Page 46 of Sins of the Hidden

The way she smiled at those stupid mitts—nervous, genuine, unguarded—was the moment I knew.

I'd etched myself under her skin in ways no one else could understand. One glance from another man, and I'd make his corpse an art form. I'd bathe in their blood without hesitation. I'd tear this whole fucking world apart before I'd let anyone take her from me. Everyone else would fucking beg for death long before I was done with them. What was imprinted on her bones now couldn't be dug out—not until her last breath. If she died, I’d go with her. No one got to hold her but me—not even death.

"You want our help or not?" Tyrant's voice cut through my thoughts.

"No." Simple. True. What could they teach me about Oakley that I didn't already know?

"You can always do what Sarge did with Joslyn." His grin turned sharp, calculating. "Bend her over counter and fuck her like a whore. Sweet girls are always the kinkiest."

One blink, and my weapon was at his throat. Something rose in my chest, threatening to choke me. "Don't talk about her like that. Oakley deserves to be respected."

Those romance novels displayed proudly on her living room shelf—I'd memorized every word. Not because I understood love like her fictional heroes. Because they were pieces of her. Fragments of her I owned.

My grip tightened until my knuckles cracked. Tyrant raised his hands, palms out. "I'm telling you, man, girls are into it." He looked at Knight, seeking backup. "Respect them in public, disrespect them in the bedroom."

My bat lowered slightly. "And since Law's been avoiding the clubhouse lately, perfect time to make your move." Tyrant's eyebrows danced, light reflecting off his piercing and into my eyes. "Have some fun before daddy shows up again and tries to kill ya."

Fucking ironic. Law had been avoiding the clubhouse since walking in on me with Oakley in my arms. He threatened to kill me if I touched her again, as if his words meant anything.

Law thought distance would change anything? I saw the hatred in his eyes when he found me with Oakley. Pure fucking rage. I knew that feeling well. The difference was I'd act on it. I wouldn't just make threats. His daughter chose me during her panic. She dug her nails into my skin instead of reaching for him.

Tyrant's laugh scraped against my nerves. "Who we kiddin'? This is V we’re talkin' about. He doesn't know shit about this shit."

I stood, the motion fluid and as silent as death. My bat swung in a lazy arc by my side. Both men's eyes tracked the movement, laughter following me as I left.

Let them laugh. They didn't understand. Their love was soft. Gentle. Mine was razor sharp, a need so deep it bled. Her books told me what she wanted. Every fantasy. Every dream. I learned them all. Not to love her—I couldn't. But to own her completely so she'd never want to escape.

"V," Tyrant's voice stopped me. "Just don't hurt her, yeah?"

I walked out without answering. The morning sun burned my eyes. Burned like the baking pan I'd picked up with bare hands while she watched, horrified by my inability to feel physical pain. The memory made my fingers flex beneath my gloves.

Hurting others was all I knew. What I was made for.

I didn't know if I could ever love Oakley. But obsession was deeper than love. Love made a man fall to his knees.

Obsession made a man willing to burn the world down if you just told him to do so.

Using my key for Oakley's apartment, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The soft click of the lock echoed through the space, marking my invasion into her sanctuary without permission. Lavender soap mixed with something uniquely Oakley permeated the atmosphere, making my pupils dilate, every instinct howling beneath my skin.

My gaze cut through the emptiness of the living room. Empty couch, abandoned mug, novel face-down on the coffee table. The TV hummed in the background.

I moved toward her door, pushing it open. Then, I heard it.

Ragged, desperate sounds punctuated by a mechanical buzz. The rhythm of it—on, off, low whine to desperate hum. Myknuckles clutched the doorframe, my lungs matching her pace. My tongue dragged over the roof of my mouth, parched and desperate, as if I could taste her from across the room.

Humid air wrapped around me, heavy with sweat and desire. My lungs seized at the vision sprawled across purple sheets—legs spread wide, fingers working desperate circles against the wet heat between her thighs, her face transformed by pleasure. Flushed, wet, aching—a prayer I didn't know how to answer.

I braced against the wall to keep upright. My jeans strained painfully tight against me. Her oversized shirt had ridden up, exposing soft curves that drew a primal growl from deep in my chest.

Crimson stained her cheeks, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted in silent pleas. The perfect arch of her spine burned into my memory—each twitch, each sound cataloged and claimed.

A bead of sweat traced her collarbone, demanding to be licked away. Time suspended as she chased her release, unaware of my presence, the toy buzzing against her while her free hand teased her chest through the thin cotton of her shirt.

A brutal ache coiled low in my body, all blood and hunger as I watched her pleasure herself. My hand moved to press against myself, doing nothing to ease the savagery tearing through me. Each sound she made—breathy, desperate—hammered against my restraint. This wasn't like killing. This was worse.

I stepped forward, drawn by those sounds like hooks embedded in my spine.

The floorboard creaked beneath my weight, and her gaze snapped open, locking with mine. Time suspended—her fingers still stroking, hips still rising. Then awareness struck like lightning. Her mouth formed a perfect O, motion halting mid-stroke.

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