Page 61 of Sins of the Hidden

That fucking smile—I'd buried men for less than what it did to me. It carved itself deeper than rage ever had. Left scars no kill could erase.

I found myself watching the clock during interrogations, calculating how soon I could wash off and head to wherevershe was. Her vanilla scent haunted me more than the stench of burning flesh ever had. The pretty baker with her delicate touch hadn't weakened me—she'd weaponized my violence, sharpened it to a lethal point. Death no longer dominated my thoughts. She did.

My strikes were harder these days, each blow more vicious, her face flashing through my mind when crimson sprayed. Every potential threat to her had to be eliminated.

The job took six hours. A man who deserved every second. I'd broken him piece by piece—first his joints with my bat, then his will with each impact, finally whatever made him human—until all that remained was a crumpled form making sounds no mother would recognize. I'd studied his eyes, memorizing each shift as hope drained away, replaced by recognition, then terror, then nothing. I made him look into my eyes until he remembered me. The instant recognition flashed in his eyes right before my bat crushed his skull.

Each dull thud of my bat against flesh was a prayer in her name. A devotion she'd never see. Every man I put in the ground was one less that could ever take her from me. Some nights, I'd let the oven do the talking—the slow rise of heat bringing confessions no amount of strikes could extract.

A red light brought me to a halt. I glanced at the power pole beside me. An off-white missing persons sign stared back:

Missing: Carder Lincht Reward: Ten thousand dollars.

I revved my engine as I drove past.

The small velvet pouch in my jean pocket weighed heavier than its contents. Inside was a delicate silver necklace, a pendant of clear resin with flecks of gray ash suspended inside—Carder's remains.

Before heading to the flower shop, I made a detour to a quaint suburban neighborhood. The house was exactly as expected—pale blue with white trim, a perfectly maintained garden. A woman in her seventies opened the door after my second knock, her eyes hopeful. The resemblance to her son was unmistakable.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was soft, tired. Dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping.

I studied her face—the same gentle eyes, the curve of her jaw. Hard to believe someone who looked so soft could have given birth to a bastard like Carder. But monsters wear human skin like costumes, walking among the innocent undetected. I'd seen the darkness behind enough smiling faces to know the worst predators look just like everyone else.

She clutched the door frame. "Do you... have information about my son?"

I watched her face contort with what must be grief. These emotions were like foreign films without subtitles—I recognized the expressions but couldn't comprehend their meaning. People claimed to "feel" things so deeply. I studied them like specimens, observing reactions I'd never experience.

Men like her son made sure of that.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch.

She accepted it with a visible tremble, cautiously opening the drawstring. The pendant slid out into her palm, gray flecks suspended in resin catching the morning light.

"Thank you, but... I don't understand. Where did you find this?"

For a second, hope flickered across her face. Then confusion. Her fingers closed around the pendant, clutching it against her heart. She didn't know what she held—her son's remains converted to jewelry—but something inside her recognized theweight of finality it carried. Her body knew what her mind refused to accept.

I turned and walked away without a word. Let her hang it around her neck, keep it close to her heart, unknowingly carrying the ashes of her precious boy.

He wouldn't be coming home. He was number six. My list dwindled. Names that burned in my mind since childhood, carved into my brain like they'd been etched with acid, festering beneath the surface where no one could see them bleed.

My good deed for the day was done. I reunited a mother with her son.

The kill usually left me empty, hollow—satisfaction fleeting at best. Eleven years of hunting had taught me that much. But for the last nine months, the routine felt different. I had somewhere to be after. Someone to see.

Oakley.

She wanted to understand me. Teach me emotions since I didn't understand them. Her little sessions anchored her to my side more than she realized. Each time she tried to reach inside me, she got tangled deeper in my web.

I watched her though. Studied how her face changed. How she reacted to things. Memorized every detail. Every gesture. Every flicker behind those eyes. Not because I wanted to learn about feelings. Because I needed to know what kept her coming back. What made her stay when everyone else would run. How to keep her mine.

The engine rumbled beneath me as I headed toward Diamond Ridge, toward Oakley's mom's flower shop, where I'd wait for her to arrive. My mind was clear, focused on a new target—not for destruction, but something I couldn't name.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. The way vanilla lingered on her skin like a signature. How her breathing steadied when she fell asleep on my chest that one night. The way her handstrembled slightly whenever I moved too fast. She'd seen what I was capable of—glimpsed the monster beneath the mask—but hadn't run. She fractured the equation. A variable I couldn't solve. And I didn't want to.

The bell above the door rang. Sweet perfume of flowers immediately enveloped me as Joslyn looked up from the counter.

"V?" Fear flickered across her features despite her attempt to hide it, eyes darting to the analog clock on the wall. "Oakley isn't due here for another hour."

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