Page 145 of Sins of the Hidden

"The club comes first, V," Grim's tone sharpened, a surgeon's blade of warning. "Remember that."

"No," I replied flatly, twisting my wedding band once more. "Oakley comes first. Every fucking time."

Air locked in my throat. I couldn't pull in enough to calm the twitch in my jaw. Restraint clawed at my windpipe, a noose tightening with each passing second.

They thought I was turning over a new leaf. That maybe love softened me.

But I was still me. And they'd do well to fucking remember that.

After Grim's orders, the hours dragged by, landing me reluctantly in the pharmacy aisle of a store I'd never been to before.

"Razors," I muttered to myself. "Simple enough." Except nothing was simple when it came to Oakley. She'd mentioned feeling self-conscious about the facial and body hair her PCOS caused. I hadn't given it much thought—hair was hair—but she cared, so here I was.

Razors lined shelves, pastel-colored promises of silk and blood. A middle-aged woman turned down the aisle, saw my expression, and promptly backed away. These razors apparently didn't just remove hair—they changed lives. Five blades. Moisture strips. Swivel heads. What the fuck were women shaving with these things, wild animals? I glowered at the display, imagining their plastic screams as I snapped them one by one. How many fucking blades did one woman's razor actually need?

I grabbed one with five blades and some kind of moisture strip that promised to solve all life's problems. Then anotherwith a swivel head. Then a third because it claimed to be specifically designed for sensitive skin. Fuck it. I'd buy them all.

My eyes drifted to the next aisle over. Heating pads. Last month flashed through my mind—Oakley curled on our couch, hands pressed against her stomach. She'd murmured something about cramps and wanting chocolate. I'd wrapped her tight against my chest, feeling completely useless but content as she fell asleep halfway through some romantic comedy bullshit she made me watch.

I grabbed the most expensive heating pad they had.

As I turned toward the checkout, my eyes caught on a discreet black box labeled personal massager. I stopped. Remembered something Oakley had said offhandedly about orgasms helping with cramps. The box promised "relief and relaxation." I picked it up, turning it over in my hands, reading the details on the back with narrowed eyes. Waterproof. Multiple speeds. Rechargeable. Medical-grade silicone. Whatever the fuck that meant.

It reminded me of the one I broke the first time I saw her masturbating. I groaned in the middle of the aisle, picturing the way her legs were spread and how her fingers were pinching her nipple. A middle-aged woman with a shopping basket rounded the corner, saw me holding the box, and quickly reversed direction.

I stared at the box, jaw clenched. The thought of Oakley using anything but my hands pissed me off, but if it meant relief from her pain—I'd endure it.

I didn't want her to use toys. I only wanted her to use me.

But we weren't fucking. And orgasms helped her cramps, and since she wouldn't let me give her one…

Fuck it. If it helped her pain, my discomfort didn't matter. Just another tool to fight the enemy inside her body.

Fucking hell, the things I did for love. Or forgiveness. Or whatever the fuck this was.

I added it to my growing pile and headed for checkout. The cashier paled instantly, eyes darting from the items to my knuckles—all six-foot-four, scarred, dressed in black, probably looking like I was planning a very specific kind of murder.

I held his gaze, expression flat and dangerous. His smile vanished. He swallowed hard, hands fumbling as he bagged the items, eyes now fixed firmly on the register.

He told me my total, probably surprised I just didn't steal it. I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket, peeled off two hundreds, and tossed them on the counter, ignoring the tremor in his hands as he made change. The receipt printed slowly as I watched, wondering what shade of gem his ashes would make. Red like his hair? Yellow like the way I just made him piss himself?

"Have a nice day," he managed weakly, pushing the bag across the counter. Don't tell me what to fucking do. Only Oakley could do that.

I took the bag and turned to leave. He exhaled sharply behind me. At least he'd have a story to tell his friends later.

The day Death itself bought a vibrator.

Law was sitting on the couch reading a newspaper when I got to the apartment. As soon as he saw me he stood and headed out the door. Fucking prick.

The lights were off, no cheesy romantic flick playing on the TV. It wasn't the time Oakley usually went to sleep. "Oakley?"

I moved toward the bedroom and heard it—a whimper, thin and ragged. The bedroom door yielded under my palm, revealing Oakley curled tight on our bed. Her body folded in on itself—knees drawn to chest, hands clawing into her sides deep enough to leave half-moon indentations in her skin. Sweat beaded along her hairline, dampening chestnut strands that clung to temples flushed with pain. Her eyes squeezed shut, jaw quivering against whatever war waged inside her.

The PCOS. Her invisible enemy. I recognized the position. I couldn't track her time of the month since she was irregular. She didn't have them every month. But when she did, she could barely move.

A second whimper escaped her, higher-pitched than before. Her pain crawled under my skin, burrowing deep. Just like her anxiety, this wasn't an opponent I could beat bloody. She sensed my presence, eyelashes fluttering against pain-flushed cheeks. Her eyes—pale green clouded with pain—struggled to focus.

Crossing to her, I knelt beside the bed. Up close, the salt tracks on her face glistened in the half-light. She hadn't called me. The evidence of her suffering, faced alone, tightened something in my chest.

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