Page 45 of Sins of the Hidden

"Don't talk about her." Ice in my voice. Something territorial uncoiled in my chest at the mere hint of her passing through their lips. The same impulse that surged when I caught both of them watching her in that dance studio weeks ago.

"Somebody's dramatic this morning," Tyrant drawled, his lips quirking into that shit-eating grin that had gotten him knocked out in three different states. He tipped his beer back, throat I’d love to snap, working as he swallowed. "The hell you want stabbed for? Not like you'd feel it anyway. Just wasting good blood."

My fingers traced the fresh burns on my palm. She'd been so worried about them, those blistered patches from the baking tray. So concerned when I told her about CIPA, about not feeling pain. No one else had ever worried about my wounds before.

Silence stretched as I tried to make sense of what was happening to me. I didn't know how to explain how the crushing weight in my chest eased when she was around. Or how I actually slept without the usual nightmares. The thought terrified me—this weakness, this dependence on her.

"I felt something." The confession tasted strange on my tongue.

That got their attention. "Since when do you feel anything?"

I stared at the scarred bar top.Since her.

The thought hammered in my head. I couldn't explain how she'd broken through walls I'd built. How she'd gotten under my skin when nothing else could. How I draped my cut over her while she slept, letting its weight calm her anxiety. Watching her curl beneath my leather, finding peace in something that belonged to me alone.

Law had been in the club since I arrived eleven years ago. Just him and Prez at the time. No one knew he had family, but in this life, nothing stayed hidden. Law was a lawyer; thought he'd be smart enough to know I would've crossed paths with his daughter eventually. He couldn't keep her a secret from me forever.

I would've found her no matter where she was. The thought settled in my chest with the certainty of a death sentence—not for me, but for anyone trying to keep her from me.

Threaten me all you want, asshole. She was already mine. Try taking her, and I would take your fucking throat.

"Oh yeah?" Knight hopped on the bar, full bottle of tequila. "Fuck what I wouldn't do to feel nothing."

Dude had no idea what it was like. Not feeling shit would solve every fucking problem I'd got—especially with that woman who kept slicing me open.

I'd heard that throughout my life—jealousy of not having a grasp on what normal humans should know.

"You here for a reason?" Tyrant grinned from my side. He eyed the blood on my bat from my recent trip to Hellbound. In the mornings, I enjoyed some exercise beating corpses and barely alive toys.

Tyrant exchanged a look with Knight before leaning closer, lowering his voice. "You got that look again. The one you get when you're thinking about her." His lips quirk up. "Listen here, brother. We'll give you some tips about women."

What could they tell me about women when they couldn't get one? "You don't have one."

"Excuse you," Knight huffed. "I have a woman. I'm just doin' the long game with her. You gotta do that for the ones that are worth it."

Tyrant's lips flattened. "Dude, she gave you a scar."

Knight's fingers traced a pale scar on his throat, almost reverently. Like how I wanted to trace freckles scattered across Oakley's skin. The same way I traced her curves last night, when she shivered beneath my touch. "Yeah, she could've gone for the jugular, but she didn't."

"You're a delusional simp," Tyrant scoffed.

"I prefer the term hopeful romantic." Knight pressed a hand to his heart, puffing out his chest. He knocked back a shot, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What about you? Been what—a year since you got your dick wet?"

Tyrant's knuckles tightened around his glass. "Gettin' off ain't the problem."

Knight leaned in, voice dropping so only Tyrant could hear, the way he always did when no one else needed to hear part of their conversation. "You want what Grim and Sarge found. Someone to come home to."

"Fuck off," Tyrant muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He drained the beer in one swallow, shoulders tense. "Watching those bastards find someone who stays. Who knows what we are and doesn't run?" His fingers tapped against empty glass, the sound echoing like gunshots in the quiet bar. "Expected to die with my brothers, not... this."

I watched them through the dim bar light. Choice was an illusion humans clung to—thinking they could outrun death or hide their secrets.

My fingers tightened around the bloodied companion, dried flakes scattering beneath my clutch. Everywhere I went, I leftpieces of me behind with her. Notes stuck to her mirror. My leather cut draped over her while she slept. My presence in every shadow she passed. I was in her life like a bullet lodged too close to the heart—remove me, and everything bled out.

They talked about love like it was something they understood. I knew better. Love was just the polite word for obsession. And I was anything but fucking polite. My Oakley deluded herself with the illusion of choice, but the things I'd do to keep her... language hadn't invented words dark enough to describe them.

They talked about finding someone who stayed. Oakley never had that choice.

They could drink and talk shit all they wanted. They knew what I was, but they didn't know what she did to me. What I'd do for her. She'd learn soon enough. She saw a glimpse when I smashed that mirror for her. When I brought her those purple oven mitts that made her smile for the first time.

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