Page 19 of Sins of the Hidden

Grim's hands slammed the table, the sound sharp enough to make Oakley jump in the other room. My fingers tightened on my grip, every muscle yearning to soothe her flinch with destruction. "You're not telling us the truth. How the fuck would Douglas know who Hollow and Dagger are? No one knows about them outside of us." Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

"And he said your name specifically," Sarge's voice lowered to a growl. Before her, it would have stirred my predatory instincts, but even that paled compared to the stutter beneathher collarbone—a reaction archived in what belonged to me. "If you don't tell us what the fuck is goin' on with you, we know how to make you sing."

Prez tipped his head back and laughed—loud, careless, the kind of sound that dared someone to stop him.

"You think bein' a traitor is fuckin’ funny?" Sarge shot up, his chair crashing to the floor as he lunged forward, all muscle and rage with nowhere to land yet.

Prez held his head high, brave or foolish among killers eager to strike. The room stank of old grudges held back by loyalty. "Power always demands sacrifice."

Tyrant's gaze met Knight's, a brief exchange of disbelief. Sarge's jaw tightened, fingers flexing with barely controlled restraint.

"What happened to you, Prez?" Grim's voice fractured.

Silence. Prez turned sharply toward the door, ignoring the calls of the others as they filed out behind him. Soon only Hex remained, waiting until the door swung shut. He met my eyes, a quiet, wordless understanding passing between us. We stood at the same moment, crossing the empty room and stepping into the main area of the clubhouse.

Victoria rose, that familiar hope painfully clear in her violet eyes—a weakness she'd carried for years, one I never understood until Oakley taught me the cost of wanting. Her footsteps echoed, each step taking her closer to a ruin she refused to see. "Prez?"

He stopped. "I'm done."

Her eyes widened, "What do you mean?"

"This club." He stripped off his cut like shedding dead skin. The cut hit the floor with a weight the room didn't know how to hold. The symbol of brotherhood, discarded like trash.

It wasn't just brotherhood lying there—it was everything Victoria thought she was safe. The last shelter against a world that had never shown her mercy.

"You don't mean this?—"

"I don't fucking love you Victoria." His words cutting through years of devotion. The cords in his neck strained with the truth finally spoken, and I found myself noticing how his indifference cut deeper than my obsession ever could. Mine had always been detached until Oakley made it something else—something focused, possessive, hungry in ways violence could never satisfy. The difference was purpose—I savored every reaction while he simply didn't care. "That'll never change."

Her sharp inhale fractured the air. She looked like she'd cracked in half, her knees buckling as she collapsed to the floor. Her body shook uncontrollably, fingers splayed against the cold concrete as if searching for something to hold onto.

"Dad?" Nyla's broken whisper drew Prez's attention. His expression was one I couldn't read—something about his daughter made his mask crack from the inside out.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." His tone wasn't one I knew how to use. "No matter what, I'll always love you, yeah?"

Her eyes darted between her father and the discarded cut on the floor, struggling to reconcile the man before her with the father she never knew. The silver chain in her hands trembled violently, catching light in erratic flashes as her fingers shook uncontrollably. A fragile link to a father she no longer recognized.

"I barely—I barely know who you are," she whispered, voice cracking on each syllable.

He pulled his silver chain free, matching the one Nyla clutched like salvation in her trembling hands. Her tears carved paths down pale cheeks, her breathing coming in short, painful gasps. More tears. More proof that humans break too easily.

His boot came down on the cut, it wasn't fabric that broke—it was the last lie she had left. Victoria made a wounded choke, like her throat forgot how to grieve. But I was more interested in the soft catch of breath in her lungs.

Something shifted in her eyes then—a fracture becoming a break. Her hand moved to her boot, pulling out a hidden knife. The switchblade snapped open with a click that silenced the room.

"Victoria—" someone warned, but she was already moving.

She launched herself at the discarded cut on the floor, snatching it up before anyone could stop her. She laughed—wild, unhinged—stabbing leather, shredding memories until nothing remained but madness and torn fabric. Her eyes were wide, tears still streaming down her face.

Victoria's laughter died in hiccupping gasps, shoulders shaking, shredded leather hanging from bloody hands. She looked up at him, a smile stretched across her face that didn't reach her eyes.

The room had gone completely silent. Every face showed the same expression—witnessing a shift beyond repair. Some looked away. Others couldn't. Nyla pressed a hand to her mouth in horror.

Throughout her entire breakdown, Prez had remained perfectly still, his posture rigid and controlled. Not a single muscle in his face had twitched during her display. He watched her with the detached interest of someone observing an insect under glass—almost curious but unaffected.

Everything went still when the laughter stopped. Not a breath, not a twitch—just the weight of what she’d done pressing down on everyone.

Victoria's eyes hardened, pain and fury carved deep into every word. "You're fucking replaceable."

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