Page 12 of I’m The Worst

He doesn’t say shit. He knows better.

“How long have you been tracking her?”

“Too long.”

He laughs. “Surprised you called for an extraction. Not your usual gig, K9.”

I drag a hand down my face, my stubble scraping against my palm.

“How’d you get stuck doing a rescue?” His eyes flick over to her.

I shoot him a look.

“Still not a talker,” he mutters, turning on the radio.

Static crackles. Then bass. Obnoxious Russian pop thumps through the speakers. He’s known me long enough to know I hate this shit. Savva and his crew are the kind of ghosts who can make people and problems disappear. We crossed paths back in my mercenary days before I joined the Sovereign.

Pulling AJ from the club was the easy part. Now comes the real shit. The next seventy-two hours will be hell for her—withdrawals so bad, she’ll beg for death—and I don’t have the time, or the patience, to make it gentle.

And getting her out of the country is another fucking war entirely.

Akim didn’t build the Nightshades by being careless. He doesn’t lose product without making an example out of whoever took it. Especially for something worth as much as her, he’ll raise hell.

Airports. Borders. Ports. Every checkpoint within a hundred miles will be bought, paid for, and watching. And he won’t stop there. Hunters. Contractors. Anyone with a gun and no loyalty will get a price on my head.

I run the routes again, forcing my brain to stay sharp through the fatigue. Highways first, but they’re too exposed. Back roads are slower, but harder to track. Fuel stops. Dead zones. Who I can use. Who I can’t. Which mercenaries will sell us out for a better price.

This whole fucking thing is a mess.

She’s weaker than the briefing said. Lighter and drugged longer.

This wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. It was supposed to be grab, move, vanish. Not babysitting a half-dead girl through detox while half of Eastern Europe starts hunting her.

“So…” he starts, tapping the wheel. “Who is she?”

I track his breathing, noting he seems nervous.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I keep staring out the passenger window at the endless white.

“Don’t the Sovereign girls wear collars?”

“What?”

“Your girls. Your slaves. Don’t they wear collars?”

“Servants.”

“Same fucking thing.” He rolls his eyes and cranks the music louder.

Sovereign Servants.

Women who swear a vow of obedience, loyalty, and submission. Some are born into it, bloodlines tied to the Sovereign for decades. Others are plucked off the streets—desperate girls willing to trade their bodies for a better life. In exchange, the Sovereign gives them everything. Luxury. Money. Protection. Every need and want paid for by the men they fuck.

Their bodies belong to the Sovereign the second they kneel. We call them Sovereign Sluts when we’re being honest. Holes to be used when we want, how we want. We break them in, fuck them, then pass them around when we get bored.

Some Sovereigns marry them, breeding heirs to extend their legacy. Sovereign Sluts or wives—doesn’t matter. Ownership is ownership. And AJ Weston is one of them. Commander Weston’s daughter. A Servant by blood and vow.