivoting on a heel. “Let’s go,” he says, flicking his wrist to beckon us.

The rifle barrel nudges me again and I quickly stumble forward, following him into the hall. The sirens are still blaring, my skull throbbing from the noise and the flashing lights making me nauseous.

We weave through the corridors, making it about halfway down before I realize we haven't encountered any other Assets– or anyone at all, for that matter. My hackles raise, mouth going dry as I ask, “What kind of gas leak?”

“The kind that’ll kill you if you keep asking stupid fucking questions,” the leader growls over his shoulder as he swipes a badge at a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’. It glides open with a buzz, then he reaches back to grab my arm, wrenching me through. “Move.”

My bare feet slap softly against the metal stairs as he rushes us down them. Hazy yellow lights buzzing in the stairwell, the sound of the alarms growing more distant the further we descend. At the bottom, he approaches the door to a mechanical room and pauses, pinching the top of his shoulder and tilting his chin.

“Control, bravo team, south corridor secure. Initiating handoff.”

Handoff?

I blink up at him, the pit in my stomach growing heavier. Something isn’t right. He hasn’t said anything more about the gas leak, nothing about an evacuation.

My pulse races, breaths coming out in short, frantic bursts.

Any time I start to get comfortable or let my guard down in the slightest, the world serves me with another cruel twist of fate. Turns out, safety is just another luxury I’ll never be able to afford.

Things had grown quiet and seemingly uneventful– too uneventful, clearly. I knew I was in a fucking government prison and not some sleep away camp, but the borrowed illusion of quiet contentment was nice while it lasted.

“Copy,” the Enforcer murmurs. “Standing by.”

The door locks suddenly whir, disengaging. The Enforcer yanks it open, leading the way into a bleak concrete room with nothing but another door on the opposite side. It opens, another Enforcer stepping through carrying a Guardian cuff and a syringe.

Ugh. As if this night couldn’t get any worse.

“A297?” he questions.

“This one,” the Enforcer who led us in replies, motioning to Kenzie, as one of the men behind us moves in to unfasten her restraints.

Once her wrists are free, the new guy takes her wrist and secures the Guardian cuff.

“So, you must be A311,” he smirks, turning to me as my own restraints are cut. “Lucky for you, you get to be the new test subject.”

An Enforcer grabs me from behind by my sweatshirt, the collar digging into my neck as he yanks. The fabric rips, my shirt falling to the floor in shreds as the new Enforcer uncaps the syringe and jabs the needle into my neck.

I choke on a gasp as something implants beneath my skin, my arms wrapping around myself as goosebumps pebble up. He swipes a fob over the junction of my neck and shoulder, and a soft static brushes beneath my skin, panic rolling through me. Then a tiny zap has my muscles going rigid, blood pooling in my mouth as I bite my tongue against the pain.

“And activated,” he drawls, handing the remote off to the other Enforcer. “Guardian has app access, return the remote after transfer.”

My pulse races, real fear taking hold. Enduring a shock from a Guardian cuff was one thing, but to have a device implanted inside me, like it’s part of my body?

I think I’m gonna be sick.

“Let’s go,” he barks, turning on a heel.

Kenzie and I follow him through the door and into a loading dock, where he rolls up a metal door. Beyond it is a chain link cage with three other Assets inside, all in various stages of undress around a pile of clothes in the middle. Metal rattles and scrapes as he unlatches the gate, shoving us inside.

“Get changed and be quiet,” the Enforcer orders, swinging the gate closed and latching it again. “Or you’ll leave here as ash instead.”

He turns and walks away, leaving that ominous threat hanging in the air.

“This isn’t how I remember auction prep,” I mutter, a bad attempt at humor buried somewhere in there.

“Because it isn’t,” Kenzie sighs, bending at the waist to snatch a top off the pile of clothes before handing it over to me.

“What do you mean?” I ask as I take it from her hand.

“This is allocation pickup,” she says, plucking a top and mini skirt off the pile for herself.

I stare back at her in confusion, but she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she pulls her top off over her head, my gaze snagging on the pale pink letters carved into the flesh beneath her belly button.

Harris.

18

TALON

The elevator doors inside the compound slide open with a mechanical ding, and I step off to find Slade leaning up against the wall nearby, one foot kicked back against the cinderblock as he scrolls his phone absently. He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, something like relief washing over his features as if he’s been waiting for me.

“Tracking me now?” I ask, arching a brow in his direction. “Careful, Slade, you’re starting to look desperate.”

“Where you been?” he questions, pushing off from the wall and advancing in my direction.

I swipe Jersey’s video feed away, pocketing my phone. “Out,” I reply flatly, shouldering past him to head for my apartment.

“Uh huh,” Slade mumbles, keeping pace with me. “Do you remember that Miller kid from probation? Austin? Couldn’t hit shit unless it was five feet in front of him and completely still, only made it as far as he did because of his dad?”

I grunt in response, not breaking stride.

The mention of Miller’s name should raise all the fucking red flags, considering I went rogue and melted the guy’s face off, but I’m only half listening. Once again, my little stray has me dangerously distracted.

Closing her video feed does fuck all to erase the image of her from my mind. Curled on her side with her lips slightly parted, her dark hair twisted into a braid that was practically made for my fist. I imagine winding my fingers through her hair, those eyes snapping open, then sharpening with recognition. That’s when the fire and fight would kick in– when she realized who’d crawled back through the vents to finish what he’d started.

I’d guide that vicious little mouth over my cock until the hoop piercing at my tip was visible through the skin at the hollow of her throat, hold her there until she struggled for breath. I bet she’d bite again, sinking her teeth into me, coating my shaft in blood and spit.

My fingers flex at my side, my blood surging south and my cock thickening behind my zipper as Slade continues rambling on about the irrelevant douche whose been turned into biodegradable flesh-fetti.

“C’mon, you know who I’m talking about,” Slade huffs. “His dad left the Syndicate for some bullshit job at The Registry after he got his knee blown out, remember?”

I grind to a halt in front of my apartment door, adjusting myself as I pivot to unlock it. “There a point to this?”

“Yeah, the point is Austin Miller was taken out by a car bomb,” Slade says, leaning a shoulder against the wall and stabbing his fingers through his hair. “They found his car and most of him in a field halfway to Bellhaven.”

“You don’t say,” I deadpan, pushing into my apartment.

Slade follows me in, and I head towards the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Then I turn, raising it to Slade. “Want some?”

“No, shithead,” he scoffs, scowling back at me. “Miller’s dad’s out for blood.”

This gets my attention. I flick my gaze up, pausing briefly before cracking the seal on the bottle and starting to pour. “From who?”

“Whoever did it.” Slade pushes up his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I heard him talking to my dad–”

“Do you have your dad’s house tapped?” I ask, turning to face him.

“No.” He rolls his eyes. “Just his office.”

I shrug, taking a drink.

“Well, he thinks a repo man did it,” Slade continues, still glowering at me. “He wants a meeting with us all.”

“When?”

“Now.”

I throw back my drink before begrudgingly motioning towards the door. “Lead the way.”

My boots scuff against the concrete as I follow Slade through the corridors of the compound and into one of the command rooms. A few other mercenaries are already seated around the conference table in the center– some in sweats, straight out of bed, and others in full tactical gear. I stride over to the nearest empty chair and sink down into it, my fingers drumming restlessly over my phone in my pocket.

Chief Noah Pierce walks in, some greying fuck in a tailored suit staggering beside him with a cane. From a single glance, I can tell he’s related to Austin Miller. Those genes are putting in far more work than that useless twat ever did.

I don’t want to be here. No one is ever going to prove I’m responsible for Austin Miller’s demise, and I'd much rather be home right now with a hand wrapped around my dick while I watch my favorite feed. But I respect Noah, so I’ll sit through this bullshit meeting. And not because he’s my Chief, not because he raised me when he didn’t have to, but because he’s a good man in a world where human decency is a fucking liability. Nothing comes free, and doing the right thing is rarely rewarded.

He could’ve ignored my screams for help all those years ago. Leaving a half-dead kid behind with his junkie mother’s body wouldn’t have made the world any worse than it already was, but Noah didn’t see things that way. He opened the door, let me out. He did what he could to raise me alongside Slade.

We inherited a world built by selfish bastards, and maybe it’s too fucked up now to fix. But that doesn’t mean we can't unfuck things for a few.

“What's going on?” Ross grumbles as he walks in. He looks like shit, one eye bruised and halfway swollen shut. “It’s three a.m. - someone better be dead,” he adds, dropping to the chair beside Slade.

Miller’s dad turns around quickly, leveling him with a glare. “My son is.”

Ross pales, scrubbing a busted hand over his tight-cropped hair as he mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Alright,” Noah sighs, arms folding over his chest as his eyes sweep over the room. “Commander Miller has put an open assignment on retainer. Turn in the proof of who murdered his son, and you’ll get to handle the execution.”

“I won’t mince words,” Miller cuts in, swinging his cane in front of Noah as he steps forward and lifts his chin. “The hit on my son was meticulous. Professional. Whoever did it had training.” His eyes narrow. “This kind of training. If it was someone in here, I have the power to find out and bury them.” He bangs his cane against the ground, sweeping his gaze around the table.

Nobody shifts their weight, no one’s expression changes. We’re all too well trained for that. Miller scowls, huffing out a breath before abruptly turning and hobbling out the door.

I scoff internally at his threat– one that could only come to fruition because of money, not skill.

“Dismissed,” Noah shouts.

I feel Slade’s gaze flick my way as I shove up from my seat and stalk towards the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get up and start to follow, so I pick up my pace, aiming to lose him. As soon as I make it back to my apartment, I slip inside, immediately pulling up Jersey’s feed.

The fuck?

I blink at the screen, brows furrowing.

Last I checked, she was fast asleep. Now, her cell is empty.

Something in my chest pulls tight, my jaw clenching as I drop down into my recliner. Pulling up her file, I swipe into her profile to see what evaluation she’s been pulled in for, a notification at the top of the screen giving me pause.

Returned to Guardian.

I blink at the screen, sure I’m reading it wrong because it makes no fucking sense– her prior Guardian is dead and gone.

I click on the notification, finding her Guardian listed not as Isaiah Martin, but as Harris Rupert.

That sociopath?

My brows slam down, thumbs working over the screen. Just as I begin attempting to access Harris’ files, a knock comes at the door.

I try to ignore it, but it persists.

Slamming my phone down, I stalk over to the door and yank it open, finding Slade on the other side.

“What?” I spit.

He pushes in without invitation, and I huff as I shove the door closed behind him. Slade takes a few steps, then turns to face me.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was?” I scoff, moving back to the living room.

“Miller.”

I grunt noncommittally, focusing back on my phone as I sink down on the couch again.

“Your lip curled when he said someone here did it. It’s your tell.”

“No it didn’t,” I mutter, trying and failing to access Harris’ files with the backdoor access Slade granted me for Jersey.

“Don’t bullshit me, Riggs,” Slade huffs, folding his arms and leveling me with a stare. “I know you. Why would you fuck with someone not only in The Registry, but a Commander’s son?”

“Not now,” I grumble, holding my phone out. “Can you help me get into this?”

Slade rolls his eyes and takes my phone, never one to turn down a chance at showing off. His fingers fly across the screen, the corner of his mouth twitching as I see a script running in the reflection of his glasses.

“Here,” he sighs, passing my phone back to me. “Now, back to Miller…”

His voice fades into background noise as I start digging through the file, finding altered logs and missing report details.

“Riggs, are you listening? The fuck is so important?” Slade swipes my phone out of my hand, his brow creasing as his eyes drop to the screen to skim the text. “That’s weird. There has to be another version.”

“Find it,” I grit out.

He looks up at me, considering. “No,” he decides, tossing my phone down and pivoting on a heel.

“Slade,” I snarl.

He stops, pivoting back toward me. “Fine. But after, we’re gonna talk about this Miller thing.”

“Fine,” I concede with a resigned sigh.

“I asked for a VR headset, you know,” he calls out, already moving towards my office. “But no, my dad brought you home instead.”

“I just wanted something to eat,” I mumble as I follow him in, plugging my phone into the modem. “Looks like we both got shit luck.”

Slade chuckles as he cracks his knuckles and settles in at my desk. It takes him all of two minutes to find a prior version of the altered report on a cloud file. “They scrubbed the servers, but not the emergency cloud,” he says with a scoff. “Amateurs.”

He keeps working, twisting in the chair and scanning the desk. “Thumb drive?”

“What’d you find?” I ask as I pull open a drawer and hand him one.

“Martin’s entire file. Everything that was here before, and… woah.”

A fresh rush of adrenaline punches through my veins. “What?”

“Found the entire investigation into the sedition charges that got him killed. Shit, he’d been skimming money from The Registry for at least five years,” Slade says, eyes wide as he scrolls.

“Why delete it?”

“He did this smoothly, money going out in various amounts, different services, different departments.” Slade twists around. “I’m actually impressed, they probably didn’t want to leave a how-to manual for stealing billions from them.”

“That’s fucking dumb,” I grumble, my hand idly rubbing the back of my neck.

“It is The Registry,” Slade snorts. “I can look into how this happened by tracking Harris’ financial movement, registry inconsistencies…”

Tension leeches into my muscles at the thought of someone else handling my little stray. Something cold and unfamiliar crawls beneath my skin. Irritation, I decide as I tip my chin and say, “Keep looking.”

I push to my feet and pace across the room, aiming to burn off some of the fury festering inside me. “What about J– Assets?” I ask.

If he caught my slip-up, he doesn’t let on. If he did, I’m sure he’s filed it away for that big ol’ talk about Miller we’re not going to have.

“Uhh,” he murmurs, chewing his lower lip in concentration as he searches. “Harris has a bunch of properties listed, but each address lists all five Assets as residents.”

I snatch my phone up, grumbling, “Let me see.”

“You’re welcome,” he mocks, rising to his feet. “Oh stop it, I know I’m the fucking best.”

I shoot him a quick glare before my eyes return to the screen.

He moves in closer, looking over my shoulder as I flip through Harris’ list of properties, trying to pinpoint which one he might be hiding Jersey at.

“Looks like he hosts a weekly poker game,” I mumble.

“On it,” Slade replies, leaning over the desk and tapping on the keyboard. “Tomorrow night,” he confirms. “Out near Ashford Station.”

I exhale slowly through my nose, hands curling into fists at my sides.

I’ve never been one for poker, but when it comes to a hunt, the odds are always in my favor.

19

JERSEY

A311

My fingers slip beneath the pink leather band fastened around my neck, rubbing at the skin where it’s getting raw.

As if being treated like property wasn’t degrading enough, Harris– I’m sure as fuck not calling him Master– has managed to strip away what little distinction remained between person and pet by making me wear a collar attached to a leash, and nothing else.

At least it didn’t come with a tail.

Small miracles.

I’m not the only one being debased like this. Harris is hosting a poker game, and all five of his Assets have been arranged as entertainment on a low circular dais in the center of the room. White fur rugs and velour pillows cover most of the dark walnut platform, and while the rest of the room is dim and moody, a spotlight ensures our naked bodies are on full display.

The instructions were simple enough, wait here until one of the players calls for us. Then crawl to whichever deranged pretentious asshole summoned us, tolerate being fondled, and return back to the ‘kennel’, as Harris so affectionately calls it, when they’re done with us.

If it wasn’t for the fury searing through my veins and the hard floor digging into my palms and knees, I’d be sure this was some horrifyingly twisted nightmare. But no, this degrading as fuck spectacle is my reality now– or it will be if I don’t find a way out.

I’d rather choke to death on some old fuck’s cock than let crawling on command become a daily custom.

Every few minutes, my gaze drifts around the room, etching every last detail into my frontal cortex as I search for some way out. White lines disappear from polished silver trays beneath their noses, hands dipping into ornate crystal bowls with a variety of colored pills that are washed down with another stiff drink. These men are all fucked up in more ways than they arrived, so surely I have a decent shot at getting away if I can find an opening.

A whistle cuts through the air, apprehension taking hold as all of us Assets turn wearily toward the source, waiting with horrified anticipation of who’s going to be called.

“You!” one of the men shouts, pointing at me. “Pinky pie.”

Of fucking course.

I hear a few faint sighs of relief from the others, metal leashes clinking as their posture slackens. We’re all wearing collars of different hues to identify us, and mine just so happens to be my least favorite color– Pepto Bismol pink.

I didn’t think there was anything worse than being stripped of your name and reduced to a number, but silly me, there is.

I don’t immediately move. The pad of my thumb traces over the crest of my thigh in a square as I breathe slowly, trying to steady my ratcheting pulse. Kenzie bumps her hip into mine, my gaze flickering to her as she mouths, ‘go’.

I suppose she knows the consequences of non-compliance better than I do, since she’s been with this Guardian before.

Swallowing my shame, I shift down from the platform, palms splaying and kneecaps grinding against the hardwood floor as I start to crawl.

The guy who summoned me slaps his leg and whistles again, signaling for me to hurry up.

Keep it up and I’ll piss on your shoes or bite your leg.

He discards his drink as I make it to his side and rock back on my heels. A grin spreads across his face, his eyes glazed. He reaches down, fingers sinking into my hair as he ruffles it.

“Good girl,” he croons. “Hop up here.”

He pats his leg in invitation, and I swallow back my vitriol and climb into his lap, trying not to sit against the hard bulge in his pants. My body wants to jerk violently away as his hands grip onto my hips, forcing me down against his erection.

His breath is hot and reeks of gin as it fans over my skin, his hands exploring every exposed inch of me.

There’s a tray of cocaine on the table in front of him with five neat lines cut across it. He leans forward, taking one, then turns and offers the rolled bill to me.

I shake my head, which is apparently the wrong move. His whole face changes, screwing up in anger. He reaches for the leash attached to my collar, jerking down on it.

“Take a line, bitch. Now.”

My teeth sink into the fleshy inside of my cheek, every muscle in my body going rigid as the leather collar cuts into the column of my neck.

“Bad girl,” he admonishes, his expression darkening as he yanks even harder on my leash, forcing my face onto the tray.

Dropping the leash, his hand moves to the back of my head, keeping my face pressed against the tray. I writhe beneath him, holding my breath as red-hot tears prick behind my eyes. He leans forward, the edge of the poker table digging into my ribs as he puts more of his weight onto my head. Pain radiates from my nose– bruised, broken, bleeding, I don’t know. Black spots tinge my vision as his other hand reaches for his empty glass. His legs open mine, the smooth base of the glass pressing harshly against my center.

“Make your choice,” he says mockingly. “Either way something’s going inside.” He rocks the glass against my entrance. “Tick, tock.”

I swear I hear glass starting to crack and I gasp, air rushing violently into my lungs on a desperate inhale as coke goes up my nose. Agony blazes through me like molten lava, tears streaming down my face as he twists it from side to side, laughing. My mouth falls open with a sob, the powder bitter as it hits my tongue.

“There we go,” he cackles, abandoning the glass and yanking the leash back to force me upright.

I cough and choke, my vision blurring, face numbing as he reaches out to grab my chin. “How does that feel, my disobedient little pet?” he asks, eyes glittering as he tilts his head, tongue lapping coke residue from my cheek.

His mouth slides to mine, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip, asking for permission I won’t give. His hand slides to the crystal ash tray, wisps of smoke trailing from a cigar before he holds the smoldering end flush against my stomach, My mouth pops open from pain, his tongue sweeping rapidly around my mouth. I bite down on instinct, jaw locking, not letting go.

He shouts, trying to pull back, but I don’t let go. The metallic taste of his blood fills my mouth, a sense of victory spearing through me.

It’s tragically short-lived.

The next thing I know, I’m toppling backwards, my head cracking against the hard surface as I meet the floor. I blink up in a daze, to see Harris standing over me with a scowl on his face.

Blood leaking down the other man’s chin as he whips out a handkerchief and murmurs, “Rabid bitch.”

“Sorry, Aiden,” Harris growls, grabbing on to my leash. “Pets that can’t behave get punished.”

I cry out– first at the pain around my neck as he yanks the leash to force me up, and then again as the shiny toe of his oxford shoe connects with my ribs. I fold forward, catching myself with my palms.

“Let’s go, bitch,” he barks, tugging on my leash.

He leads me across the room, boasting about how some pets need to be beaten into compliance. When I realize he’s not leading me back to the ‘kennel’, but to another door on the opposite side of the room, my body locks up in fear. He just kicks me again, yanking on my leash until I’m following at his heels.

He unlocks the door and yanks it open. It’s so dark inside I can’t even see what awaits me. Not that it matters. He just shoves me forward into the dark.

“I’ll be back to deal with you,” he snarls before the door swings shut, plunging me into darkness.

20

TALON

The truck's engine rumbles beneath me, my foot mashing the accelerator flush against the floor as I take the on-ramp at twice the speed limit. Slade whoops with excitement from the passenger seat, one hand clutching onto the grab handle to brace himself as the Raptor leans into the curve.

At least someone’s having fun.

I could’ve done this alone. Probably should’ve, honestly. But the dickhead refused to provide technical support unless I let him join in on ruining Harris’ weekly poker night, so here we are. Brotherly bonding or some shit.

It’s not that I don’t trust Slade– he’s more than capable when shit gets real. And there aren’t many people I’d rather have at my back. But that’s the problem, I trust him too much.

He’s only four months older than me, so we've literally grown up having each other's backs, and he knows me better than anyone. He knows my tells, and that cyber creep probably knows more than he’d admit about me and what I do.

But if things go sideways tonight, I don’t want him pulling me back before I’m finished. I’m so fucking over The Registry bullshit and the free range elitists it protects, just shitting wherever they wander without consequence. I need an outlet. The urge to dispense violence is clawing at my insides, my pulse ticking in my throat.

“So,” Slade starts. “You gonna tell me what’s so special about this girl?”

My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as I merge onto the highway, and once I settle into a decent cruising speed, I turn up the radio.

Some annoyingly upbeat pop song pulses through the cab, drowning out whatever else he planned to say. He shakes his head and shifts in his seat, pulling his phone out, thumbs tapping on the screen.

Good, bother someone else.

I keep my eyes on the road, the LEDs from the passing light poles casting shadows around the cab. My phone vibrates against the center console and I glance down to see a notification from Exchange.

Specialist: Slade Pierce, Repo Technician

Services Provided: File Access, Management and Recovery

Amount Owed: $10,000

“Did you fucking invoice me?” I huff, tossing my phone back down.

“Yup,” he says, popping the P like a goddamn child.

I turn the music down, cutting him a sideways glance. “For ten grand?”

“Don’t wanna act like a friend or family, then you don’t get the discount. And I’ll send another one after tonight's field activities.”

“Tonight? You invited yourself.” I flick him a sideways glance.

“And now you're paying for the privilege of my company.”

I shake my head. “I’m not paying it.”

“Fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t pay me, don’t answer my question, be a fucking tool.”

He slumps back in his seat, a silence settling between us as his attention returns to his phone.

The reprieve lasts all of thirty seconds.

“C’mon, bro,” he groans, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “First, you have me get you access to her Registry file, then the Enforcer in charge of her unit gets killed under mysterious circumstances. And you’ve been binge watching the live feed of her cell.”

I cut him a glare, flexing my grip on the steering wheel as my eyes return to the road.

“Yeah,” he snorts. “I built the ghost door, of course I monitor the traffic. Besides, I wanted to make sure you didn’t get yourself into any shit, which clearly, you have.”

I don’t reply. There’s no point in arguing when he already knows.

I didn’t watch that often, did I?

Most of the time, I only checked in for a few minutes, made sure she was still there, then went back to doing whatever I was before my attention wandered.

Somehow, it always wandered back.

“So c’mon,” Slade presses, reclining back in his seat and kicking a boot up onto the dash. “Let’s hear it.”

“Get your fucking foot down.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he drops it back to the floor. “Better?”

My gaze stays fixed on the road, jaw working as I consider how much to share. Slade already knows something’s off. Not telling him will just give him motivation to keep digging… or tagging along and annoying the piss out of me.

“You remember the night I got this scar?” I ask, my fingers lifting from the wheel to trace the raised skin over my left eye.

He huffs a laugh. “Thought you didn’t remember Austin Miller?”

I exhale a slow breath. “Not him,” I grumble. “Her.”

Slade’s brow furrows. “Who?”

“The Asset he shot. The reason Miller tried to fucking blind me to cover his own ass.” I shift my grip on the steering wheel. “When you gave me access to that file last week, I started digging through it. And what I found…” I trail off, shaking my head.

There are coincidences, and then there’s the fucking cruel twist of fate that put Jersey in my path.

Again.

“I found a report from the night she was brought in by The Registry,” I murmur. “She arrived with a gunshot wound to her lower abdomen, on the same fucking night that shit went down with Miller.”

Slade goes rigid beside me, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Wait, are you saying…?”

I jerk a nod.

“Shit.” He slumps back against the passenger seat again. “Well, at least this is finally starting to make sense.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You feel guilty.”

“No,” I growl.

“No?” He barks a disbelieving laugh. “So what is it, then? You like her or something?”

My jaw tightens, finger tapping against the steering wheel. I don’t even know what the fuck this is. There’s this constant grating in the back of my skull, demanding my attention no matter how many times I try to bury it.

Hell, I barely fucking know her.

She’s just a mouthy brat with no sense of self-preservation. An anomaly in my daily patterns. Keeping up with her was for the assignment– assurance of completion. Not to ease the incessant tightness behind my ribs.

Whatever the fuck it is, I don’t have name for it, and I sure as hell don’t like Slade trying to give it one.

Jersey Ellis is just an irritating little stray, her hazel eyes filled with a fire that refuses to extinguish. And I can’t decide whether I want to preserve it, or provoke it until it consumes us both.

My silence stretches a second too long.

“Holy shit,” Slade gasps dramatically. “Seriously?”

“No,” I snap, cutting him another glare. “She’s just…” Mine. “...we have unfinished business.”

“I see,” he murmurs, nodding slowly. Then he leans forward and reaches into his backpack at the footwell, tugging his laptop from inside and settling it across his thighs. “So what’s the play here, then?” he asks as he flips it open, the screen illuminating his face. “Repo mission?”

“Something like that.”

The keys click as his fingers move rapidly across them. Windows start popping open on his screen, one after another– property deeds, blueprints, security systems.

“Then we’ll need a plan,” he muses as he works. “We can’t just go strolling in there and yank her out. Harris holds her deed, the Syndicate doesn’t have clearance from The Registry to take her in. It’d be a breach of protocol.”

“Fuck protocol,” I grumble.

“This is why I insisted on coming.” Slade heaves a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes as he continues typing, more windows popping up on his laptop screen. “Because as fun as that sounds, I’ve got a better idea...”

“Done?” I grumble into my comms unit over the closed circuit Slade set up for us.

“Almost,” his voice replies in my ear. “You can’t rush perfection, asshole.”

The cherry on the end of my cigarette glows orange as I inhale, the sweet burn of nicotine filling my lungs. “Two minutes before I move in.”

“What, you gonna shoot your way in?” Slade snorts. “Yeah, sounds fan-fucking-tastic. Let’s just add a mountain of dead elites to clean up.”

“Wade would take them all off our hands,” I remind him, smoke lingering in the dark beside me.

“Getting rid of the bodies doesn't get rid of the problem.”

“Kinda does,” I reply flatly.

The lights in the warehouse suddenly cut out as Slade breaches the firewall, faint screams of confusion echoing from inside.

“You’re welcome,” he sing-songs.

“Finally,” I growl, taking one last inhale before dropping my cigarette. “You sure the security system’s on a separate server?”

“I wasn’t before, but I am now. It’s still online. Give me a few to get through.”

I heave an annoyed sigh, grinding the toe of my boot against the cigarette in the dirt.

The last thing I want to do is wait. Anticipation hammers in my chest, each beat feeding the violence that’s already festering beneath my skin.

She’s in there. Right beyond the walls of that fucking building, I just know it.

My pulse stutters as a door swings open, banging against the corrugated steel wall of the building. A man steps out, then another, both of them looking around in confusion and gesturing vaguely. Then a third joins them, loudly complaining about the shitty infrastructure and power grids this far from the city.

Entitled pricks.

“Slade?” I drawl lowly into my comms unit, keeping my eyes on the circle jerk of suits near the door.

“Almost there,” he replies. “I told you, perfection takes…”

His voice dissolves into static in my brain as my attention locks onto movement at the rear of the building. Another door flies open, a small figure leaping out and stumbling a step before taking off at a dead sprint, something dangling from her neck.

Is that a fucking leash?

Given the dark and the distance, I can’t make out her features, but I’d recognize my little stray anywhere. She tears through a thicket of brush, her naked form bolting into a field, dark hair whipping in the wind behind her.

“Change of plans,” I murmur into the comms. “Cover me.”

A slow grin spreads across my face, fingers twitching as the thrill of the hunt takes hold.

“Damn it, Talon–,” Slade starts.

I cut the power to my comms before he can finish.

Guess Slade doesn’t need to take down Harris’ security after all. My little stray’s already in my sights, fear evident in every frantic stride as she runs. The sight of it cracks open something savage inside me, every instinct aching to hunt her down.

And she knows how much I love the chase.

21

JERSEY

A311

Dark is disorienting enough on its own.

When you’re drugged out of your fucking mind, it’s ten times worse.

My heart thrashes wildly as my mind drifts somewhere beyond my body. I force my eyes to focus on the narrow strip of light spilling in from beneath the door in front of me. It’s the only way to anchor myself in this pitch black room, the cold from the concrete stinging my back as it seeps through, embedding itself in my marrow.

I can hear them out there, drunken and cruel. Laughing, clinking glasses, whistling for the other Assets.

A tremor ripples through me. Then another.

I’m shivering, I realize.

Or maybe my heart’s just beating too hard. It’s kicking in the depths of my chest like something buried alive, my palms clammy against my bare thighs.

He said he was going to come back.

I don’t want him to come back.

My head drops back, the heels of my hands digging into my eye sockets as I try to will myself to feel normal again. Then the door suddenly opens, the glare of light from beyond it bleaching the room in harsh white and momentarily blinding me.

“Enjoy your time out?” Harris asks mockingly, bending at the waist to scoop my leash up off the floor. “Come on, little doggie. It’s time to teach you your first lesson.”

I yelp as he yanks on the leash, leather biting into my neck as my head snaps forward. My body can’t help but follow. My hands meet the concrete, grit coating my palms as I crawl from the shadows and into the light.

For a split second, a sense of relief washes over me– but as the glare fades and my vision adjusts, relief curdles into dread. As the room comes into focus, I realize the darkness was doing me a fucking favor.

Scathing looks send heat creeping along my spine and spilling across my cheeks as Harris parades me through the crowd, leading me over to the platform in the center of the room. Kenzie’s face remains carefully blank, but pity settles in her eyes, and my stomach drops. With a snap of his fingers, the other Assets scramble down from the platform, dispersing from his sight.

He looks at me, then flicks his chin toward the platform. “Up.”

My bottom lip trembles, tears starting to blur my vision as I hesitate. He heaves an irritated sigh, roughly jerking on my leash. I grit my teeth against the pain as he forces me to climb up and puts me on display. He crowds closer, my chest heaving while I scrape together the last shreds of my courage.

“If you insist on embarrassing me in front of my friends and colleagues, you leave me no choice but to show them how I bring my bitches to heel,” he snarls, venom dripping from every word as he jabs a needle into my arm.

My mouth hinges open in shock, wide eyes darting down to the syringe as he depresses the plunger.

“A little something to help make you more compliant,” he drawls, winking.

My stomach churns, a tear carving a path down my cheek as I choke on a gasp and my body relents. My knees wobble beneath me before all my limbs turn to jelly, the world tilting on its axis as I collapse onto the platform. I don’t know if it’s spinning, or I am, but the acrid taste of bile rises in my throat and I start to retch.

What did he give me?

Oh, no, no, no…

Vomit spills from my mouth, and I’m still coughing and sputtering as he rolls me to my back. I shudder a breath as the lights intensify, colors deepening and details sharpening. I reach above me, so badly wanting to touch the soft patch of blue dancing across my vision.

“This one doesn’t have a proper tag of ownership yet,” Harris announces to the crowd.

“Claim the bitch!” a male voice calls, sordid chuckles rising across the room.

“Should I use my cock first, or my blade?” Harris jeers, popping the button on his fly.

Laughter rumbles from all around me, my head lolling to the side as I glance out to see so many eyes watching. Waiting. Morphing. Sharp white teeth sprout from their smug faces, gleaming as they snarl and sneer. Wolves.

No.

This isn’t right.

I shouldn’t be here.

I need to go home.

I shove up on my elbows, my gaze frantically pinging around the room in search of a path, an exit.

“Not so fast.” Harris clicks his tongue, his hand clamping down over my shoulder as he shoves me onto my back again. “You want this, pet. You know you do.”

I stare up at him blankly, the signals in my brain misfiring.

“I do?” I slur.

“You’ve been begging for it all night.”

“I don’t–” the thought flutters away as my body relaxes back against the plush surface.

Harris smiles, slipping a knife from his waistband. He holds it up, light glinting off the blade like diamonds. I’m momentarily mesmerized, eyes fixed on the shiny metal as he slowly lowers it to my belly, right above my pubic bone. The tip pierces my flesh as he presses down, the blade slicing into my skin.

I jerk as pain seizes through me, my hands flying up to clutch his arm.

“No,” he admonishes, shaking his head. “Bad girl.”

He presses down on the blade again, a scream tearing from my throat as he drags it upwards. I try to thrash, but my limbs are heavy, my movements uncoordinated. He lifts the knife, crimson dripping from the blade as he brings it to his mouth, moaning as he licks it clean. Then his face splits with a smile, my blood coating his teeth.

“Delicious.”

Humming softly, he lowers the knife again, and the burn beneath my skin is molten as he resumes carving into me. The drugs have my mind and body at war, alternating from back arching as the blade sinks deeper, then morphing to white hot pain that wrenches me away from it. With a satisfied nod, his lips curl around his teeth.

“Go on,” he coaxes. “Take a look. See how pretty you bleed for me.”

I curl up, eyes landing on the blood smeared across my abdomen. The darkest of it is oozing from a series of three cuts, two vertical and one horizontal. All together, it forms a shape.

A letter H.

“I have a feeling you’ll be earning the other letters soon enough,” he says, setting the knife aside. Then he shuffles in closer, shoving my thighs apart and lowering his zipper.

My brain catches on a second too late.

I open my mouth to scream, fear cinching around my throat and drawing tighter with every breath, but then it suddenly stops. Everything goes dark.

… did I die?

Murmurs of voices ripple around me, joined by surprised shouts and muttered profanities.

Not dead.

The power’s just out, and from the way it sounds, it’s not on purpose.

Harris grumbles a curse under his breath, and I feel him shifting away, moving off the platform to investigate whatever caused the power outage. I blink into the darkness as I sit up, hands tracing over the rug beneath me until one of them closes around something cold and sharp.

The knife.

This is it– my chance to run.

I shove up to my feet with a burst of adrenaline, surging forward blindly. I make it four steps before colliding with someone, my free hand fisting the fabric of some expensive suit. My other hand swings in, the blade of the knife sinking into the guy’s fleshy side.

He shouts, and I pry it back out with a squelch, shouldering past him and taking off again.

“Rabid bitch fucking stabbed me!” he chokes.

My bare feet slap against the cement, a soft tug pulling at my neck as my leash drags against the ground.

I can make out the outline of a door, and I go for it, misjudging the depth and smacking into the metal. I stumble back in a daze, then lunge forward again, blindly reaching for the knob. My fingers close around it, and like an actual fucking miracle, it turns in my grip, pale moonlight slicing inside as I shove it open and spring out into the night.

I stumble a step, sweeping my gaze around before taking off towards a thicket of brush ahead. There’s a field beyond, dense walls of trees framing each edge.

The woods, thank fuck. If I can just make it to them, I might actually lose him.

Adrenaline mingles with the drugs in my system, something chemical and volatile reacting, contorting my thoughts into tattered pieces that stitch together impossible things. Like that when I ran out of that building, I saw a familiar hulking form lurking in my peripheral. A six-foot-something callous blond Repo Man with a jawline that could cut glass.

It’s fucking bizarre that my mind has turned him into a savior during this drug-induced delusion. Why the fuck would I want him, of all people, to come save me? It’s not like the night he broke into my cell was the first time in years my needs were put before someone else’s. Like me and my pleasure actually mattered when he made me come, giving without taking anything in return.

Nope.

Haven’t given him a second thought.

Repo Man, who?

The sound of my own footfalls grows louder, the cadence increasing, until I’m sure someone’s chasing me. I whip my head around, meeting a set of icy blue eyes and a familiar predatory grin that ignites something low in my stomach. Riggs.

Is he real, or a hallucination?

I can’t tell the difference until he’s lunging towards me, arm banding roughly around my waist as he tackles me to the ground.

Real.

“Found you, little stray,” he growls, his weight sinking onto mine to pin me down. His hard-on prods at the apex of my thigh, throbbing with excitement as he grinds it against me.

I blink up at him in a daze, fingers brushing over his face before threading into his hair. “Are you real?”

He pauses, lips pressing thin. “What’s wrong with you?” Then realization dawns, his nostrils flaring as murderous rage etches into his features. “Did he fucking drug you?”

A giggle bubbles from my throat as I muss his hair. “I think your hair looks sexy pushed back.”

He mutters a string of curses, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he shoves to his feet, hands brushing off his pants before bending forward again. One thick arm slides behind my back, the other behind my knees, and then I’m suddenly towering above the ground.

Am I a giant now?

No, he’s lifting me, carrying me, taking me…

“I wanna go home,” I whisper, curling into his chest, the faint scent of artificial citrus filling my nose.

To my dad, to our shitty apartment in the Fringe, to who I was before my agency was stripped away, my entire existence reduced to being a commodity for trade. Tears prick behind my eyes as I squeeze them shut, darkness rushing in to greet me like an old friend.

22

JERSEY

A311

“Show yourself, worthless bitch,” the man’s voice snarls.

My hand covers my mouth as I choke back a sob, my chest constricting with each tattered breath as boots scuffle across the cement floor of my dad’s auto shop.

I didn’t know where else to go.

He said to run, but didn’t tell me where to run to. We were supposed to be on our way to the mountains, somewhere peaceful, beautiful, surrounded by fresh air and stars. I’m not supposed to be all alone, cowering behind a stack of used tires in the dark.

Another tear slips from the corner of my eye. I want to go home.

My teeth rake over the inside of my cheek, the skin shredded and raw. Terror weaves between my ribs as the crack of a gun erupts, tires toppling over beside me.

I need to get out of here, but I don’t know how.

“Found you,” another voice announces.

My head snaps up, eyes widening on a man in a black balaclava glaring down at me over the tires.

I scramble to my feet, bolting for the back office, but a gunshot rings out from the opposite side of the room, a shriek ripping from the depths of my soul as white-hot pain detonates from my stomach. The floor rises fast and I cry out on impact, blood coating my trembling fingers as I stare down at the bullet wound in my abdomen. It hurts, it hurts so bad. My mouth hangs open as the man in the balaclava rounds the tires and crouches beside me, blue eyes tinged with concern.

Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision as he leans down, murmuring “Insubordinate fucking nepo baby.”

I want to push him away, but I can’t move. His hand presses hard against my stomach, my nerves screaming in agony under the pressure before everything goes black.

My eyes snap open, my breath feeling like it's been yanked from my lungs as I jolt upright, hands flying down clutch at my stomach. There’s no sticky warm blood oozing between my fingers; no torn flesh. Just a faint scar beside my belly button that my fingertips coast over.

I inhale slowly, eyes slipping shut as I will my pulse to slow, fingers tracing a square into the soft sheets beneath me.

They’re jersey knit. They feel like home.

My eyes fly back open, head whipping from side to side as push up on my elbows, skull throbbing from the motion.

Nothing around me looks familiar. I’m in a strange room, in a strange bed, and I’m completely alone.

Where are the others?

Where’s Kenzie?

I swallow past the lump in my throat and flop back down onto the bed, the dark duvet puffing up around me. My gaze sweeps around the room again as it settles, taking in the exposed logs lining the walls, the rustic beams running the length of the ceiling. The bed and a small nightstand are the only pieces of furniture, but the sheets and blanket are ridiculously soft, and the place smells clean. Familiar, even.

A strange feeling of warmth seeps in as my eyes flick around the room, a sense of calm coming over me. I have no idea where I am, but for some reason, I feel safe here.

Which is absolutely ridiculous. I haven’t been safe since I became property of the state.

I try to remember how I got here, sifting through the hazy fragments of memory in my mind. I remember colors– there were so many colors– blue blurs, pulses of light, and pink… a pink collar?

The pieces slowly start to come together and my hand lifts, brushing over the raw skin at my neck. Thank fuck, the collar is gone. My fingertips coast across a small bandage at the junction of my neck and shoulder, right where that fucking device was implanted as a parting gift from The Registry.

Does this mean it’s gone?

My pulse spikes as I kick off the duvet and push up to sit, pain twinging in my lower belly at the movement. I look down to find an oversized black shirt hanging loosely over my small frame, and I quickly tug up the hem, revealing a large square of gauze dotted with blood affixed to my stomach.

Did I get shot again?

No…

I blink down at the bandage, trying to make sense of how it got there, and that’s when it all comes flooding back.

Harris. The poker game. The dark room.

Being dragged to the platform and injected with something, a blade slicing into my skin.

The lights going off, running blindly through the dark, flesh snapping and squelching as I stabbed yet another person in my effort to escape…

I grit my teeth as I swing my legs over the edge of the large mattress, brows furrowing as my eyes scan the room again and again.

Where the hell am I?

Where’s Kenzie?

She wasn’t with me when I ran, I’m sure of that. But someone followed. I was being chased.

Or was that a dream?

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration pulsing through me.

What the fuck did he drug me with?

I push up to stand, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as I move towards the door, the hem of the oversized shirt I’m wearing swishing around my knees like a dress.

Whose shirt is this?

Not that I’m mad to be covered, but Jesus, this thing was made for a giant.

…Riggs?

My pulse quickens as I reach the door and test the handle. It’s unlocked, swinging wide on the first try and opening into the main area of a cabin.

I blink in surprise as I take a tentative step forward, wondering if the place is abandoned. The ceiling is vaulted, lined with roughly hewn wood beams, and there’s a fire burning in the stone hearth, a flat screen tv mounted above it.

Yeah, this place is definitely not abandoned. Everything is rustic– not in a dirty way, but curated with intention. The furnishings are sleek and minimalistic, a mix of new and vintage that gives a cozy, lived-in vibe.

I pad across the room, searching for clues as to how I got here, where here is, and what kind of trap this is. There aren’t any personal effects to give any clue as to who owns this place. No pictures of family, no knick knacks on the mantle. I go over to the kitchen and pluck a glass from the shelf, twisting on the faucet to fill it. The sight of a ceramic coffee mug sitting in the basin gives me pause.

Someone else has definitely been here.

I try to ignore the creeping feeling of unease, tipping the glass back and drinking the water down in one go. It does fuck all to soothe my dry throat, so I quickly refill it, taking it with me as I wander toward the fireplace.

I stop there for a beat and sip some more water, then my eyes drift across the room, settling on the front door.

There’s no way it’s unlocked… right?

I set my water glass down, gnawing on the inside of my cheek as I slowly draw closer like a moth to a flame. There’s no way of knowing what’s out there, but the opportunity to find out is within my grasp– and entirely too tempting to pass up.

23

TALON

She’s awake.

I’ve been watching her from the closed-circuit cameras in my office, keeping my distance as she comes back into herself.

She was drugged out of her fucking mind when I found her. After I chased her down, I had every intention of finishing what I started in that cell– rutting into her tight cunt right there in the dirt, restoring the imbalance between us and carving the itch straight out of my DNA. But when I saw her eyes, I knew the real her wasn’t behind them.

So, I scooped her up, and despite how light she is, something heavy twisted in my gut all the way back to the truck. Slade studied me with rapt attention as I placed her on the back seat, pulling my shirt off and putting it over her small frame. Then we started arguing over what the hell to do with her.

Repossessing an Asset without proper clearance is strictly forbidden. Slade listed out every consequence and all the ways this could go wrong or get us both killed, the warning clawing and thrashing to get inside the hollow cavity in my chest. And I don’t know what came over me, but I just fucking snapped. It was like I was five all over again, being scolded and threatened because I took something that didn’t belong to me.

Except she does.

She’s fucking mine.

He doesn’t have to understand. No one does. But I see it every time we collide– in the subtle way her features soften, in the way the fire in her eyes burns brighter as fury warps to lust. Whatever demons she has, they were born to dance with mine.

Slade finally gave in, but only under the condition that he could check her for any Guardian control tech. Lo and behold, she’d been chipped like a goddamn dog, but in a way far less humane. The collar she was wearing had rubbed the spot raw and it was already starting to look infected.

I’ve never wanted to euthanize every arrogant prick in this city more than I did right then.

The chip had to be removed, so I used my knife. The sight of bright red blood trailing down her creamy skin should’ve made my pulse race, but rather than a surge of adrenaline, all I felt was rage.

Slade had me drop him off on the outskirts of the city, telling me he didn’t even wanna know where I was headed– plausible deniability or some shit– but said if I needed something, he’d have my back. Though a notification alerting me that the motion sensitivity on my security sensors at the cabin had been turned up pretty much confirmed he knew where I’d be taking her.

It’s the one place that’s just mine, outside of the greedy grip of The Registry. I’ve been building the place for years, fortifying it as a spot where I planned to retire someday when I finally had enough of all the bullshit.

Nobody else knows its exact location. Any workers I’ve had out here for installs beyond my skills have been from other places, and I escorted them onto the property. When they finished, I sent them on their way with a wad of cash and a graphic description of exactly how I’d disembowel them and shove their remains down their family’s throats if they ever breathed a word about our business. Nothing encourages selective memory quite like the threat of death and dismemberment.

On the screen in front of me, Jersey slowly looks around before sitting up in bed, tugging up the hem of her shirt to see the bandage I placed on her abdomen. Seeing the way Harris tried to claim her, carving his fucking initial into her flesh, unleashed a red-hot murderous rage that surged through my system. It fueled an impulsive decision to carve into her myself, changing that H into an R before raising the blade to my mouth and licking off every drop.

I’ll deal with Harris’ psychopathic ass another day. Right now, I’m fully preoccupied with my little stray.

She slides out of bed, the hem of my t-shirt brushing her thighs and swallowing her petite frame. I get this smug sense of satisfaction at seeing her in my clothes– like some part of me is still touching her, protecting her from all the other cruel assholes she’s crossed paths with.

She moves cautiously from the bedroom, and I promptly switch to the other feed, watching her wander out into the main space of the cabin. Her brows crease as she scans the room, looking at every last detail I chose. Slade can give me all the shit he wants for taking so long to build this place, but the delays had purpose. Every last log for its construction was ethically sourced, and the cabin runs off of solar power and has its own septic and water filtration systems, making it an off-grid sanctuary. Hell, I’ve got enough supplies here to disappear for as long as I want.

She pours herself a glass of water, then another. She’s been out for half a day, so her throat must be parched. She sips it as she moves from the kitchen and scans her surroundings again, eyes locking on the exterior door.

I sit up straighter.

She hesitates for a beat, fingers drumming nervously on the glass as she cocks her head to the side. Then her expression shifts as she discards the glass on the console table, and I know that fucking look. It instantly sets my teeth on edge.

She’s going to run.

I’m not sure whether it’s the possessive thirst to keep her here or the visceral urge to chase her down that has me on my feet in an instant, hustling out to intercept her.

She’s halfway to the door when I enter the living room, whipping around at the sound of my footsteps, hazel eyes widening.

“You,” she breathes.

I don’t respond, instead giving her a long once-over and deciding that she should exclusively wear my t-shirts from now on.

“Why am I here?” she asks with a trace of false bravado. “I didn’t ask you to come save me.”

I raise a brow. “Who says I did?”

Her shoulders tense, demeanor changing on a dime. “Did… did Harris pay you to bring me back?”

“No,” I scoff.

Like that shit smear could afford my services.

“Then who, The Registry?” She looks around, gesturing vaguely. “Is this just a stop on the way?”

I fold my arms across my chest, propping an elbow against the wall. “Undecided.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why am I here, then?”

“I said I’d be back, little stray, and I’m a man of my goddamn word.”

She blinks back at me, seemingly still confused. Then realization dawns and sets her eyes ablaze.

“Really?” She barks an incredulous laugh. “That’s what this is about?” Her lip curls meanly. “Aw, is the poor little Repo Man fucking butt hurt because he didn’t get a turn with me?”

I don’t answer.

I don't have to.

Something vicious flickers across her face as she spreads her arms open. “Well, come on then,” she taunts, taking a step towards me. “Take it. Do your worst.”

“My worst?” I chuckle.

“Did I stutter?” she quips as she takes another step closer, stabbing a finger into my chest and punctuating each word. “Do. your. Fucking. Worst.”

I snatch her wrist, her lips parting on a gasp.

“If I knew you had a death wish, I’d have left you with Harris.”

Her lips twist in a scowl. “Fuck you,” she spits, trying to yank her arm back.

I tighten my grip and yank her against my chest instead.

“Only if you beg.”

“I’d rather choke,” she scoffs.

I drag her hand down to my thickening cock, letting her feel exactly what her backtalk does to me. My other arm bands around her waist, pulling her even closer. “That can probably be arranged.”

Her breath hitches, cheeks flushing pink. “You really are a fucking insufferable prick.”

“And yet, here you still are,” I muse.

Her throat bobs with a swallow, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Says the man who brought me here.”

My hand darts up, catching her jaw. “ I’m a man of my fucking word.”

Something dark and daring brews in her eyes as she blinks up at me, her chest heaving as she says, “Prove it.”

That restless fucking itch I’ve been fighting finally crawls through and takes hold. I shove my hand into her mouth, making her gag as I press down on her tongue with my thumb. “First, I’m going to prove that this mouth can do something besides piss me off.”

I drag her by the mouth to the console table, the back of it hitting her knees as I push her back onto it, releasing my hold. She lands with a thud, then her hands move to the waistband of my grey sweats, shoving it down. My hard cock springs free, and I swear that bratty little mouth twitches with a smile as I give myself a lazy stroke.

“Open,” I command.

She purses her lips together, that defiant spark in her eyes burning bright.

I work my jaw and spit, a glob of saliva landing on her cheeks as I repeat myself. “I said, open.”

She cracks her mouth in the slightest, like that’s going to defer me.

I like it when they bite.

I buck my hips forward, the hoop at my tip clinking against her teeth as I press into her mouth. The sting of her teeth scrapes over the smooth skin, sending a pulse right to my balls, and I grip the sides of her head, jerking it off the table as I slam into her throat.

She screams around me, spit gurgling from the corners of her mouth as her hands slap my forearms, nails digging in and raking against my skin as I pull out and slam in again.

“Fuck,” I growl as her throat flutters around me. “If your throat’s this tight, I’m going to rip that fucking cunt in half.”

She gurgles and chokes, her tongue fighting my length with every thrust as I force myself deeper, until I can feel her soft lips flush at my base. Her neck curves below me, and I swear I can see my piercing and the outline of my shaft through the thin skin at her throat.

What a perfect fucking sight.

Her lips tinge blue, fingernails clawing at my forearms. I pull out and let her go, her head thunking against the table as she drops back, coughing and sputtering for air. Tears stream down her cheeks, snot and spit stringing over her red face.

My hands grip her biceps and I drag her up like a rag doll, banding an arm around her waist before pivoting on a heel and shoving her onto the leather sectional behind me. I fold her forward over the back of the sofa, rucking up the hem of her shirt to reveal that plump ass, then tearing it off over her head. Her head drops lazily against the top of the cushion, lolling to the side as she pants heavily. Her lashes flutter, eyes peering up at me while I kneel on the couch behind her, fisting my cock and lining up with her entrance. Pressing my cock against her slit, I rock forward, dragging it through her wetness. The little stray is fucking drenched, a needy whine slipping from her throat. It’s all the invitation I need to rut into her like a savage, lining up and shoving in deep. A feral scream tears from her, raw and unholy, like something wicked’s being violently ripped from her soul.

I grab onto her ass cheeks, spreading them wide so I can see the way her tight cunt strangles my cock. Her inner walls pulse frantically around me as I pull back inch by tortuous inch, squeezing around me like she doesn’t want to let go. I only make it halfway before driving back in, wetness already leaking down her thighs.

So she is a fucking squirter.

I blanket my body over hers, one hand palming her breast as the other moves to her swollen clit. I rub tight circles around it, her body trembling violently beneath me as her mouth hinges open, breaths heaving from between whimpers and moans. Spit trails from her lips and onto the leather, eyes blitzed out as a familiar sensation hums to life at the base of my spine.

I feel another gush of liquid leaking down her thighs and onto mine as she arches her back, hands reaching for me. Her nails pierce into my skin as she moans, and that has my balls seizing, spilling hot ropes of cum inside her.

“Good fucking girl, Jersey,” I growl, stroking a hand down the curve of her spine.

Her eyes flutter open, peering back at me. “Say it again,” she pants breathlessly.

“Good girl.”

“No,” she corrects, a sated smile curving her lips. “My name.”

24

JERSEY

A311

There’s an unfamiliar looseness in my limbs; a boneless comfort that lets consciousness seep back in lazily. And as my eyes work open, it’s not to Enforcers scowling and ripping me out of bed for another evaluation. It’s not to Harris fastening an ugly pink collar around my neck. For once, I wake up… peaceful.

I’m still in the cabin, but the bed’s different. This one’s bigger than the one I woke up in before, dressed in black sheets and an impossibly soft black duvet. Somehow, I know it’s his room, and waking up here feels a little too damn good.

I let out a contented sigh, my body melting against the mattress. I’ve been dressed in another one of Talon’s oversized t-shirts. My fingers drift down to the collar, pulling it up to my nose. Whiskey and smoke and a little citrus. It smells like him.

And yeah, I know full well how damn idiotic it is to find any fragmented sense of security in a monster that was literally hired to hunt me down and drag me back to The Registry kicking and screaming.

But he also hasn’t brought me back there this time.

And something deep inside me twists with a terrifying ache that feels a lot like hope. Pressure builds behind my ribs as heat creeps beneath my skin, shame following close behind. Because this shouldn't feel like winning. None of this should feel like winning.

I should feel disgust crawling through me; that sick, hollow feeling that overwhelmed my system after every time Commander Martin used me. I should want to scrub last night from my skin and disappear somewhere deep inside myself where I don’t have to think about it, because that’s how sex has always ended.

But not this time.

Instead, there’s a strange warmth pulsing through me. And somewhere buried deep, beneath all the excuses and confusion, my mind confesses a truth I’m not ready to face.

Maybe it feels different because it wasn’t a performance.

Last night felt real.

It was something I chose– something that anchored me inside my own body instead of making me desperate to escape it.

I raise my arms above my head, toes curling as I stretch before reluctantly sliding out of bed. My throat’s raw, desperate for a drink, and a delicious ache blooms between my thighs as I pace toward the door and pull it open.

“Talon?” I call, padding slowly out and down the hall. I glance around in search of him, but there’s no sign; no response. Only silence.

And somehow it feels like a pinch of betrayal.

I shake my head, telling myself not to jump to conclusions. The last time I left the bedroom, it took a few minutes for him to show his face. So, I follow the same routine as last time, wandering into the kitchen and filling a glass of water.

By the time I drain it, he still hasn’t appeared, so I refill it.

After the second glass, I lean my elbows onto the smooth quartz counter, fingers tapping idly as I wait. My ears strain to hear the faintest sound of him, but there’s nothing. He really must be gone this time.

A strange unease washes over me as I realize I’m alone, and for some reason, the solitude makes the cabin feel claustrophobic. The walls are suddenly pressing in too close, the silence too heavy. Then panic starts to worm its way in.

I shouldn’t be here.

I don’t even really know where here is, but it can’t be safe. Nothing with any connection to The Registry ever is.

I should run.

And while that instinct is immediate, so is the utter exhaustion lacing my muscles.

I’m so damn tired of running.

Every time I try, I somehow wind up farther from freedom than before. Because running doesn’t change what I am. It doesn’t erase my name from their system or make the guardianship contracts disappear. As long as someone owns me, I’ll never truly be free.

The truth settles over me with sickening clarity– that there’s no way out, not for me. Not for any of the Assets.

That thought should terrify me– and maybe it does– but beneath that fear, something harder takes root. Because that leaves me with two choices… give up, and surrender to a life that’ll never belong to me, or keep fucking trying to change my fate, even if it kills me.

Maybe freedom is impossible. Maybe every road I take leads me to the same place. But that ugly little bit of hope still clings inside me, because I’ve never been a quitter.

Steeling my resolve, I take a last sip of water and set the glass down on the counter, turning for the door. I have no idea what’s beyond it, but whether it’s salvation or damnation, I have to find out.

My bare feet slap against the hardwood as I stride across the room, pulse ratcheting higher with every step. When I reach the door, my fingers tremble as they curl around the handle and twist.

There’s no resistance, the lock snicking open on the first try and a gust of fresh air smacking me in the face.

I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t… nature. The cabin had a whole bunker-esque feel, and as I step out into the sunlight, I realize that’s because it’s a berm, built into a hill. I spin in a slow circle, finding nothing but grass and trees and wilderness spread out in every direction– towering pines, colorful maples, and thick birches fully surrounding the cabin.

Adrenaline surges through me. I’ve spent so long wondering what freedom feels like, what it tastes like.

Maybe it’s this.

Out here, with the woods stretching endlessly around me and no walls closing in, I swear I can finally feel it. With every inhale of fresh air into my lungs, I swear I can finally taste it.

And fuck, I want more.

I don’t even really choose a direction, I just run. Away from the cabin, away from Riggs, and away from a life that wasn’t and would never be mine.

Dead leaves and twigs crunch beneath the soles of my feet as my legs carry me through the trees, an electric jolt skittering through my veins with every reckless stride. Crisp air surges through my lungs, branches snagging at the loose fabric of my shirt. His shirt. But I don’t slow down. If anything, I run faster.

For the first time, there’s no one pursuing me, hellbent on hauling me in to be repackaged and sold. But by the time the cabin disappears from sight, the silhouette of the hill dipping down behind the canopy of trees, the rush starts to curdle into something else.

Suspicion.

Because that was too easy. Riggs doesn’t seem like the type to accidentally leave a door unlocked. Which means he did it on purpose. And if he did it on purpose….

My steps falter, rocks and sticks jutting into my feet as I grind to a halt.

This isn’t an escape.

It’s a fucking game.

… and it suddenly dawns on me how much I want to play.

A fresh surge of adrenaline courses through me as I take off running again, the brush around me thickening the further I go. I run until my breathing turns ragged and I’m forced to slow, folding forward with my hands on my knees as I struggle to drag air into my lungs

That’s when I hear it.

Crunch.

My spine goes rigid. Somewhere behind me, another branch snaps, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps thudding through the leaves.

Not mine.

Someone’s following me.

Fear prickles over me as the realization dawns that there’s no way to know who or what is out here. The Registry could’ve found me. An Enforcer could be tracking me and closing in right now.

Or it could be the Repo man.

My heart stutters, misfiring before it hammers into a crescendo.

Is it fucked up that I want it to be Riggs?

Probably.

Definitely.

But anticipation mingles with the fear, a thrill cracking open and coiling tightly in my belly.

The footsteps grow louder, drawing in closer.

Fuck.

I swing my arms wildly as I sprint through the brush, weaving past trees and narrowly avoiding being stabbed by their branches.

The pursuing footsteps mock my own cruelly, growing faster, getting closer, gaining on my every step. My lungs scream for relief as I duck beneath a low branch and cut sharply to the left between two trees.

For one glorious second, it sounds like I might’ve gained distance and lost him. My mouth spreads into a victorious smile.

Then a solid weight slams against my back, taking me to the ground.

25

TALON

Jersey’s fingers rest limply against my chest, our mixed releases weeping from her cunt as I carry her wrung out body into my bathroom and lower her onto the curved stone bench beneath the shower. Her eyes stay shut, only the occasional flutter of her lashes or a soft sigh reminding me she’s still conscious.

I wash us both, taking special care over the brand carved on her abdomen, then dry her slowly, slipping another one of my shirts on her before moving her to my bed.

I should probably go to the guest room. Or the couch. Even the fucking floor. Anywhere but in that bed beside her.

I’ve never laid with a girl when my cock wasn’t inside her. Never taken one home, never stayed the night. I don't do cuddles, or aftercare, or whispered words of affirmation.

I don’t think I’m even programmed to know how.

But as Jersey lies curled on her side in the middle of my bed, swallowed by my shirt, my fingers fucking twitch.

I want to touch her.

Not fuck her.

Just–

Hold her.

The thought dredges deep, unearthing memories I thought I’d buried for good. Broken pieces from the days after the dickhead that sired me left my mother.

Before he cut her off, she’d sometimes use me as a threat to blow up the image that tool had spent decades crafting, angling for drug money. She’d get high enough that basic necessities were ignored– we’d run out of food, or sometimes she’d be gone for days on end. It was the worst when those two things occurred simultaneously. Whenever she was done numbing the parts of her brain that constantly drew comparisons to the life she wanted and the life she had, she’d come find me.

She disappeared less often after my father ghosted us, but she was always sad. Sadder than usual, anyway.

She’d curl into bed behind me and wrap her arms around my little body, holding me against her chest while I lay there stiff and confused, never knowing what I was supposed to do with affection when someone gave it to me. It always felt foreign. Wrong.

But in those few stolen moments, I could almost see another life waiting for us. One where she wasn’t constantly strung out and chasing after a married man who only ever used her as a hole to fill.

One where maybe we knew how to wield love as something other than a weapon.

The memory disappears as quickly as it came.

I stare at Jersey, fingers still twitching at my sides.

Fuck it.

I slide in underneath the sheets behind her, my arm banding around her waist to pull her flush against me. Her body tenses at first, and so does mine. Then, with a sleepy exhale, she melts against me.

Something in my chest goes strangely quiet. Her head fits perfectly beneath my chin, muscles slackening as her breathing evens out. The crisp citrus scent of my soap clings to her skin, mixing with something distinctly her, and for once there’s no restless fucking itch beneath mine. Just this strange and unfamiliar calm.

Somehow, it feels fucking right.

I should leave, but I can’t.

I shouldn’t sleep, but I do.

“Did you see the new assignment on Exchange?” Slade asks, absently scrolling on his phone rather than actually spotting me on the weight bench.

“Not interested,” I grumble, dropping the bar back onto the rack before curling up to sit.

I woke up well-rested, filled with this buzzing energy that needed an outlet. I hadn’t planned to come back to the compound quite yet, but Jersey will be fine at the cabin on her own. I fucked her into a coma– she was still out cold when I left, and even if she comes to, I doubt she’ll try to run again. If she does, an alert from my security system will prevent her from getting far.

“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this one,” Slade muses.

I hold out my hand with a huff, and he slaps his phone into my waiting palm. When I glance down to read the screen, my jaw instantly tightens.

Repossession of Asset A311.

The dollar amount attached to it is ludicrous, and I quickly find it’s because she’s been reclassified to black tier.

“Came in this morning,” Slade says, sliding another weight plate onto the bar and adjusting the pin. “The guys have been talking about it.”

“And nobody’s taken it?” I ask, pushing to stand and trading him spots. Thankfully, it’s just the two of us in the Compound’s training gym, so we can speak freely.

“It’s an open bounty, first to bring her in gets the payout….” He trails off as he takes his phone back, slipping it into the pocket of his shorts.

I cut him a glare, his insinuation setting my teeth on edge.

Not a fucking chance.

“What’s your plan, then?” he questions, rocking back on the bench and reaching up to grip the bar. “Miller’s dad is still out for blood, randomly pulling guys in for interrogation. It’s only a matter of time before–”

“Nothing,” I cut in, posture stiffening. “They can’t prove shit.”

“Maybe not…” Slade rolls his eyes, starting in on his set. “But having a government Asset in your possession is a huge fucking red flag for other crimes.”

I grunt, cutting him another glare.

She’s not just an Asset, she’s a fucking person. And while Jersey may not technically belong to me, she doesn't belong to them, either. Not really. And now that I’ve decided to claim her for myself, the last thing I’ll allow is for her to be dragged back into The Registry for their own corrupt and perverted gain.

I’m the only one who gets to fucking touch her now. Her pain, her pleasure, every desperate moan– it’s all mine.

“Listen, shithead,” Slade sighs, re-racking the bar and sitting up. “The way I see it, you’ve got two choices.”

I cock a brow. “Those are?”

“Turn her in, take the money, and go back to how things were. The monster for hire. Or…” he pauses, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

“Or?” I prompt.

He levels me with a knowing stare. “Or, you get the fuck out of here like you’ve been wanting to do since the day you started building that cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

There it is.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he knew my endgame all along. Slade’s perceptive like that. Getting away from fucking Northbrooke, The Registry, and every bullshit and asinine thing it stands for has always been my retirement plan.

I’ve worked around the clock for the past nine years, pouring almost every dollar I made into making the cabin an off-grid oasis. I could’ve probably called it quits a year ago and disappeared out there, but instead, I’ve continued grinding. I guess it was just easier to put it off and keep the project going, because if I leave– if I’m no longer a Repo man– then who the hell am I? Every time I try to consider the answer to that question, something dark and ugly curdles inside me, voices from my childhood resurfacing to remind me that I’ll never truly fit in anywhere or amount to anything.

“You think you can get rid of me that easily?” I joke, pulling my shirt back on, the fabric catching on my sweaty torso.

Slade sighs, clapping a hand down on my shoulder. “Look, man. You’re the brother I never fucking wanted, but I’ve grown to tolerate you. And as much spare time as I’ll have from not helping your ass, I’ll probably still miss you.”

I scoff at him, his lips tugging up in a grin.

“But,” he continues, “maybe now it’s your turn to get stuck with some annoying stray left over from an assignment.”

I snort, shaking my head. “That simple, huh? Just walk out and hope no one notices?”

“Well, no. If you drop off the face of the earth, shit will definitely hit the fan around here. But there are plenty of mercs coming in from probation that could use more assignment opportunities, rather than some bored fuck nabbing every request on Exchange because he doesn’t have a life.”

I roll my eyes.

“And I know a guy who’s a fucking expert with tech shit,” he adds, wagging his brows. “With his skills, it’d be easy to shift things around, help dig the grave to bury all this in.”

I stare back at him, considering whether I could actually do it. Turn my back on everything I’ve ever known and leave it all behind. The thought of it has never been quite so enticing before. Rather than feeling like surrender, it feels like a fresh start, my pulse kicking with excitement.

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Thanks, man,” I say, voice gone rough. “For everything.”

Slade knocks his fist into mine. “About time you fuckin’ thanked me for always bailing your ass out.”

I frown back at him, unamused.

He barks a laugh, punching me in the bicep. “Get the fuck out of here.”

I turn away, then stop, pivoting back around.

“God you’re clingy,” he chuckles

“Fuck off,” I mutter. “You’re the one who tracked me to the gym and invaded my workout.”

He shrugs unapologetically, and I catch his hand, yanking him in for a bro hug and thumping a fist against his back. Then I leave the gym, grab a few things from my apartment, and don’t look back.

The drive back to the cabin is quiet, the Raptor eating up the miles as I push it harder than necessary, tires gripping the pavement through every curve. My knuckles are white around the steering wheel, but for once, it isn’t anger tightening my grip. It’s the promise of freedom.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, there’s nothing hanging over me. No assignment waiting, no Chief to answer to, no playing a game designed to make the rich richer while everyone else claws over scraps in their self-made shit hole.

I’m done.

The realization should hit harder, making me wistful or some shit. Instead, my foot just presses harder on the gas, the engine growling as the truck rips down the dirt road, gravel kicking behind me. Something that’s been coiled tightly inside of me for years finally cracks as it occurs to me that I have no fucking clue what comes next, and I don’t care.

As much fucking joy as it brings me to blow the brains out of all the worthless pieces of elitist trash I can, burying my dick inside Jersey at every opportunity seems even better.

As I turn onto the property, a wall of trees on either side swallowing up the truck, my phone pings with a notification. One glance at the screen sends my pulse racing.

The exterior door of the cabin has been breached from the inside.

My lips pull into a grin.

Time for a hunt.

26

JERSEY

A311

Asolid weight slams into my back, thick arms winding around my middle taking me down to the ground. I barely have time to yelp before he pitches us sideways at the last second, shouldering the brunt of the impact against the forest floor. Relief washes over me before I can even see his face, because only one person chasing me would bother breaking my fall.

Not an Enforcer.

Leaves and dirt scatter as he rolls us over, and suddenly I’m on my back, his weight pinning me to the ground as a tattooed hand closes around my throat.

“Caught you, little stray,” Talon growls.

“Let. Me. Go,” I huff, shoving uselessly against his hard chest.

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smirk. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

I buck and writhe beneath him, breath coming out in ragged pants. His icy blue eyes are blazing with the same adrenaline still tearing through my veins as he dips his head down, tongue trailing along my jaw before his teeth sink into my earlobe. I yelp, and he chuckles in amusement.

“The fight is my favorite part.”

I keep twisting, determined to free myself. He just shifts forward, knees bracketing my ribcage as he sits back on his heels and undoes his fly, shoves his jeans down to free his cock.

I swallow roughly at the sight of it, because I swear it’s even bigger than I remember. The silver hoop pierces through the tip, the shaft thick and veiny.

I can’t believe that thing fit inside me.

He gives himself a lazy stroke, toying with the hoop piercing as a bead of precum leaks from his tip.

“I’m not done with you, Jersey.”

Something about the way he says my name sends waves of warm static prickling beneath my skin, tightening my throat and my chest.

I spent years as A311. Each time I was called by that fucking number, it felt like another piece of me was being torn off and discarded– like Jersey Ellis was edging closer to being completely wiped from the world, converted to property. Sometimes, it felt like it was only a matter of time before I forgot who I was before they took me. Before I forgot my own name.

But Talon uses it constantly.

Every time he says it, I feel this little tug somewhere in my chest, like he’s stitching all those tattered pieces together and reminding me that I'm still in here; still me.

I hate how much I like hearing my name on his lips.

“Stick out your tongue,” he commands.

I arch an eyebrow, lips pursing defiantly.

“Fine,” he huffs, still stroking himself as he draws back. “I’ve got no problem tearing into this sweet little cunt dry.”

My belly swoops, eyes widening. I’m not sure whether I’m more turned on by his words, or the promise of him being inside me again.

I open my mouth to comply with his directive, tongue jutting out.

He just smirks. “Too late,” he growls, jaw flexing before a glob of spit lands on my tongue.

My eyes narrow, and I spit it right back, my saliva hitting his cheek. “Get off.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, hands gripping the collar of the t-shirt I’m wearing. “I plan to.”

Fabric shreds as he rips the shirt straight down the middle, cool air rushing over my exposed skin. He grins in satisfaction, then shoves a hand down between us, cupping my mound. “You like being chased, don’t you?” he muses, teasing a finger along my seam. “You’re fucking soaked.”

A needy moan slips from my throat before I can swallow it down, heat flooding my cheeks as embarrassment crawls in right behind the pleasure. My teeth sink into my bottom lip before another sound can escape.

“Hey,” Talon barks, his other hand sliding up the column of my neck to grip my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I pant.

“This,” he says, the pad of his thumb tugging on my bottom lip and pulling it free. “Don’t fucking hide.”

My heart stutters a beat.

“If you like it, then fucking own it, Jersey.” The intensity in his blue-eyed stare steals my breath, his fingers flexing around my throat. “There’s no shame in wanting to feel good.”

My mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

What am I supposed to say to that?

That I’ve never truly enjoyed sex before? That I didn’t even know it could feel good, even when it hurts?

That I like the chase, the fight? Being overpowered and fucked hard, so long as it’s Talon doing it?

The thought of admitting that feels vile. Because if I like this, what does that mean about everything Commander Martin did? If my body can crave the same things with Talon that used to make me want to crawl out of my own skin in disgust, does that somehow make what happened back then okay?

No.

My body picks up on the distinction quicker than my brain, responding to Talon in ways it never has before. Some damaged part of me still wants to turn it into something shameful, but it isn’t. Not if I want it. Not if I’m choosing it.

His fingers pinch my clit, my back arching as he pulls me back into the moment.

“That’s right, show me,” he coaxes, fingers rubbing rough circles as his other hand slides up my stomach, grabbing the edge of the medical tape and ripping the bandage off my stomach. “Show me whose pussy this really is.”

My head tilts, eyes peering down at the raised scabs on my stomach. After remembering what Harris had carved into me, I was glad for the bandage so I didn’t have to look at it. But seeing it now, it’s not an H anymore, it’s…

“Did you carve your initial over his?” I demand, bristling.

His finger traces over it. “You weren’t his to claim.”

I smack his hand away with a scowl. “I’m not yours either, asshole.”

His expression shifts, eyes going feral. Gripping the base of his cock, he lines himself up, and I scream as he slams into me, burying himself to the hilt. My muscles seize, hands flying to his chest as my body struggles to accommodate the sudden burning stretch.

He catches both of my wrists in one hand, wrenching them above my head and pinning them there.

“You’re a fucking liar.” He rolls his hips, a violent shiver racing through me. “You’re mine to possess.”

His lips crash against mine, hard and brutal, our teeth clashing as he forces his tongue into my mouth. He tastes every corner, biting my bottom lip as he roughly pulls back.

“Mine to fucking ruin.”

He dips his head down, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth. I gasp, arching into it.

“Mine to fucking keep.”

He rocks back, shifting to his knees as his hands release my wrists and settle at my hips.

“You’re all fucking mine, Jersey,” he snarls, fingers digging bruises into my thighs as he wrenches my legs apart before slamming back inside.

And god fucking help me– I like hearing him say it.

27

TALON

Ilean against the kitchen island, staring at my phone as I take a bite of toaster waffle. There’s enough food stockpiled in this cabin to survive a fucking apocalypse– probably two– and still, somehow toaster waffles are what I chose to celebrate my first day of unemployment.

The bedroom door opens as I’m tearing off another bite, Jersey wandering out wearing another one of my shirts, rubbing her eyes. I lower the volume on the music playing from the surround sound, gesturing to the plate of waffles in offering.

She pauses, blinking at me in confusion before pointing to the ceiling. “Is this Retrograde?”

I jerk a nod, swallowing my bite as I reach for my coffee cup.

Her brows furrow. “You listen to Retrograde?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I growl.

“I… don’t know.” Her head tilts as she studies me, like she’ll find the answer carved in my fucking skin if she just looks hard enough.

“Worked security for their last live show,” I say. “They were decent.” My shoulder lifts in a shrug as I take a drink of my coffee.

“Seriously?” she asks, eyes brightening. “I was at that show. The one downtown?”

I nod again, then gesture to the empty barstool at the counter. “Eat.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine, starve,” I grumble, taking another large bite of waffle.

She glares at me for a beat before huffing out a breath, moving towards the kitchen and dropping down onto the stool.

“So, what now?” she asks, eyeing me as she pulls a waffle from the pile onto an empty plate, doing exactly what I fucking told her to do. “It’s been fun playing house and all, but what’s the end game here? Are you gonna bring me back to the Vanguard, turn me in to The Registry?”

“I should,” I mumble, moving in beside her. My hand snaps out, forefinger and thumb pinching her chin, tilting her head up until our gazes lock. “There’s a sizable bounty on your head, little stray.”

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, her grip on her fork tightening.

I pinch harder, eyes flicking from the fork and back. “Don’t,” I warn.

A mischievous smirk curls her lips, lashes batting innocently. “But what if I’m feeling stabby?”

“Then there’s plenty of elitist pricks in Northbrooke you could carve up.”

A wicked little spark ignites behind her hazel eyes.

There’s my fucking girl.

“You’ll stay here,” I declare, releasing her chin and picking up my waffle again, tearing into it with my teeth.

“Here?” she repeats, nose wrinkling. “With you?”

I raise a brow. “That a problem?”

She narrows her eyes on me, clearly searching for some sort of subtext.

“Guess I can just take you to the Vanguard, then,” I suggest.

Her face screws up in a grimace. “I’d rather fucking die.”

“It’s decided, then.”

“What, I don’t get a choice?” she scoffs, stealing my coffee mug from my hand.

“You just made it,” I reply bluntly as I point toward the door. “Out there, it’s only a matter of time before you’re hunted down and turned in to The Registry. They can’t get to you here.”

She lifts her chin, eyeing me suspiciously. “What makes you so sure?” she asks, hands wrapping around my coffee mug as she lifts it to her own lips and takes a long drink.

“Other than the fact we’re surrounded by hundreds of acres of wilderness with a secure perimeter?” I ask, stealing my coffee back the moment she lowers the mug. “They’d have to hire a merc to do it, and the only one with the skillset needed for the mission just retired.”

She nibbles on her bottom lip in contemplation as I tilt my mug, finding it empty.

I scowl at her. “Who fucking chugs hot coffee?”

“Someone that’s been tased while trying to savor it before,” she deadpans.

“Martin?” I surmise, walking over to the coffee pot for a refill. “Shame he’s already dead.”

Steam billows up as I refill my cup, pulling out another and shifting the carafe to fill one for her.

“So this place,” she murmurs, glancing around. “Is it your retirement home, then? Secret lair?”

“Something like that,” I say, placing a mug down in front of her. “Could be yours, too.”

She eyes me skeptically, lips turning down in a frown as she pulls the mug towards herself, like she’s afraid I’m going to take it away from her or some shit. “Until you change your mind, decide to go back, and collect my bounty?”

“I’m not going back,” I mutter. “The mercs are catching heat right now, some fuckin’ nepo baby got killed and his daddy thinks one of us did it.”

“Did you?” she asks, cocking a brow at me over the rim of her mug.

“Doesn’t matter,” I grumble. “Either way, the world’s better off without Austin fucking Miller in it.”

She chokes on her swallow, coughing and sputtering as she sets down the mug, blinking at me.

“He was a Registry Enforcer,” I say, “but before that, he was training to be a Mercenary. We were partners on a field assignment fresh out of probationary training. And, like a goddamn moron, he went off book. The rules were simple, track down this teenage girl and bring her back to the Vanguard alive. Fucking child’s play, but that neanderthal got trigger happy and shot her.”

Jersey stares at me wide-eyed, one hand drifting down to the left side of her stomach.

“I called him on his bullshit and he thought he’d pin it on me, to try to cover up his incompetence. Came at me with a knife…” I lift a hand, tracing a fingertip over the scar cutting over my left eye. “I knocked the fucker out, reported it to our Chief, and he got kicked from Syndicate. But because his father works at The Registry and sucked off the right people, he got him a job there that he wasn't qualified for.”

Her breathing grows ragged, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the counter. “What about the girl?” she asks, her voice thin.

“I forgot all about her,” I admit, grabbing my coffee and beckoning her with a flick of my head as I head for the door.

She swipes up her own mug and a half-eaten waffle, following me hesitantly out of the cabin.

Outside, the birds are chirping from the trees, morning dew still clinging to the grass. I sink down in an Adirondack chair, turning to look at her as she pulls the door closed behind us. “Recently, I learned she’d become an Asset,” I say, leveling her with a stare. “A311.”

Her mouth hinges open, hazel eyes widening. “You… you were there?”

I dip my chin in a nod, patting my thigh.

“And you knew?” she asks, voice strained as she takes a hesitant step closer. “You knew it was me?”

“Not at first,” I admit, hooking an arm around her waist and dragging her down onto my lap. I shift her sideways, draping her legs across mine. “But after I brought you in, I had a friend get me access to your files.”

“Is that why you came back?” Her spine goes rigid under my palm, her whole body subtly bracing like she’s preparing for a blow.

I stare back at her, unsure how the fuck to answer that.

The connection between us fueled my obsession, sure. Gave me another reason to keep digging, another incessant itch I couldn’t scratch. Seeing pieces of my own past in hers reminded me how this whole fucking government is designed to exploit your soul beyond recognition. Bleed the working class dry, and then laugh in their faces as they struggle to survive, looking down on them for being in the very position they’d been forced into. And then, in this mass-manufactured hell, offer them assistance that was never meant to help them– all to just sit back in their glass towers and watch as the world rots in decay beneath their fucking feet. She didn’t deserve that, but whatever it is that I feel for Jersey took root before I discovered our connection.

“Well?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest as a breeze kicks up, goosebumps pebbling across her skin.

I pick up my mug, taking a drink. “Eat your breakfast,” I grumble, staring out at the sun creeping up over the tree line.

A smile slowly spreads across her face as she takes a bite, snickering as she chews.

“What?” I deadpan.

“It’s just cute,” she muses.

A giggle bursts from her throat. She slaps a hand over her mouth to cover it, but it does fuck all to contain the sound.

Laughter normally irritates me. Coming from her, though, it’s almost… nice.

“You act all big and bad,” she snorts, “but it turns out, big bad Repo man has a conscience.”

“No I don’t,” I mutter.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she laughs. “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

We sit there quietly, the birds chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze as the sun rises. An unfamiliar warmth blooms in my chest as she leans against my bare chest.

“So, why’d you kill Miller, anyway?" she asks, fingers tracing along one of my tattoos.

“I think you know,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches, smile fading as she tilts her face up to look at me.

My hand reaches up, winding her hair around my fist and yanking her head back. “Nobody touches what’s mine.”

“But I wasn’t yours,” she scoffs.

“Yeah you were,” I say, my other hand resting on the crest of her thigh. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

She draws in a sharp breath like she’s about to protest, so I crush my lips against hers to silence her, the kiss hard and unforgiving. My hand slips beneath the hem of her shirt, gliding over her already wet slit before I shove two fingers inside. She lets out a breathy moan when I pull back, her lips puffy and swollen.

“You were made for me, little stray,” I say, pumping my fingers in and out to punctuate every word. “Your pain. Your pleasure, it’s all fucking mine.”

Her eyes narrow in defiance as she reaches up, grabbing onto my hand and trying to dislodge it from her hair.

“Listen here, Sasquatch,” she snarls. “If I’m gonna stay here, I’m not gonna be owned.” Her fingernails dig into my skin, but I revel in the pain, not loosening my hold. “By you, or by anyone else, ever again.”

“Never said I owned you.”

“So what’s the difference?” she asks.

“A choice.” I pull my fingers from her tight cunt, raising them to her lips.

She hesitates for a beat, blinking up at me. Then her pupils blow wide as she opens her mouth, sucking my fingers clean.

I shift back in the chair, grabbing her thighs to adjust her on my lap.

“You sure you’re not a hero?” she asks, her head dropping lazily against my chest.

“Positive,” I say, fingers tracing idly up her spine.

“Then what does that make you?”

I gaze down at her, a smirk playing at my lips. “A fucking monster, little stray. Just one that hunts for you now.”

28

EPILOGUE

Jersey

“Look who’s awake,” Talon announces with a smirk, inked forearms folding across his chest.

Harris groans incoherently, blinking up at us through swollen eyes. Deep red and purple bruises blossom across his face, a fresh spray of crimson layered over the dried blood already crusting his skin like some macabre Monet.

His head lolls to the side, his eyes disoriented and confused. It takes a second for recognition to set in, and when it does, the panic that overtakes his features– well, those you can actually see through the carnage– gives rise to a positively euphoric feeling.

I think I finally understand why Talon enjoyed his job so much.

It took a while for him to admit that he missed it. We hunkered down at the cabin for an entire month, fucking like animals and doing whatever the hell we wanted while we waited for The Registry to conclude A311 was dead and gone and call off the hunt. Once they did, restlessness set in, and Talon’s friend Slade suggested we spice things up with a date night. Ya know, normal ‘couple’ shit.

Except I’d hardly call us a couple, and we’re definitely not normal. Not after all we’ve seen and endured under The Registry’s corrupt regime.

I’ve gotta admit, vigilante missions have proved to be a much more satisfying date option than dinner and a movie.

Slade provides us with access to the files of Northbrooke’s most heinous elites, and we study every detail before plotting their assassination.

This particular date night has been a long time coming. Harris keeps his security tight, but Talon worked tirelessly to weaken his defenses, creating an opening for us to finally nab him. Best date ever.

“Hi, Master,” I purr, a coy, cruel smile playing at my lips as I wiggle my fingers in front of Harris’ mangled face.

Moving closer to the platform, I lean forward to admire the Pepto-bismol-pink collar fastened around his throat, hands bracing against my knees.

“You know,” I muse, tilting my head. “Pink is definitely more your color than it was mine.”

The chains rattle as Harris jerks against his restraints. Hog-tied and helpless, he rocks forward, then topples sideways onto the white fur rug with a heavy thud. It feels like poetic justice that the same pristine fur I was forced to be displayed on is now stained with his blood. Ironic how the elites have no problem with stripping away a person’s choices until they’re the ones naked, collared, and waiting to be used for someone’s twisted pleasure. Then, suddenly it's absurd and barbaric.

Fucking hypocrites.

“Wha–” Harris starts, a wet, garbled cough taking over as he spits out a glob of blood. “What do you want?”

I straighten slowly, tapping a finger against my chin as I turn towards Talon. “What do I want?”

His blue eyes glimmer with amusement as the corner of his mouth curls into a grin, but he doesn’t respond. He’s leaving it up to me, as promised.

Harris isn’t the only monster who tortured me in the past, but with Commander Martin and Austin Miller gone, he’s the only one left to exact vengeance upon. After all I’ve been put through, I more than deserve my pound of flesh, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m taking more than just a pound from this prick.

“Justice,” I say with a shrug, the blade of Talon’s Bowie knife glinting under the light of the chandelier as I twirl it between my fingers. “Or revenge. The line feels pretty fucking thin from this side of the leash.”

“For what?” Harris rasps through bloodied teeth. “You’re an Asset, you were being used how you were intended to be.”

Humming in response, I take another step closer to the platform. “Then I guess you won’t mind if I do the same.” I roll the handle of the knife in my palm. “Though I don’t really need all of you…”

His face screws up in a grimace as I reach for his crotch, grabbing hold of the sad, skin-colored gherkin that looks more like a diseased growth than a useful appendage. I drag the serrated side of the blade over the base of his shaft, Harris crying out as tiny beads of blood rise along his skin.

“Jesus,” Talon huffs. “You have to pull it taut if you’re going to saw, or else you're just going to maul the skin and accomplish nothing.”

“Sorry,” I chirp, holding my hands up with an innocent shrug. “I haven’t cut a dick off before.”

“At least you’re better at fucking swallowing them,” he murmurs.

I cut him a glare, then return to my task, gripping and pulling the saggy mess tight before sawing at it with the blade again. Flesh rips, exposing tissue and muscle as blood sprays in my face.

“Look,” Talon muses. “He’s a squirter, too.”

“Ha ha, asshole.”

Harris screams, thrashing and attempting to twist away, but he’s got nowhere to go. With a final drag of the blade, the skin finally severs, ragged edges curling back. I toss his dick over my shoulder with a smile as Harris convulses and whimpers.

“Fu-ucking bitch,” he pants.

“What was it you said that night?” I ask, having way too much fun drawing this out. “That I didn’t have a proper tag of ownership yet? Is that right?”

He responds with a moan of pain, a sheen of sweat coating his skin as he writhes at my feet.

“I can fix that,” I offer, sinking to my knees beside him.

I drive the blade into his abdomen, the skin breaking open with a wet pop. Blood rushes to the surface with each sweep and drag of the knife as I work my way towards his chest, Harris wailing in pain with each cut I carve into him.

Once I’ve finished, I rock back on to my heels, glancing back at Talon over my shoulder. “Whatcha think?”

“That’s not your name,” he growls, stalking forward. His hand lashes out, thumb and forefinger pinching my chin and tilting my head up. “Say it.”

An undeniable heat simmers low in my belly, and I have to squeeze my thighs together as the ache grows stronger.

“Jersey,” I reply breathlessly, gazing up at him.

“Good girl,” he praises, bending down to slam his lips against mine. His teeth sink into my bottom lip, dragging as he pulls back, face hovering inches from mine. “Now make sure he dies knowing it.”

I nod resolutely, pushing up to my feet as Talon straightens. “A little help?” I ask, tipping my head towards the heavy pile of chains on the platform.

“My fucking pleasure,” he growls, gathering the chain easily and tossing an end over the metal truss above the platform.

Harris continues to cough and choke, his body seizing as blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. The chain grinds and clanks as Talon yanks on it, Harris’s body slowly rising farther with metallic scrape until his toes brush the ground, body dangling by the pink collar fastened around his throat.

He chokes and sputters, fighting against his restraints.

“Oops,” I say, feigning concern. “But don’t worry, I can fix it.”

I step closer, ramming the blade into the bloody stub where his dick used to be.

He screams so loud it rattles the walls.

“Just one flick of the wrist, and you’ll be all done,” I sing-song.

He gasps for air, bulging eyes drifting towards my stomach. The cropped black shirt I’m wearing leaves my scars visible, the warped letter R on full display, and I hope he notices. I hope he sees how I’ve been reclaimed by someone who actually earned the right to leave his mark.

I twist the knife deeper until the serrations beneath the hilt catch his skin, Harris’ eyes rolling back.

“Nice and slow now, please,” I tell Talon.

“Never heard you say that before,” he remarks.

I roll my eyes as he follows my instructions, slowly lowering Harris’ body as I hold the blade steady, a blood-curdling scream ripping from wherever Harris’ soul should have been.

His skin parts around my knife as it slices upward, blood spilling onto the floor and splashing my feet. I keep holding firm, looking Harris in the eyes as the knife splits through his meaty belly, the first surge of organs spilling outward. Intestines and what I think is his kidney follow as Talon continues to lower him over my blade, but it suddenly stops when I hit bone.

Dammit.

“Sternum?” Talon asks, the veins in his forearms pulsing as he holds the chain steady.

“I think so,” I sigh.

“Step back,” he instructs.

I do, pulling the knife free with a squelch.

Talon drops the chain, Harris hitting the floor with a wet thud as his convulsing body lands atop the pile of his innards.

“C’mere, little stray,” Talon beckons with a lift of his chin, boots squelching through the mess as he moves to stand over Harris’ mangled form.

I move towards him, his hands circling my hips as he lifts me up and positions me over Harris. Then he presses against my back, his erection nudging my ass as his arms wrap around me, hands covering mine.

“Bend your knees,” he instructs, his body folding with mine. “Ready?”

“Not as ready as you are,” I tease, wiggling my butt against him.

He growls, warm breath skating over my skin. “Keep that up and your ass will look like Harris when I’m done,” he warns.

The savagery of his threat makes my belly flip.

“Jersey,” Talon barks. “Finish your assignment.”

I twist my head around to look back at him, grinning wickedly. “I like when you say my name.”

“And I like when you scream mine, baby. But finish this asshole first.”

I cluck my tongue, rolling my eyes. “Okay, Mr. Meticulous.”

With Talon’s weight against my back and our feet anchoring Harris to the ground, he guides my hands on the knife until it gnaws into bone, then out and into the hollow of Harris’ throat, slicing down until we meet the other side. Once it’s done, Talon releases his hold and straightens, running a bloodied hand through his hair, tinging the blond strands red.

“Now careful, but give a little jump right there in the center and it should crack like a glow stick.”

I do, the bone snapping so violently that my foot slips in the mess and I pitch backwards, the knife clattering to the ground as Talon catches me.

His chest heaves against my back as he holds me there, the two of us gazing down at the heaping pile of another Northbrooke elite meeting an end that’s far too kind for what he’s inflicted on others over the years. Still, it’s one less heinous asshole on the streets, so really, we’re the blood-soaked heroes in this story.

Harris will never hurt another Asset again.

And now Slade needs to help us find Kenzie.

Talon growls deep in his throat as he bites at my neck, shoving my leggings down my thighs.

All of our date nights seem to end like this, but you won’t hear me complaining. Exacting vengeance is a potent aphrodisiac.

I hear the sound of his zipper lowering, then feel the tip of his dick pressing against my slit. My breath hitches as he reaches around, fingers finding my clit. Then he rocks forward, dragging himself through my slickness before plunging in deep, bottoming out in a single, brutal thrust. The stretch is a familiar mix of agony and bliss that makes my heart stutter, one hand flying up to claw at his neck, the other dipping down to rest atop his while he strums my clit.

I whimper in protest as he draws his hand back, but then he grabs my wrist, forcing my fingers to my clit instead. He guides them, continuing his ministrations, and this is the proper way to use me for my pleasure.

I pant and moan as Talon hammers into me relentlessly, until the pressure is too much and I feel like I’m going to explode.

“Come on my fucking cock, Jersey,” he grits out, mouth at my ear.

An orgasm racks my body, wetness dripping down my thighs while Talon groans in ecstasy, his cock pulsing inside me as he finds his own release.

I’ve spent so long wondering what freedom feels like, what it tastes like.

And now I know.

It’s this.

Me, my monster, and a pile of dead elites at our feet.

It feels like vengeance, it tastes like justice.

And goddamn, is it sweet.

THE END.

AFTERWORD

“Every human being must have a point at which he stands against the culture, where he says, this is me and the damned world can go to hell.”

-Rollo May

Phew, what a ride! I trust you’re doing better than Harris or Miller though?

Thank you so much for picking up this story and giving it a chance. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review or sharing with a friend. It may not seem like much, but it means the world to indie authors like me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could write a whole other book, thanking all the amazing people that helped make this book possible, but I’ll give you the Cliffsnotes version instead.

C.J. Primer, the best friend I never saw coming and didn’t know I needed but refuse to go on without. You believe in me, even when I don’t believe in myself and want the world for me as much as you want it for yourself. Thank you.

Kelly, I absolutely adore you. Thank you for making sure I never had a shortage of encouraging words, energy drinks and writing snacks. And for sticking it out through all the spitting :P

Kels and Cyn, you each are amazing and thank you for being there for support, input, and a little comedic relief.

To my Deviant Darlings, you were relentless in your support of this story and my chaotic mess. I’m so happy to have you all along for the ride. And those who jumped in to Beta and made me laugh with your comments when I was in the final stretch and on little sleep.

I can’t forget Mr. Day, who never stops telling his coworkers about my books and brings me a dirty soda to take the edge off. Thank you for cheering me on even when you don’t always understand the world.

Lastly, you the reader– by picking up this book you not only took a chance on this story, but on me. So, THANK YOU!

DARK STAR SHARED WORLD

MEET THE ZODIACS

AQUARIUS

RECLAIMED - DARMA DAY

PISCES

VISIONARY - AIMEE-JO HUNTER

ARIES

SPITFIRE - A.L. MARUGA

TAURUS

FEAST - AB. CYNTHE

GEMINI

RECKLESS - DAKOTA WILDE

CANCER

GHOSTED - NOVA KANE

LEO

UNTAMED - WILLOW PRESCOTT

VIRGO

MERCILESS - WILLOW MCQUERRY

LIBRA

UNBALANCED - BROOKLYN CROSS

SCORPIO

VENGEFUL - ORION AZURE

SAGITTARIUS

WILDLING - RHEA RYAN

CAPRICORN

ABANDONED - S.K. PRYNTZ

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I’m an indie author living in the Midwest with my husband and our dog. I love reading spicy romances just as much as I love writing them. Drawn to the darker side of romance, those themes find their way into my stories regardless of genre.

But mostly, I’m little chaotic, usually caffeinated, and probably speaking in movie quotes.

Follow on Goodreads || Find her on Amazon || Follow on Instagram || Visit her Website

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DETAILED CONTENT WARNING

Content includes but is not limited to: mentions of physical violence (on/off page), intense bullying by MMC to FMC, consensual-non-consent, dubious consent, drugs (use/mentions) and forced drugging (on/off page), physical and sexual assault (on/off page and of a minor– age sixteen), unaliving (on/off page), mental abuse, manipulation, extortion, grooming, abuse of power, blood, gore, burning, dismemberment, knife & gun use, torture/mutilation, the female main character is owned, sold & treated like property, suppression of human rights (especially women’s), stalking/tracking, enslavement/trafficking, corrupt government, nightmares, flashbacks, mentions of panic attacks, PTSD & recalling traumatic moments, child abuse, child abandonment/neglect, death of a parent, mentions of illegal activity, mentions of cheating (not by an MC), contraceptive coercion, groping, restraint, gaslighting, graphic and explicit language and on page graphic and explicit sexual scenes.