Page 143 of Sins of the Hidden

The door slammed open, wood cracking against the wall. Grim strode in, expression cut from granite.

"If you ladies are done with your fucking tea party, we have business." Grim slammed a manila folder down on the center table. "Dominic Moxley."

The name hung in the air for exactly two seconds before a distinct crack echoed through the room. Every head snapped toward the bar, where Hex stood with what remained of awhiskey glass deliberately crushed in his fist. He'd squeezed until glass shards embedded deep in his palm, blood dripping between his fingers.

His eyes didn't flicker, didn't register pain. Just cold rage wrapped in perfect control.

He looked at Nyla, Grim's wife, whom he was training to be a nurse. "We're doing stitches," he told her, voice flat. Then he walked out toward the infirmary, leaving a blood trail behind him. Nyla followed him without a glance back at her husband, careful not to step in her mentor's blood.

Grim watched her go, his eyes lingering on his wife's retreating form for a moment before he sighed heavily, resignation and something else—something darker—crossing his features.

"Cool. That's, what, Tuesday rage now?" Tyrant drawled, kicking his boots up on the table with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Want me to pre-fill the incident report under 'shit we don't talk about'?"

I didn't give a fuck who Dominic Moxley was or why Hex just shattered glass in his hand. Not my problem. I picked up the folder and flipped it open, skimming for anything that might affect Oakley. Nothing else mattered.

I'd barely registered a word in the file when the door burst open hard enough to rattle the walls. Every chair scraped back instantly. Guns drawn, safeties off. Husk vaulted over the bar, shotgun appearing in his hands—the alcohol buzz nowhere in his movements. Knight shifted into a shooter's stance within half a heartbeat, breath already controlled, finger resting beside the trigger—not on it. Perfect fucking discipline. Tyrant's eager grin widened.

A muscular figure sauntered in. He walked with the casual confidence of a man who'd already accepted death as an oldfriend. My fingers found my bat, wrapping around the familiar weight as I rose from the chair.

"Heya, fellas." His hands remained in his pockets, posture relaxed despite six weapons trained on him. He whistled low, tension sliding off him like water. "Warm welcome. Love what you've done with the place." His eyes scanned the room, lingering on me with unsettling recognition.

My bat spun once in my hand, catching the light. The familiar weight settled against my palm, already mapping the seventeen ways I could dismantle him without killing him outright.

Knight moved from his stance, closing the distance in two quick steps. One calculated shove sent Chet face-first against the edge of the table. A sharp crack filled the silence—teeth connecting with wood. Blood splattered across papers. Grim's pistol clicked, the sound cutting through the air like scissors through fabric as he aimed dead-center between the man's eyes that seemed too calm.

"Give me a reason this bullet shouldn't meet your teeth," Grim said, voice so quiet everyone leaned in to hear it. The barrel pressed firmly against the stranger's throat, leaving a pale circular imprint on his skin. Grim didn't blink, didn't show a flicker of emotion—just dead eyes calculating odds.

"I vote we skip the interview and go straight to the fun part," Tyrant chimed in, his smile widening as he cracked his knuckles one by one. "Been a boring fucking week."

Chet laughed, crazy bastard. "You boys keep this up, I'm gonna start thinking you have a soft spot for me."

Husk stepped forward from his position near the bar, fist connecting with Chet's nose. Cartilage crunched wetly as it exploded across his face. "Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it permanently."

He didn't even flinch. He blinked twice, then smirked like he wasn't about to die.

"Stand down," Grim ordered. Husk retreated just inches, while Knight remained perfectly still, barrel jammed beneath Chet's jaw, eyes flat and lethal. Tyrant leaned against the wall, inspecting his nails.

"Hey, V." Chet's eyes found mine through the mess, the twist of his lips widening as he wiped blood onto his sleeve with theatrical casualness. "You're looking quite stable today."

All attention swung sharply to me. Perfect fucking timing. My patience wore thinner than the line between mercy and murder. If Grim didn't kill him soon, I would.

I'd broken men for smiling at the wrong moment. He was seconds from becoming a fucking anatomy lesson.

"Care to explain how you know this guy, V?" Grim asked.

I let the silence hang until it became a living thing between us. "Chet. Prez's leftover problem."

The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch, oxygen thinning. No one moved.

"I figured I had about sixty seconds to impress you before I became a decorative stain," Chet said, blood bubbling between his lips. He didn't spit it out—just let it flow like he enjoyed the taste. "Though V here's probably calculating how long he could keep me screaming before I'd pass out. Old habits, huh?"

"Since when do we collect strays?" Tyrant asked, his tone honey-sweet while his eyes promised violence. He pushed off the wall, the movement lazy but sharp. "Or is this another souvenir from the Prez's glory days that should've stayed buried?" His smile never faltered, even as he reached into his pocket, flicking open a switchblade with practiced ease.

Chet's jaw tightened, eyes flashing briefly at Tyrant's comment—the first visible crack in his composure. Buried. That word again. His reaction said more than he did.

Grim ground the gun barrel harder into Chet's skull, the metal leaving a perfect ring on flesh. "Talk faster or die slower. Your call." Each word fell like a stone into still water.

Chet spat blood onto the floor, the dark liquid hitting the boards with a wet slap. "After everything me, V, and Law have been through, I figured there'd be a warmer welcome." He gestured around the room, his movements deliberately casual despite the tremor in his wrist. "Did they not tell you I was at Darrell's house that night?"

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