Page 149 of I’m The Worst

“K9. Whatever happened in Russia, don’t let it make you weak.”

My grip tightens on the duffel strap. Then I shove through the locker room doors and disappear back into the concrete halls of the Citadel before this conversation turns into something uglier. Because a real fight between Graves and me wouldn’t end with bruises or broken bones. It’d end with one of us zipped into a body bag.

I should’ve killed Graves.

Now I’m standing outside Blackout in a custom charcoal suit tailored an hour ago, feeling homicidal. I flex my fingers slowly at my sides, staring at the massive steel doors while bass rattles through the concrete beneath my boots hard enough to vibrate up my spine.

I already want to leave.

Or start breaking bones.

Either works.

I don’t do clubs.

Don’t do suits.

Don’t do this fake-as-shit social performance.

The Sovereign loves this shit. Celebrating like it’s a goddamn frat party instead of a machine built on blood and broken bodies. Tonight, they’re welcoming the newest batch of rookies who just took their vows. The branding on their chests barely a few hours old.

Heat and stench hit me like a wall the second I step inside—thick sweat, cum, weed, alcohol, perfume, and the sharp metallic tang of blood. Red strobe lights slice through the haze, illuminating the main floor where half-naked bodies grind and fuck.

Sluts are everywhere: bent over tables, on their knees, chained to pillars with their legs spread wide. Their cunts and asses are already gaping and leaking, cum dripping down their thighs in thick white strands as Sovereigns take turns using them like public fucktoys. On the elevated platforms, Sirens dangle from the ceiling by wrist and ankle cuffs, cunts and asses at the perfect height for the rookies to fuck while they swing.

My attention flicks from one side of the room to the other, mapping exits and blind spots. Four bartenders behind the bar, six guards at the main entrances, plus three more near the back.

Every drug. Every kink. Every dark, depraved desire is on full display tonight.

This place was made for monsters.

I weave through the crowd toward the back rooms, walking through a long, dimly lit corridor lined with gloryhole stations. Sluts are bound and presented like livestock—some face-down on padded benches with their asses up and legs forced wide apart by spreader bars. Others are on their knees in stocks, mouths held open by O-rings.

The heavy curtains covering the large back room are pulled back, spilling blue light into the hallway.

I step inside.

Leather couches line the walls. A raised stage in the center with spotlights. Crystal glasses gleam on a mahogany bar. High-ranking Sovereigns sprawl across the furniture, drinks in hand, naked Servants on their laps or on their knees. My eyes scan the space and land on Graves—lying back on a large couch, a Slut riding his face while another is sucking his cock.

He notices me instantly. Brown eyes lock onto mine from beneath her thighs. He gives me a lazy wink before grabbing her hips and forcing her down harder on his mouth.

I head for the bar and pour myself something strong enough to burn through the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I just need to be seen. Check the box. Get the fuck out before dawn.

More people filter in, taking seats around the room. The stage in the center lights up as the music shifts. “Not Right” by Elia Ex blasts through the speakers.

I raise the glass to my lips, ignoring the growing noise.

The curtain on the stage drops, revealing a naked Slut strapped to an X-cross—big tits, blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, black collar around her throat with a small golden bell attached to the front.

A seductive voice blast through the speakers over the music. “Oh boys, who wants to make this little whore come?”

My hand freezes halfway to my mouth.

For a second, my brain genuinely stops working.

AJ.

She’s practically naked, wearing only black latex panties and sky-high stilettos. Nothing covering her tits—new silver nipple piercings glinting under the lights. Her hair is longer, pitch-black extensions pulled into a sleek high ponytail that swings down her bare back while oil glistens across her skin beneath the stage lights. Thick black eyeliner. Black lipstick.