Page 144 of Sins of the Hidden

Grim's eyes flicked to me, cold calculation and fresh doubt. His teeth ground audibly as he looked back at Chet. "They failed to mention that."

"You're either suicidal or selling something worth dying for," Knight stated, no emotion whatsoever in his voice. "Tell us what you fucking want."

"I know what you're planning." Chet leaned forward despite the gun pressing harder against his skin, metal dimpling flesh, death just a twitch away. "Dominic Moxley's. I want in."

"Why the fuck would we do that?" Grim asked, his voice a chilling whisper that sliced through the room. The kind of quiet that preceded his worst decisions. His finger visibly tightened on the trigger, knuckle whitening with deadly intent.

Chet reached slowly into his coat pocket—just enough movement to set off every instinct in the room. Knight pressed the barrel harder against Chet's jaw. Husk's knuckles whitened. Tyrant's smile sharpened, hungry for death.

"Moxley's place looks like a normal suburban house," Chet continued, voice steady despite the guns trained on him. "But it's rigged to hell and back. Motion sensors disguised as garden lights. Pressure plates under the welcome mat. Reinforced windows that look standard but can stop a bullet." He paused, letting the specificity of his knowledge sink in. "And he keeps hisoffice safe behind a painting of a ship. Fucking cliché, but there you go."

Husk furrowed his brows. "How the fuck would you know all that?"

"Same way I know you've got a crematorium in Hellbound," Chet replied without missing a beat.

No one was supposed to know about the crematorium. It was a secret code for the brothers. Anyone else who knew about it would be executed on the spot.

But no one moved.

"If Darrell's name still means anything in this room, I go."

No one breathed. Then—"Convenient timing," Grim said, his voice lethal.

The corner of Chet's lips twitched. "You know how Darrell operates. Always three steps ahead."

"Why should we believe anything you say?" Knight cut in, fingers twitching near his holster.

"Because if I wanted to screw you over," Chet replied, leaning back with infuriating calm despite his split lip and shattered nose, "I wouldn't be sitting here taking your hospitality so graciously."

"If you're lying," Grim said, voice dropping to that deadly whisper, "we don't kill you fast." He slowly pulled the gun back from Chet's throat, then straightened up, tucking the weapon away. "Until then, you're staying at the clubhouse. Under surveillance."

Chet shrugged, oddly calm. "Okay, you need to call my girlfriend then. She gets cranky when I don't come back home."

"You roll out at nine tomorrow evening. Just a small team—Law, V, and Chet." His eyes narrowed at me. "Law handles surveillance, V handles anything breathing wrong, and Chet—your ass better hope you're actually useful."

Knight cleared his throat. "You sure about this? Bringing an outsider?" The question hung heavy in the air—the kind that challenged leadership without crossing the line.

"We're keeping him close," Grim answered, voice hard. "Where we can watch him. Rather have a snake in my sight than at my back." He turned back to me, dropping to that dangerous register. "Keep it tight. No killing. No maiming. Fuck, don't even breathe on him wrong. Just find out who the fuck this Moxley is."

Husk's shoulders tensed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Tyrant's smile never faltered, but his eyes had gone cold. The club's displeasure was palpable, filling the room like smoke.

That was basically all three of my love languages, asshole.

My fingers itched for my bat, for the familiar weight that promised release from this constant pressure building in my chest. But I gripped the edge of the table instead, wood creaking under my fingers.

Grim was still issuing orders, something about club honor and brotherhood. I tuned him out, eyes already drifting to the clock, counting down until I could leave and go back to Oakley—the only fucking thing that mattered in this world.

"Not complaining, V," Grim finally spoke, eyeing me warily, "but why the fuck aren't you threatening someone yet?"

Tyrant chuckled from his corner, the sound sharp and humorless. "Look at him, all domesticated now. Got himself a wife and suddenly he's playing nice."

Knight leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Quiet V is worse than loud V."

Tyrant snickered. "Ten bucks says he cracks somebody's skull before sundown."

"Twenty says it's yours," Knight muttered.

I rolled my shoulders, neck cracking as I stretched it side to side. The room shifted, bodies leaning imperceptibly away from me.

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