Page 52 of Once A Villain

But today? Today, I’m just pissed. Any twisted, unwanted attraction I once had for Axe is gone, replaced by raw, undiluted hatred.

The memory of the branding might as well be burned into me too—his hand holding the iron, the searing heat sinking into my skin. The smell of burning flesh. The sizzling sound. The agonizing pain. All of it lingers like a scar in my mind.

I don’t know why I texted the masked man. Was it revenge? A need for control?

Maybe both. But it doesn’t matter.

One thing’s clear—I’m done. I need a release. I need to be fucked—hard, fast—until I can’t think. I want to forget it all, drown it in pleasure or pain or whatever it takes to make me feel something, anything.

Sending that text was impulsive. The anger, fear, and frustration boiled over until I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I crave intensity—whether it’s pain or pleasure. I need to feel alive.

But I don’t want just anyone from the Sovereign. I don’t want some stranger. I want him—the one who’s haunted me. The one who’s made me feel things I shouldn’t.

Axe made it clear what would happen if I screwed anyone else. But I don’t care anymore. This fucked-up marriage is his vendetta against my father. Revenge. He enjoys hurting me. Even if I was perfect, he’d still find a way to cause pain. That’s who he is—cold, heartless, cruel. He’ll probably kill me eventually.

And if death is coming anyway, I might as well take what I can from this miserable life. I’d rather die than keep living like this.

I trace the branding on my skin. The letter H inside a ring, burned into me.

His mark. Permanent.

Forever reminding me of who owns me.

Fuck that.

I’ll fight until the bitter end. And if the masked man can offer me even the smallest escape—then I’ll take it.

Fuck the consequences.

Fuck the pain.

Fuck Axel Hawthorne.

I dress for rehearsal, slipping into loose sweats and a tank top. This day will be grueling. My muscles are still sore and weak, and I can’t stand anything touching the brand; even the slightest pressure sends sharp, stabbing pain through me.

Rehearsals typically mix new routines with old ones, and Bradley is relentless. I’ve been gone all week, and I don’t know how he’s going to react to the brand—he hates marks and tattoos.

Grabbing my dance bag, I head downstairs, my stomach growling in protest. I spot my car keys on the kitchen counter.

“Axe will be gone for a while on missions,” Griffen says from his chair. “How’s?—”

“Go fuck yourself,” I snap, snatching my keys and storming out.

I’ve lost my appetite. I never want to talk to him again. He was a coward. A spineless piece of shit. And he had the nerve to apologize while holding me down.

“Rory,” he calls after me, but I quicken my pace. “Wait. Please.” His steps echo behind me, drawing closer. I increase my speed, practically running for the garage. But a limp slows my movements.

“Leave me alone.” I don’t want him anywhere near me.

“Stop and listen to me,” he insists, spinning me around with a tight grip on my arm.

“Let me go,” I snap, struggling, but he only tightens his grip.

“Not until you talk to me,” he demands, pulling me closer. I push against his chest, my arms trapped between us.

“You’re hurting me.” I wriggle free as he finally lets go. Stepping back, I rub my wrist, glaring at him. I notice bruises, cuts on his face, and bandaged knuckles.

“Rory, please, just listen,” he pleads, taking a step toward me, causing me to flinch. “I’m sorry.”

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