Page 248 of Sins of the Hidden

She was going to take his soul if he didn’t shut the fuck up.

For an hour, it stayed relatively civilized. Then Tyrant started getting creative.

"You know what this boring-ass party needs?" He grabbed a dinner plate from the nearest table, weighing it in his palm like he was calculating trajectory. "Some real entertainment. Anyone remember that scene from Ghost?"

Knight looked up from harassing Faith. "The pottery scene? Dude, that's romantic as shit. Wrong fucking vibe."

"Not that scene, you uncultured fuck. The part where Patrick Swayze throws shit at the other ghost."

"That's not how physics works," Law called out. "Ghosts can't actually?—"

His explanation was cut short as Tyrant's plate exploded against the brick wall six inches from his head.

"Physics that, asshole!"

Knight immediately snatched his own plate. "Now we're talking. Think you can hit Sarge's ugly mug from here?"

"Fucking watch me."

The second plate sailed across the room, missing Sarge by a mile and shattering against the bar. Faith popped up from behind it like a jack-in-the-box. "Are you dumbasses seriously doing this?”

Tyrant shrugged. “Why the fuck not?”

Within seconds, every brother in the hall was armed with dinnerware, hurling plates with the enthusiasm of children who'd never been told no. Grim nailed Knight in the back of the head with surgical precision. Knight retaliated by launching his plate toward Sarge. Joslyn was sitting beside him laughing and clapping when her boyfriend caught the plate and crushed it with one hand.

"Idiots," Nyla muttered from her safe position by the wall, arms crossed as she watched her husband duck flying ceramics. She made no move to join the chaos, just shook her head with the long-suffering patience of a woman who'd married into this madness.

I stood beside Oakley, watching grown ass men behave like fucking teenagers.

Then Tyrant got careless.

His aim went wide, the plate spinning end over end toward the head table where we stood. I caught it before it could crash into her.

My vision tunneled. The bat was in my hands before conscious thought took over, wood connecting with Tyrant's kneecap. He crumpled hard to the floor, clutching it.

“Well you got my fucking other one.” He groaned on his curled up position on the floor. “Least I fucking deserved it that time."

Knight laughed at him, the other brothers besides Sarge joining in. Oakley's hand found my arm, fingers gentle against the tension coiled beneath my sleeve. "V." Her voice was soft,calm, like she was talking to something wild that might bolt. "Let's go home."

Oakley's fingers intertwined with mine, anchoring me to something beyond the rage that always simmered just beneath my skin. She stepped closer, her wedding dress brushing against my legs as she positioned herself between me and the room full of witnesses.

"Come on," she murmured, tugging gently toward the exit. "Take me home."

The word hit different now. Home. Not her apartment where I'd lurked outside windows, not the basement where I'd dragged her against her will. Home—a place we'd built together, where she chose to sleep beside a monster and call it love.

I let her lead me out, ceramic crunching under our feet like shattered promises. Behind us, voices rose in low conversation as brothers dealt with the aftermath, but their words faded as we stepped into the night air.

The ride back was quiet, city lights blurring past windows as Oakley's forehead rested on the middle of my back, her wedding dress whipping in the wind.

The apartment felt different when we walked through the door—smaller somehow, like it was struggling to contain what we'd become. Oakley kicked off her heels, toes flexing against hardwood as she sighed with relief. The formal dress transformed her into something otherworldly.

I worked the tie loose from my throat, silk sliding free with a whisper. The tuxedo jacket followed, draped over the couch like discarded armor. Damn fucking thing.

“I have something else for you.” She went to our bedroom while I still fumbled with my tie. “Come on!”

She was standing by the full length mirror, the one we still hadn’t fixed since her panic attack. Something rectangular was clutched against her chest, hidden by her arms. The glass reflected us in fractured pieces, our images broken but somehow still recognizable. Dozens of cracks spider-webbed across the surface, held together by her careful hands and endless patience. The notes she ripped to shreds now taped together around the edges—fragments of the letters I'd left her, torn and reassembled like puzzle pieces she'd refused to throw away.

She pressed the new paper against the glass with the reverence of someone hanging scripture. Her fingers smoothed the tape along the edges, securing it beside the remnants of my threats, my promises, my desperate attempts to explain what she meant to me.

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