Page 199 of I’m The Worst

“I just…” He drags a hand over his jaw. “I want a chance to do this differently. To be different with you. Because after seeing you like this, I can’t keep pretending any of the rest of it matters more than making sure you’re safe.”

Silence stretches between us, then he reaches for my hand.

“Please. Tell me who did this to you.”

My stomach knots instantly, a cold wave of nausea rolling through me. The words feel like they’re choking me. Part of me wants to believe him. But the rest of me is screaming that trust is a trap. That safety is a lie. That the second I open my mouth, everything will spiral even worse.

“I don’t know.”

His eyebrows pull together. “You don’t know?”

“He wore a mask. I didn’t see his face.”

“Did he say anything?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, the memory of Wolff’s hand on my throat flashing hot and violent behind my lids. The way he used the one touch I had trusted him with to hurt me.

“AJ.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Look at me.”

I force my eyes open.

“Whoever did this hurt you in your home, I’m not going to let them get away with that. But I need something from you. Anything. A word. What he wore. The way he moved. Tell me whatever you remember, and I’ll handle the rest.”

My mind is a storm—terror at the thought of saying Wolff’s name, shame that I still feel the ghost of his touch, and a sick, desperate flicker of hope that maybe David really could make it stop. I don’t know if I believe him.

But I know I can’t keep carrying this alone.

If I’d known becoming a General came with this many fucking public appearances, I would’ve stayed a Lieutenant out of spite.

The banquet hall is all polished marble, black tablecloths, and blood-red floral centerpieces tall enough to block half the room. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, throwing white light over a few hundred of the Sovereign’s richest psychopaths while servers in pressed uniforms weave between tables with champagne and tiny pieces of food no one here actually wants to eat.

At the front of the room, a massive stage has been dressed in black and gold for tonight’s ceremony, complete with banners, podiums, and enough self-important bullshit to make me want to gouge my eyes out with a butterknife.

Apparently, when a High Chancellor loses his mind, half the South Section tries to eat itself alive, and a small army of us gets dragged in to stop the fallout, the Sovereign throws a fucking gala about it.

I sit at one of the tables near the back, suit digging into my shoulders, tie already loosened. The exit stays in my peripheral. It’s the only part of this room I give a shit about.

Beside me, Graves is halfway through a tumbler of whiskey. His nose is slightly crooked from the last fight he picked, and the expensive black suit can’t do a damn thing to make him look civilized.

“You keep glaring at the doors. If you bolt before they serve the steak, I’m telling everybody you cried during the speeches.” He loudly drains the rest of his drink.

I’m tempted to break his hand, but I don’t move. Moving means taking my eyes off the room, and I’ve been watching for the wrong thing all night.

AJ isn’t here.

I saw David earlier, standing near the stage laughing with a cluster of Commanders like his life is just fucking perfect.

“Did you touch my shit while I was on a mission?”

Graves snorts. “What kind of question is that?”

“My locker’s been gone through.” I keep my eyes on the crowd as I say it, scanning faces, exits, every server. “Nothing’s missing. Just moved around.”

“K9, you are one weird motherfucker. I don’t give a fuck that somebody rifled through your tragic little collection of knives and black T-shirts. Maybe someone wanted to sniff your underwear.”

“General looks rough on you, Maddox.” The deep Russian accent comes from my right.

Arseny Zakharov pulls out the chair across from us and drops into it. His broad frame strains the seams of a black suit, a thick scar dragging down one side of his jaw while smaller ones disappear into the ink on his throat and hands.