Page 200 of I’m The Worst

Arsen’s eyes sweep over Graves. “You’re bigger.”

Graves looks down at himself. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

He quirks his eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“No.” Arsen reaches for the whiskey. “I’ve just never seen an operative built like a fucking vending machine.”

Graves laughs. “And yet somehow I still outrank half the idiots you train.”

Arsen’s been dragged through damn near every section of the Sovereign at this point, training recruits, cleaning up disasters, and making rookies cry in eight different languages. Former FSB. An East Section legend. The kind of man people either hero worship or actively pray they never get assigned to. The Sovereign treats him like a prized attack dog and a liability in the same breath.

He looks at me, narrowing his gaze. “You still look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders, trying to work out tension that hasn’t left in weeks.

“Sleep?”

I exhale through my nose and shift in my chair. “No.”

“Sluts?”

“No.”

Graves cackles into his glass. “Jesus Christ, K9. At least lie so you don’t look like a fucking loser.”

Before I can tell him to eat shit, another chair scrapes across the floor.

Raze drops into the seat to Arsen’s left. Black ink crawls up the side of his throat and disappears into the tattoos cutting along his temple, the fresh silver insignia at his collar the only thing about him that looks polished.

“Generals,” he says.

“Commander.” Arsen’s mouth twitches.

Graves eyes the new insignia. “Look at that. They finally let the dishonorably discharged psycho play dress-up with the grown-ups.” Graves raises his glass toward Raze. “Congrats on the promotion, sweetheart. Real inspiring story. Boy gets kicked out of the military, joins a murder cult, and somehow still fails upward.”

Raze grunts. “You say that like it wasn’t your exact career path.”

“Difference is, I’m pretty.” Graves winks.

I rub a hand over my jaw and look toward the bar.

I should’ve gone there first.

The room shifts suddenly—people sitting up straighter, conversations quieting. Heads turn toward the entrance in a slow ripple of attention, and then Priest Carmichael walks in like he owns the oxygen. Dressed in all black, arm still in a sling. He’s the freshly appointed High Chancellor to the South Section, the youngest in Sovereign’s history—a rabid fucking problem with a crown now.

The entire table starts to stand.

Priest doesn’t even break stride.

“If you bastard-rejects don’t sit the fuck down, I’ll personally rip your kneecaps out.”

Arsen sinks back into his chair slowly, muttering something in Russian while Priest cuts through the crowd.

Graves laughs. “I missed that feral fucker. He’s gonna make the South so much fun.”

Arsen huffs a laugh into his drink.