Page 20 of Sins of the Hidden

His lips curved slightly, dark eyes trailing her curves. "I already replaced you, baby."

He crouched down, his expression unnervingly calm as he reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. Victoria's breath caught, hope flickering for just a moment before he whispered, "These tears are wasted on someone who never wanted them." He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. "You always knew this would end. Stop pretending it hurts."

If anyone ever spoke to Oakley like that, I wouldn't stop at the cut. I'd peel back their face and let them watch themselves die.

Each word cracked through her like a crowbar to porcelain, shattering whatever remained of Victoria's carefully constructed reality. The switchblade slacked in her grip—the sudden clarity of someone who discovers they've been dead for years and only now notices the decay.

Prez stood walking backward before pausing at the door, offering a mocking salute that made Victoria's fingers whiten around her blade. "Let the hunt begin, boys."

The door slammed. The room turned cold. Oakley's eyes were fixed on the empty space where Prez had stood, not blinking, not breathing. From the corner of my eye, I caught her hands clutching her elbows tighter, her shoulders stiffening with quiet dread.

No one moved. Even the air seemed frozen, punctuated only by Nyla's sobs and the whistle of the wind. I knew the rules—one hour head start before the real fun. More entertaining that way. Watching prey exhaust themselves before the kill, their terror sweetening their blood like wine.

Fascinating how humans clung to delusions, how they wrapped themselves in paper-thin dreams sharp enough to reopen scars.

I was beside her. Jade eyes locked on mine. Those teeth worried her bottom lip—a habit I'd memorized through such repetition I could feel it in my own muscles. My eyes fixed on that softness, drawn to the faint sheen clinging to it. An unfamiliar urge surfaced—the need to taste her fear, to mark the curve of her lower lip with my teeth. These weren't my usual impulses. Something about her transformed even my cruelty, evolved bloodlust into a different kind of hunger.

Her body trembled, but this wasn't the same panic she'd shown in Hell with me. This was something different, something that made my demons purr instead of their constant screaming.

Sometimes I feared she'd leave and take the silence with her, and all that would be left was screaming.

"The hunt?" Her voice shook, drawing me from my observations. She'd caught me watching again, the way I always did—counting breaths, measuring each motion of life. Each ripple of emotion across her face burned into the part of me that watched. Color rose beneath her skin as she tucked hair behind her ear—a mirror of how I'd touched her before, hands that knew how to break things pretending they could soothe. Did she think of me when she made that gesture? The possibility stirred something unfamiliar in my chest, an all-consuming thirst.

I found myself matching her posture, shoulders slightly forward, weight shifted to one side. My breathing had unconsciously synced with hers—the same measured rhythm, inhale for inhale. The revelation didn't disturb me. It felt right that pieces of her were becoming mine in ways even she couldn't see.

"We hunt traitors," I explained, adrenaline surging at the prospect of chasing and maiming. But even that familiar rushfelt different now, filtered through my awareness of her. Every urge to hurt, to break, to destroy transformed into something else when she was near—a need to possess, to collect, to own. "We don't stop until there's nothing left to bury."

Her pupils expanded, swallowing the jade until only stillness remained. I wanted to press my fingers to her neck, to feel each tremor of her heart the way I felt each strike reverberate through marrow. "Y-You're going to kill Darrell?"

"Yeah." I lifted the weight in my hand, years of dents and splinters a comfort. Blood dusted from it like it wanted more.

The brothers exchanged glances around me—silent questions with answers none of them wanted to face. Tyrant shifted uncomfortably, fingertips drumming against leather. Knight's gaze dropped to the floor. Each heartbeat in the room seemed synchronized in dread.

Nyla's sobs created an irritating backdrop, the sound grating like gravel in open flesh. I glanced over, noting how she collapsed against Grim, her body jerking with each cry. Their tears meant nothing. How did people function carrying so much inside them?

"Are you sad?" she asked, her soft tone making my fingers twitch against the handle. The way she said it made something twist in my chest, like she was reaching past the demon to touch something that might have once been human.

I studied Nyla's tears like examining an unfamiliar species, trying to understand what Oakley saw in them. Just saltwater, another weakness dribbling down a face, meaningless except for how the sight affected what's mine. Grim cradled his wife as if she might shatter, chin resting protectively on her head as though his body could shield her from her emotions.

"No," I answered, watching how the single syllable made her swallow. Sadness was for people who lost something. I only gained. The concept itself was strange—a language I'dnever learned to speak but recognized in others, like watching foreigners converse.

The small movement in her throat was worth more than all the lives I'd ever taken.

Her throat shifted again and the storm beneath my ribs purred. Before her, violence was the only language I knew. Now I saw quieter ways to claim a soul.

The MC life spread death like rot. They all knew the rules when they joined - survival was never guaranteed. Getting attached was suicide. But Oakley... she wasn't an attachment. She was an extension of myself I'd never known was missing. Her fear belongs to me. "Isn't he the one who brought you into the club?"

The question brought me back to a night of rain and blood, but it felt distant now, like examining photographs of someone else's life. "He was." My mind flickered to that day eleven years ago - a feral fifteen-year-old with only a bloodstained instrument and haunted eyes. Prez found something useful in that wraith of a boy. "It was this or prison."

Those eyes watched me, unblinking. Did she know she was the last thread holding my world together?

Victoria stepped closer. Not a threat, but I still didn't want her near. Her voice was scratchy. "Come on, the guys have things to discuss."

"Okay." Oakley rose to leave, and tension coiled sharply inside me - a sensation I couldn't grasp. Watching people writhe in pain used to bring satisfaction, but watching her move did something else entirely. The world slanted around her, every step pulling gravity off-center. She paused, lips parting but no words emerging. Always so afraid of judgment. She didn't understand that the only opinion that mattered was mine, and in my eyes, she was perfect.

"Church. Now." Grim's voice barely registered through the stale air. My eyes tracked Oakley as she followed Victoria, counting the distance between us. The lights flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced across her body. She looked back. Her cheeks flushed that perfect shade of pink I'd come to need. Every sound she made belonged to me.

Cigarette smoke curled in lazy rings as brothers shuffled back into church, the scent of leather and sweat filling the confined space. My fingers traced worn grooves in the weapon's surface, smoothed by years of use. The urge to follow pulled like gravity, a force that could bring me to my knees. Victoria's survival instincts made her an acceptable temporary guardian for Oakley. If that assessment proved incorrect, she'd learn precisely how much suffering a body can truly endure before death. No nonsense like the heartbreak people claimed was real.

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