Page 147 of I’m The Worst

Fucking is all you’re good for.

The sentence loops through my skull over and over and over again until I feel nauseous. Every vulnerable moment. Every kiss. Every touch. Everything I begged him for…

Heat crawls up my throat, humiliation so intense it feels physical. I feel the guards staring from farther down the hall, pretending not to listen while hearing every fucking word.

I want to scream at him.

Hit him.

Cry.

I’m standing here looking like a fucking idiot who built a fantasy out of scraps. I take a step backward as my hand reaches for the ring on my finger. The stupid piece of metal I couldn’t throw away because some pathetic part of me thought it meant something.

I turn, slip off the ring, and let it fall into a trash bin as I walk away. Then I let out this awful little laugh under my breath. Because how can I truly be this fucking stupid?

Hot water pounds against the back of my neck, steam curling thick through the concrete locker room while blood drips slowly from my split knuckles and disappears down the drain.

My shoulder is throbbing again.

The sparing ring today was one of the worst it’s been in weeks. And I still didn’t hit hard enough to quiet my fucking head.

Footsteps echo through the locker room. Then a familiar voice cuts through the steam.

“Russia really fucked you up, huh?”

Graves drops his duffel onto the nearby bench and steps beneath the shower beside mine. The bastard is so fucking big he barely fits under it properly. Six-seven of muscle, scars, and tattoos.

I run a hand through my hair, letting the hot water sting my busted knuckles before grabbing soap off the ledge.

“You’re moving slow as shit.” He continues, “Thought Ramirez was gonna knock your ass unconscious in round three.”

“He didn’t.”

“Nah.” He snorts. “But he got close enough that I almost started feeling hopeful.”

Already irritated, I drag a hand down my face. Graves lives to make himself everyone else’s fucking problem. Doesn’t matter if it’s Commanders, heirs, Generals, or the poor bastard dumb enough to stand beside him in a hallway. He hates everyone equally.

I glance at him briefly.

His right arm is freshly wrapped, tattooed knuckles scabbed and swollen from earlier. The left side of his face is bruised from a broken nose. He looks like he lost the fight instead of winning it.

But Graves never loses.

He just enjoys breaking shit too much to care about the damage.

He’s a Scab. Same as me.

No military background. No Sovereign bloodline. No famous last name handed down through generations of killers. Just two bastards violent enough to claw their way into ranks we were never supposed to reach. There are only six Scabs in the entire North Section—two of us Generals now.

“You gonna stare at that wall all day, or you finally planning to admit something’s wrong with you?” Graves asks.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Sure.” He scrubs water through his dark hair before glancing sideways at me. “That why you nearly beat Torres unconscious after the bell?”

“He kept swinging.”

“He stopped three hits before you did.”