Page 62 of Sins of the Hidden

"I know." I pictured exactly where she was—at her weekly tea visit with her client, probably glancing at the clock every few minutes, counting down until she could leave.

"Christ, V, do you ever not look like you just crawled out of a slaughterhouse?" Her laugh was brittle, forced. Her eyes never left the stains on my bat.

My boots creaked against the wooden floor as I moved through the shop, scanning every corner. I stopped at the lilies, their pure white petals stark against my stained fingers. The sweet, heady scent filled my nostrils as I reached out to touch one delicate petal. "Oakley's favorite flowers are lilies." Her face would light up when she saw them, a softness appearing in her eyes that made something in my chest constrict.

"Oh! You brought your... bat with you today," Joslyn chirped, eyeing the weapon. I always brought it with me. A few rust-colored flecks clung near the handle, Carder's final contribution to this world.

"You don't come see Oakley." Something foreign seized in my chest as I said it. Unfamiliar. Rage-adjacent. I glared at her until she looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

Something flashed across her face, but Oakley hadn’t taught me that emotion yet. Her shoulders dropped as she traced apetal with her finger, avoiding my stare. Even sunshine could cast shadows.

"After the fire, I don't… I don't feel safe unless Sarge is around. Not even here. Especially not here."

The fire that almost killed her and Sarge. When we found them—him on top of her, clutching so tight we could barely pry them apart—black smoke pouring from their lungs. Soaked in vital fluids. Flesh melting. I was certain they were dead. Her scars remained, pink and raw, angry rivers mapping her skin. She could've escaped, saved herself. But she wouldn't leave Sarge. Would rather burn alive than be without him.

It was a shame they lived. I already had plans for their bones.

Joslyn finally shut up, accepting that I wasn't going to engage. Only two people were worth my words: Oakley and Prez.

Husk's words from yesterday echoed in my mind. What he'd mouthed when he thought no one was looking:"You're scaring her." Scaring people was my job. I was good at it. Fear was a tool I wielded with precision—the way others used guns or knives. I'd made grown men piss themselves with just a look. Made them beg, made them break. I'd never given a fuck about the terror I caused. But the thought of Oakley being afraid of me gouged something raw inside me.

Was she scared of me? I replayed our interactions, analyzing her expressions, her body language. The way her eyes widened when I moved too suddenly. How her breath hitched when I stood too close. Signs I'd cataloged but dismissed. But now, with Husk's words burrowing under my skin, I couldn't ignore them.

If she feared me, I'd take it apart piece by piece. Show her. Teach her. She could fear the world, but she would never fear me. I'd kill anyone who made her afraid, including the parts of myself that triggered it. The thought of her fear—of me—was worse than anything I'd ever felt. I'd killed men for looking at her wrong, but couldn't bear the idea that I might be the one causingher distress. It made no fucking sense. I was exactly what I was supposed to be—a weapon, a monster, something to be feared. But she was the exception. The only one who would ever see something different.

An engine approached—the distinctive growl of Sarge's bike, different from any other in the club. Joslyn's face lit up as he strode in, oversized black hood covering his face, heavy boots announcing each step.

No one knew why I hunted specific targets. They assumed I was just wired wrong—the club's enforcer, unleashed when needed. If they knew there were specific names on my list, faces connected to my past...it didn't matter. Some things stay buried until you dug them up with vengeance.

His gaze locked on Joslyn before settling on me. "The fuck are you doing here?"

I turned from the lilies, silent.

He stepped between Joslyn and me, his body a wall of muscle. "I don't want you alone with Joslyn."

Sarge was the only one in the club taller than me, and only by an inch. We were matched in muscle and attitude. His fist clenched; I didn't blink. If we fought, he might actually challenge me—the thought sent a rare surge of interest through my dead nerves.

"You better fuckin' watch who you're talkin' to like that."

He invaded my space, close enough that I could see the tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow. I remained motionless, picturing the precise angle needed to shatter his kneecap with one swing.

"It's okay," Joslyn called, her heavily scarred right arm reaching out to touch his, pink tissue glistening under the shop lights. Her eyes softened with unmistakable devotion as she looked at him. "It's just the way he is."

Sarge growled before retreating. "Unfortunately."

The front door chimed. Oakley entered, arms laden with bags—the scent of vanilla cutting through the floral air. I calculated exactly how many steps to reach her if needed.

"I hope today is not busy?—"

Joslyn cut her off, "Not with these two here."

Oakley's expression faltered. "Where's Nyla?"

"Nyla called off. She's sick," Joslyn replied.

"She's been sick a lot lately."

"I was going to go see her after work. Did you want to come?"

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