Page 29 of Sins of the Hidden

He towered over my collapsed form on the floor, eyes unreadable as they tracked every tremor in my body. Still folded on the carpet, body curled protectively, I watched him through blurred eyes as he reached down. Then, in one fluid motion, he pulled me upright. The sudden movement made me stumble, my hands instinctively bracing against his cut to keep my balance.

He held me suspended—barely touching the floor, jaw in his grip, eyes tracking every shiver like it was a code he needed to break. Standing before him nearly naked, with nothing but thin underwear shielding me, I felt painfully vulnerable beneath his scrutiny.

His grip on my jaw finally loosened, but instead of letting go, his thumb dragged across the heat left by my tears. The gesture felt more like a promise than comfort, his fingers leaving trailsof fire across my face, marking territories only he was allowed to explore.

Just as suddenly as he'd grabbed me, he released me. Without his support, I stumbled back until my legs hit the bed, the mattress catching me like an afterthought. He bent down, retrieving the bat before straightening to his full height. The movement was pure predator—efficient, controlled, threatening in its grace. Stains from his knuckles traced dark patterns down the wood.

The last thing I saw before he vanished into the hallway was that mask, still turned toward me in a way that made it clear—this was only the beginning. He'd seen something in my reflection that I couldn't face, and V wasn't a man who left unfinished business. Whatever he'd started tonight would continue until he decided it was done, until he'd forced me to see whatever he saw in me.

I sank onto the bed, the ghost of his hands lingered on me—my jaw, my scalp, my cheek. My fingers traced where his had been. Sleep wouldn't come easily tonight, not with the weight of his unspoken intentions hanging in the air.

Maybe that was the real horror—he saw me more clearly than I ever had. Maybe I was just glass waiting for him to break. Maybe I didn't hate the mirror. Maybe I hated that it looked like him.

I touched my throat where his grip had been, feeling a flutter beneath my body that remembered his grip too well. Tomorrow, I'd have to face what was left in that mirror—his damage, and mine. Nothing whole. Nothing untouched.

But maybe that was his point—some things had to break first, just to see if they were worth putting back together.

Iwatched that delicate beat under her paper-thin skin—one I knew better than my own.

The gentle rise beneath her chest wasn't just breathing—it was a siren's lullaby, keeping time with the madness gnawing at my insides. She had no fucking clue I was here, standing over her bed every night, watching sleep soften features I'd carved into my brain. My grip—calloused from what I've done and stained with the crimson streaks of everyone I've killed—twitched with the need to trace the slender column of her neck, to feel life fluttering beneath my fingers without squeezing too tightly.

The worn wood on my bat, fucking beautiful in its rust-colored residue, told stories with each mark. Every dent was a memory of someone's face caving in, every stain a reminder of how long they took to stop screaming. That missing chunk? My favorite trophy from the night is how many strikes it takes to make a face unrecognizable. Some begged. Some fought. In the end, they all made the same wet sound when they split apart. The tacky substance of yesterday's work still coated my palm,making my knuckles twitch for more. That used to be the only thing that ever felt close to home.

When crushing bones, her wrists haunt me—delicate as bird bones, so easily snapped. But the thought sickens me now. Turns my rage outward—toward anyone who'd dare brush what belongs to me. She's the only one I want unraveling beneath my grip—not to ruin, but to keep breathing just for me.

She was different from everyone else I'd been around. Her presence corrupted the part that didn't hesitate. Our nightly ritual consumed me: waiting for her meds to knock her out before settling into my space beside her bed. She never stirred, even when my bulk made the mattress dip. Sweet, oblivious girl lost in drug-induced dreams, and I kept count of every time her chest rose—just to make sure it didn't stop.

My jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly in the silent room. She seeped into my skull, an infection spreading through bone, every pulse tightening the chains she'd woven inside me. Each night I watched her, it burrowed further inside, erasing the line between my obsession and her existence. My fingers curled tight enough to ache, needing the familiar rush—grab, break, destroy. But not her. Never her.

I propped my bat against her bed frame, dried evidence stark against purple sheets before shrugging the cut from my shoulders, folding it over my forearm. The weight of it—the history, the blood, the brotherhood—fell away from my body for the first time willingly.

No one wore it. No one touched it. Club life wasn't for the weak—the ones who were already dead, and the rest of us just waiting our turn on borrowed time.

Her sleeping form drew me closer. Dark strands framed her face, catching light in copper threads. The curve of her cheek, the slight part of her lips—she existed this way only for me. Watching her, trusting and vulnerable, made the war inside myhead stop. It was silent–it always was when she was near. I'd fucking kill anyone who tried to take this from me.

Carpeted floors complained beneath my boot as I moved closer. She didn't stir. Standing over her, I slowly unfolded the cut, letting it hang suspended between my hands. The white roses on the back caught what little light filtered through the blinds, their stitching almost luminous against the black leather. I held it there for one heartbeat. Then I dropped it onto her, my colors claiming her body.

The leather settled across her, the bottom edge brushing her hip, the collar draping near her throat. My fingers lingered, smoothing it over her shoulders, patches that marked me as the enforcer now branding her. It looked wrong on her—too harsh, too soaked in everything I'd done. But I didn't pull it back.

Those white roses stretched across her now—thorns and petals marked in iron and aftermath. The embroidered flowers that had witnessed countless deaths now watched over her breathing. Fuck brotherhood. Fuck territory. This was different. She belonged with me—claimed, shielded, where darkness met innocence. My protection was painted across her skin in leather and thread.

Seeing her wearing proof of all the lives I'd ended made me want to bite through her throat just to taste how sweet she'd be. But not to end her. To own her. To make her body remember who she belonged to.

She stirred, making these soft little sounds—half-sighs that barely disturbed the air.

Even unconscious, she was dragging out parts of me I didn't know existed. Ignited thoughts of other sounds I could draw from that pretty throat, sparking an urge to crawl inside her dreams just to make sure I was all she saw. Parts that wanted to keep her sleeping forever in my basement, just so I'd be the only thing in her world.

That's why I took her down to Hellbound until her prick of a father showed up.

Brotherhood meant fuckin' nothin' to me. The others earned their place with loyalty, but I earned mine by turning a basement into a morgue. Prez pointed, and I painted the walls. Simple as that. Some bodies they found, if I let them. Some I liked keeping pieces of—turning finger bones into necklaces and pressing ash into rings to send as gifts to families who thought their loved ones just disappeared. Sometimes I wore them myself, letting their remains decorate my skin while I planned the next one. Didn't need a name. Didn't need a past. Just needed my bat and fresh materials for my collection.

Hellbound's concrete walls rose three stories underground, a forgotten industrial basement the club had claimed decades ago. My tools lined the walls where others hung family photos. Saws for bone, pliers for teeth, furnace for the rest. Every kill became art down there. No one bothered me while I worked—they all knew what kind of gifts I liked making.

Prez kept my chain loose, knowing I'd always return to my den after each kill. Victoria made sure I ate, leaving plates at the top of the stairs along with clean clothes to replace the ones I ruined. Closest thing to a mother the club had, but she knew better than to treat me as one of her boys. The brothers never came to Hellbound unless they needed someone dead. They knew exactly what I was capable of, and they kept their distance.

I preferred it that way—just me, darkness, and whatever poor fuck was living their final moments in my workshop. Oakley got under my skin worse than the copper smell that never quite washed out. Made me want to leave my sanctuary just to hunt down another glimpse of her. Stripped away reason, unleashed something rabid.

My touch knew destruction, but for her, it learned restraint. Before her, the basement was enough. But now the tranquilityfeels wrong. The dark feels empty. Even the sound of begging hasn't hit me the same since I first saw Oakley.

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