Page 38 of I’m The Worst

She looks up at me through her lashes…then her gaze drops to the thick bulge straining in my jeans. “I can⁠—”

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

Flinching, she turns away, yanking the sleeping bag over her head and curling into a tight ball. The silence stretches out, and after a few minutes, I hear the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. Asleep.

My fists stay clenched on my thighs. Cock still rock hard and leaking, pressing painfully against the zipper. I drag in a slow breath through my nose. It does nothing.

I shift, trying to adjust the pressure, teeth grinding as the ache flares hotter.

Pathetic.

I’m a fucking Sovereign. And I’m sitting here with a throbbing dick because a half-starved, broken girl fingered her cunt three feet away from me in the dark.

This isn’t me.

I don’t want.

I don’t lose control.

Not for anyone.

Especially not for her.

I force my eyes back to the door and stare. Measure exits. Count shadows. Think about anything except the faint wet spot I know is still soaking through her leggings.

Minutes drag by before the tension in my body finally starts to dull.

Barely.

I brace my forearms on my knees and keep my stare locked on the door.

I don’t look at her again.

Loud laughter jolts me awake. The sleeping bag is twisted around my legs, the fabric damp with sweat. I push myself upright, blinking in the half-light. The room is empty, the door cracked open.

Men are talking in Russian, their voices growing louder by the second. I glance toward the fireplace where Wolff slept.

His sleeping bag is rolled tight.

Did he even sleep?

My bones ache as I push myself up and walk into the living room. The fire is blazing in the hearth, and Savva and his men are drinking coffee from metal tins, cookware propped on a small gas burner.

Wolff stands by the fire, his back to me.

They all look up when I step in. A chill runs down my spine. My body freezes on instinct.

“Come eat, girl.” Savva grins. “We leave soon.”

Wolff turns and walks over, eyes never leaving mine. “Eat,” he mutters, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the men. He presses a tin into my hands and nods toward the table.

I sit on a dusty bench, my stomach growling.

“Can you tell me where we’re going?” I ask as he sits across from me and sips his coffee, gaze fixed on Savva’s men.

He doesn’t answer.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, poking at the food. “Can you at least tell me that?”