Page 2 of Sins of the Hidden

The world could collapse, and I'd stand in the wreckage unshaken, breathing without swallowing fear. Blood and rain churned in my veins as I settled into a slow run.

Behind us, voices rose, muffled by the storm. Red and blue lights flashed frantically across the bricks, shadows dancing across warped surfaces.

Thick fingers tangled in my greasy hair, yanking my head back until my neck cracked. My eyes locked onto the President's—gunmetal gray, unreadable. The gentler one stood back, watching, his expression tightening slightly but making no move to intervene.

"Never look back at what destroyed you." He twisted my head until my spine groaned. His attention dropped to my mouth. I hadn't realized I'd been covering it—an old habit I'd yet to break. The President's eyes narrowed, something cold flickering behind them.

He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a black surgical mask. The fabric looked pristine against his dirt-stained fingers.

"From this moment on, you rule your own Hell. Not them," he said, holding it out to me.

The mask felt cool and strange beneath my fingers. I pulled it over my face. It fit too well—like it had been waiting for me.

Shouts tore through the rain as officers discovered my handiwork. We didn't look back. Our footsteps fell into rhythm—mine matching theirs.

Ruler of my own Hell.

I'd been nothing for years. Just watched while they took what wasn't theirs. Tonight, I'd ended them, drowning their cruelty in blood and runoff. Whatever this was, it didn't feel like the end—it felt like a beginning.

A storefront window caught my reflection as we passed—lanky frame, hollow cheeks, black hair plastered to my skull, eyes sunken like graves above the mask shrouding half my features. Barely fifteen, yet I looked ancient.

It had been five years since I'd recognized myself.

Lightning fractured the sky. Something snarled deep in my gut—dark, inviting, nameless—and I welcomed it. Thunder roared, promising chaos yet to unfold. My pulse quickened—the only time it ever did—at the thought of what came next. A vow twisted through my veins, sharp and unforgiving.

They wanted a monster?

My eyes remained fixed on the storm, clouds swallowing stars whole. I'd dissect their souls while they still breathed, forced them to consume pieces of themselves just to understand the look in their eyes when they realized what they'd become. Their screams would be my lullaby, their tears my baptism. I wanted to wear their faces as I slept—just to remember what it felt like to be human.

I'd touched the place it should be, searching for proof I was more than emptiness. A heart should beat there, race in fear, pound with rage—but I'd never felt its rhythm.

Where my heart should be, there was only a ghost—a boy who died long before the killing began.

I'm trapped in the arms of the devil, and there's nowhere left to run.

Pressure threaded through the common room like smoke. Each breath scorched my throat raw, my body crushed against V's shoulder as dread twisted through my gut. The floorboards groaned beneath shifting weight as brothers moved into position—chess pieces in a game where death was the only winning move.

The scent of leather and gunpowder clung to V's cut. My muscles betrayed me, latching onto that deadly cocktail even as instinct screamed for escape. Darrell's sudden aggression had turned the club volatile, with V's tightening grip on me threatening to set it all off. Unable to track Darrell's movements from my awkward position, I could only feel his hatred crawling under my skin. V's massive bicep braced my torso while his touch invaded territory along my thigh, his strength betraying someone who'd never distinguished between possession and protection.

My brain short-circuited as his hand slid higher, every inch of me screamed no before my mouth could. How do you survive a bear attack again? Play dead or fight back?

"V." My father's voice sliced through. I felt V's hold tighten, his muscles coiling. "V, I'm not fuckin' around with this game anymore. Put my daughter down."

His hold shifted—barely—but I felt it everywhere. Even the tiniest motion sharpened my awareness of where his body ended and mine began. My curves crushed against him, soft against something that didn't yield. And somehow, I knew—he didn't move without purpose. Not when he held me like this. "Oakley belongs to me."

"Like hell she does!" My father's voice erupted. "She's my daughter, not your goddamn property!"

Darrell laughed bitterly, "You think no one's man enough to put you down?"

I felt his muscles tense, yet his heartbeat remained steady beneath me—unnervingly calm. "I'll kill you if you take her away from me."

"If anyone's killin' this motherfucker it's gonna be me!" Sarge's voice cracked through the air from the shadows beneath his hood.

V turned sharply, my body swinging with him in a nauseating jolt that churned my stomach. The room spun sickeningly before settling into focus. My father lunged forward with a strangled roar, the veins in his neck bulging like cables about to snap. "Get your fucking hands off her!" Boots scuffed against wood as Tyrant and Knight moved with practiced efficiency, intercepting him with low murmurs of "Calm the fuck down" and "You know what he'll do if you try anything." Grunts, curses, and the thud of bodies filled the room as they dragged him back. My throat closed around a scream as I watched them overpower him.

Tyrant and Knight restrained my father, their holds white-knuckled against his struggles. Joslyn clung to Sarge, her delicate fingers tracing frantic lines up his arm in desperate attempts to contain his rage. Nyla's tears caught the harsh light, but her husband's silence made it worse.

The hammering in my ribcage became agonizing as anxiety gnawed at my nerves. It had been months since my limbs turned to lead, too heavy to flee, too slow to save myself. The room shrank, darkness creeping in as the third worst night of my life played on repeat. Every attempt to break free only made his hold tighten.

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