Page 127 of Sins of the Hidden

"Nice place you got here—very Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes. You're really leaning into the whole serial killer chic thing, huh?"

My head jerked toward the voice. Chet. Chet standing in my doorway like he owned the place. Last time I saw him, I was beating the shit out of him with my bat before we did a drive-by at the hospital. Now here he was—bruises still yellowing his skin—eyes scanning from the broken body on the floor to my wall of toys, then back to me. Not a flicker of fear in his face.

Too comfortable in my space. Either fearless or insane. Both, probably.

"Are you fucking stupid?"

He held his hands up, casual, like we were old friends having a disagreement. "Well, you knocking me around with your batdidn't fucking help." One hand dropped to scratch the shaved side of his dirty blonde hair. "I just came to talk."

"Talk?" People didn't come here to talk. They came here to die.

His eyes drifted past me, taking in the walls that held more confessions than a priest, ignoring my question entirely. "Charming place. I'm guessing your guests don't come back for seconds?"

"Get to the point." My fingers twitched, craving the satisfaction of snapping bones.

"No foreplay? Poor Oakley." His mouth curled into a smile.

This motherfucker. "You?—"

"You ever think about why Prez picks guys like us?" Chet's eyes scanned the room again, taking in the mess on the floor. "We're damaged goods, easy to mold. Easy to weaponize."

My hands lowered a fraction. My jaw tightened, brow pinching.

"Funny that I can't find any information on you." He stepped closer, unafraid, cutting me off. "No driver's license. No social security card. No bank account. No passport. Nothing." Another step. "You really are like something from hell."

Chet didn't flinch as my anger filled the room. Instead, he laughed—soft, knowing—like we shared some private joke. "Darrell said you were dangerous. He didn't say you were obsessed." Eyes traveling over the tools hanging on my walls. Head shaking. "How the hell are you even legally married without identification?"

The words buried themselves under my skin, digging deeper than I wanted to admit. "Shut. Up."

"Darrell found you outside your mother's house after two bodies hit the floor. Eleven years ago." He stepped closer. Too close. "Sound about right?" The knowing in his eyes cutting like a knife. "And you've been his little pet ever since."

Nails digging deep crescents into my palms. I wasn't a project. Nobody's fucking pet. Every muscle straining not to slam this guy's skull into the ground. Memories crashing back—that night—on the street—Prez's hand on my shoulder, leading me away.

"I used to pick fights in bars just to feel something," Chet continued, voice casual. "You ever do that?"

I wasn't biting.

Laughter erupted from his belly, echoing off the walls. "You're a hardcore guy. You're Darrell's favorite for a reason."

The game he was playing had too many rules I didn't know. Too many strings I couldn't see. "Who are you?"

His steps halted. His gaze darkened—memories turning it distant, haunted. "I was the first man Darrell ever saved." My stance remained ready, muscles coiled, bat gripped tight. "I owe that son of a bitch everything."

"Saved?"

"You ever feel dirt filling your lungs, V?" His voice dropped. "It's terrifying." Eyes unfocused, seeing something I couldn't. "Darrell pulled me out of a hole in the ground, literally." A shudder ran through him. "Turns out monsters save people too—just so they own your life afterward."

Something in that voice—the rasp of someone who'd tasted death—made my grip loosen. A warped recognition of his survival that I couldn't help but respect, even though I hated him for it.

"You think you're the only one who owes him?" His eyes found mine again. "Loyalty like that—it changes your DNA."

My reflection stared back at me through his eyes. Like staring through glass smeared with my own bloody fingerprints. And I hated how easily he saw through me.

"Darrell said obsession could break or build a man. Guess you're figuring out which." The words came suddenly, voice gentling in a way that felt more dangerous than any threat.

A dull pressure crushed against my sternum, suffocating. "Oakley's not your fucking business."

"She's not scared 'cause you love her too little, man. She's scared 'cause you love her like she's the only thing keeping you alive."

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