Page 21 of Sins of the Hidden

The club's business droned in the background like white noise - meaningless compared to calculating how many seconds it would take to reach Oakley if she called out. Grim's grief sounded like static. "We'll vote on new officers once everything calms the fuck down. Start thinking of who you want to lead. We'll make a decision and everyone has to agree. The women too, they're part of this family."

Husk shifted in his chair, leather creaking. "They shouldn't be involved in this bullshit."

"Everything that happened with Nyla and Joslyn proved they are, whether we wanted it or not." Grim's response sent electricity down my spine, pressure building behind my eyes. The voices in my head screamed louder, a symphony of bloodlust silenced only by Oakley's presence.

The veins in my neck twitched at the thought of Oakley being dragged into whatever fuckery Prez had brought on the club. My grip tightened around my weapon. The darkest parts ofme coiled beneath the surface, ready to rip apart anything that threatened her with club business.

Metal scraped against wood as Grim took out his knife. The blade caught the light as he stabbed it through Prez's cut, pinning leather to the wall. "Darrell Moore is not our brother anymore. He's our enemy." The sound of fabric tearing mingled with the hum of electricity. "He gave up on our mission, but we're going to finish what he started."

"And what did he start?" Tyrant's voice lacked its usual cadence. Each word carried measurable tension. "A fucking war that should've never been ours."

Grim's attention shifted to the tattered cut pinned against the wall, "It was always going to cross us." His gaze fixed on Sarge. "The Flock's corruption hit our city. It's almost taken away the people we love." The bat heated in my grip as memories of fire and bullets danced through my mind - the night Nyla's body painted church floors, the flames that nearly claimed Joslyn. "That's why the women will be involved in big decisions from here on out. This isn't just club business anymore. It's personal."

If anything like that happened to Oakley, I would dismember every person involved. I'd start with their fingers, one joint at a time, keeping them alive long enough to watch me work. The world would burn, and I'd use their screams as a lullaby to soothe her fears.

"What about Vic?" Tyrant spoke up, "She might damn well lose her shit. Darrell was everythin' to her."

Grim's voice strained, taut as a garrote wire. His large hand rubbed his neck where sweat gathered in the back of his nape. "I know. One thing at a time."

Tyrant nodded, jaw tight. "Where do we go from here?"

Grim's shoulders dropped, resignation settling deep into his posture. "I don't have all the answers. But wherever we go, we're going to go together. We're fuckin' brothers."

"You steppin' up as our leader, then?"

"For now." He pointed at him, conviction hardening his voice. "I want you by my side."

Tyrant's face twisted with something I didn't bother to pay attention to. "You got it… Prez."

Grim dismissed us after that, and I was already moving, drawn to Oakley's trail.

These men and their power games dissolved into insignificance. Only one pull mattered.

Oakley.

Memories had a way of turning into mockery when held against present pain. Last month's girls' night burned cruelly in my mind—Victoria behind the bar, copper hair catching warmth from the Edison bulbs as she poured signature mocktails. Faith had claimed the coffee table as her stage, each movement a celebration of being alive. Nyla's laughter had filled every corner, pure and unguarded.

Now, stepping into that same space felt like entering a mausoleum where joy had come to die.

Victoria's bar stood abandoned, dusty bottles preserving memories we couldn't afford to revisit. Crystal glasses once bright with laughter now sat dull and empty, reflecting only what we'd lost. Even the air felt different—heavier, as if betrayal had become a physical presence we all had to breathe around.

The TV remained off—no romantic comedy providing the usual backdrop of predictable happy endings. That empty screen stared back at us like a black mirror, reflecting the emptiness back at us. Victoria's candles burned low, the sweet scent overtaken by bitter abandonment.

Usually, girls' night was our sanctuary—a few precious hours where we could pretend the MC world couldn't touch us. We'd drink mocktails and confidence, shared stories that made the others gasp or giggle, and for a little while, forgot about our troubles.

But tonight, that carefully constructed illusion had cracked, too fragile to survive tonight, leaving behind only sharp edges that drew blood when touched.

Victoria stared straight through us, focused somewhere past everything visible. Her movements carried barely contained fury—or maybe grief. It was hard to tell the difference anymore in our world. Nyla sat staring unblinkingly at family photos that now felt like evidence of crimes we couldn't name. Joslyn sat beside her, fingers steady as they worked through Nyla's brown locks with practiced care.

I'd never asked where Joslyn learned to be so calm in the aftermath of ruin—but sometimes, watching her move like this, it felt like she'd survived the kind of pain that made you good at holding broken things together. The repetitive motion seemed to settle them both—Joslyn's need to soothe meeting Nyla's need not to fall apart.

Joslyn was happier these days with Sarge–being able to hear with her new cochlear implants. But Nyla looked more miserable than I’ve ever seen her.

The door burst open with enough force to make us all flinch. In walked Faith, her new hair swinging with the same reckless edge she always carried as she barged in. Her usual bright smile faltered as she saw our faces.

"I heard we were having a party." She lowered the bag in her hand. "But it looks more like you're planning a funeral."

Victoria stared blankly at her. "Why are you here?"

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