Page 160 of I’m The Worst

“Move.”

“Nah.”

I stare straight ahead because if I look at his smug fucking face, I’ll crack his skull. His eyes burn into the side of my head before he leans back lazily in the chair.

“You fuck her again?”

My head snaps toward him instantly.

“Ah.” A slow grin spreads across his mouth. “That bad, huh?”

A few Sovereigns entering the room take one look at Graves and immediately veer toward the opposite side of the table.

“I also read your field reports.”

“Those are restricted.” My grip tightens on the edge of the table until the wood creaks.

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, the records clerk really wanted my dick down his throat. He’s got a talented mouth, swallowed like a pro.”

Motherfucker.

“What the hell do you want, Graves?”

“I already told you.” He pours himself a drink. “You’ve been acting like a fucking bitch since Russia, and I’m not letting you drag my name down with yours.” His grin fades into something more serious. “I had to figure out what the fuck happened over there. I knew you were good at tracking people. But those reports? Jesus Christ.” He lets out a low whistle.

I say nothing. Because I already know where this is going.

“You tracked her sleeping patterns. Heart rate spikes. Panic triggers. Food preferences. You documented the way she reacted to specific fucking rooms.”

Heat creeps up the back of my neck.

“You even noted she slept better with physical contact.”

Shit. I forgot I wrote that down. “I will break every bone in your body if you don’t shut your goddamn mouth.”

He laughs. “You’re good, K9, but we both know who’d win that fight.” His gaze locks onto mine fully now. “Now get your shit under control before somebody else notices too. Because those reports didn’t read like a handler monitoring an asset. They read like a fucking stalker.”

Before I can decide to shoot him or snap his fucking neck, the heavy double doors swing open and another voice cuts across the room.

“We promoting Generals on charity cases now?”

The temperature in the room drops instantly.

Harlan St. John enters, looking perfectly pressed and perfectly fucking punchable. Dark blond hair styled like a cunt. Tie straight. Not a wrinkle on him. The golden fucking poster child for Sovereign royalty. I want to slam his head into the table until his skull cracks open and his shiny teeth scatter across the floor.

His eyes drag across me and Graves with open disgust.

“Thought rank was supposed to mean something. Or are we just handing stars to stray dogs and slaughterhouse trash now?”

Graves moves before I even process the words. One second, he’s sitting. The next, Harlan crashes into the wall, hard enough to rattle the fucking glass shelves. Blood sprays across the floor as Graves’s fist connects with his nose.

The room erupts instantly.

Chairs scrape.

Everyone surges to their feet.

Fuck.