Page 64 of Sins of the Hidden

"No." The word emerged as a low growl that made her flinch.

She pouted. "What do you mean no?"

"Oakley and I are the only ones allowed to touch it," I pointed my bat at her, dark matter flaking off the end. "Stay the fuck away."

Sarge stepped forward, chest expanding as he moved between me and Joslyn. "Watch who you're fucking talking to," he snarled, hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes tracked my bat before locking back on my face. "Point that at her again and I'll skull-fuck you with it until your eyes bleed."

I didn't move, didn't blink. Just stared at him, waiting for him to push it further. Wanting him to give me an excuse to fuck him up.

Oakley rushed past me to the back, the warmth of her body briefly registering. "I'm…going to go get my stuff." I followed with her things, my long strides easily catching up in the narrow hallway.

The urge to press her against the wall nearly overwhelmed me—to feel her soft curves yield against my hard edges. Instead, I maintained the inch between us. Her body radiated heat. I caught the slight hitch in her breath when she realized how close I stood, fumbling with the door, her back vulnerable.

"I don't get off until nine." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

"I know." I'd memorized the rhythm of her days weeks ago—how she took exactly seventeen minutes to get ready in the morning, absently touched the scar on her right elbow when thinking, always checked her phone three times before setting it down.

"But I'm off tomorrow." She unlocked the door, brushing against me as she pushed it open. "W-We could start fixing it up then?"

She took my silence as confirmation before tying her apron around her waist. The seam accentuated her breasts, making them strain against her sweater. Pink bloomed across her cheeks as she noticed my stare, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. I remembered the warmth of her skin, the way her body had trembled above mine yesterday.

My body betrayed me around her. I wanted to tear my own skin off—just to see what she'd done to me. Oakley did something to me that I couldn't control. When she walked in, everything inside me twisted and knotted, my heart jackhammering against my ribs like it was trying to tear out of my chest and crawl to her. Arms that steadily crushed a man's skull shook when they brushed against her. The scent of vanilla hit like a bat to my own head, disconnecting my brain, making me forget names on my list I'd burned into memory.

I found myself studying the curve of her neck, not for where to strike, but for where to press my mouth. Blood screamed in my ears. I counted her breaths while she slept, sixty-seven inhales before she made that small sound in her throat that meant she was dreaming. I memorized the exact shade of pink that crept up her neck when I stared too long. I'd killed men for looking at her too long. I'd contemplated killing Knight because he made her smile once. The emptiness in my chest that had been there since I was seven years old filled with something that felt like hunger but went deeper, something that clawed at my insides and demanded more.

I'd murdered men without blinking, watched the light fade from their eyes and felt nothing. But Oakley cut through me in ways violence never could. I wanted her name carved into my ribs—a brand beneath the skin, where no one could take herfrom me. I wanted to lock her away where no one else could see her. I had no fucking idea what was happening to me, why she mattered, why the thought of her in pain made me want to burn the world to ash. Eleven years of perfect control, of being exactly what I was made to be, and this woman had somehow reached inside me and ripped out whatever was left of the human I never got to become. And the worst part? I'd let her do it again. I'd beg her to do it again.

"Y-You don't h-have to stay here my whole shift." She hesitated, then added softly, "S-See you tonight?"

I wasn't going to. I needed to hunt, to release the pressure building inside me. But for the first time, I found myself wanting to return when I was done. To breathe in her sweet scent, to feel her softness beneath my calloused hands.

Walking to the front, I caught Sarge with his hood down, hands gripping Joslyn's hips, his tongue down her throat. Their display of affection made my stomach turn. For a fleeting moment, I pictured Oakley's soft lips against mine, the taste of her, how her body would tremble if I pressed her against the wall. The thought sent heat coursing through me—unfamiliar, dangerous. I crushed the image before it could take root.

The bell's harsh chime cut through the air as I pushed through the door. Outside, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with cold air to wash away the cloying scent of flowers and cheap cologne. Joints cracked as I moved, skin still raw from the morning's work. I mounted my bike. The engine roared to life beneath me, vibrating through my bones like a war drum.

For the first time, the hunt wasn't the only thing calling to me. Oakley's image burned in my mind—more vivid than violence's aftermath, more intoxicating than screams. Her smile had somehow carved itself deeper than my rage.

And for once, I had a reason to come back when I was done. Oakley. A hunger worse than killing. Everything else was noise.She was the pattern buried in the chaos—the part that made my pulse slow instead of spike.

My eyes were transfixed on the beast of a man before me. How could they not be? Standing in this run-down building with his muscle tank clinging to his torso, the fabric stretched taut across his broad chest, deliberately covering the area over his heart while exposing his powerful arms. With every breath he took, the bulk shifted beneath the fabric. His thick black hair was pulled back in a tight, messy knot at the back of his head, though rebellious strands had worked free to frame his face and cling to the column of his neck.

V paused for a moment, reaching up to push back a stray lock of hair from his face, the movement causing the cords in his arms to tighten under his skin like something primal and dangerous. When he bent to lift another section of broken furniture, his back flexed with raw power visible where his tank rode up, shoulder blades shifting like tectonic plates beneath his skin. The waistband of his jeans rode low on his hips, revealing a glimpse of skin that disappeared beneath the denim. My mouth went dry at the sight of him, at the way his forearms corded with thick veins as his hands—God, those massive hands—splinteredwood as easily as paper. Each movement was precise yet savage, like a predator disguised in human skin. I couldn't look away from him if I tried.

Over the past hour, I'd offered—more than once—to help with the bigger pieces of furniture. Each time, V shut me down with nothing more than a grunt or a glare. Now he was ripping a table apart with his bare hands, knuckles white, biceps bulging with each vicious pull. When he twisted to toss a broken chair leg aside, his abdomen tightened, carved lines catching the light.

There was no AC in here; the low sun sent waves of heat through the glass, turning the room into an oven. Not to mention V making my skin prickle from looking like he did right now. I cursed the layers he made me wear—gloves, heavy boots, all in case a rogue shard of glass decided to take me out mid-step.

Everything stuck. Everything itched. And of course, he wasn't sweating. The sweat pooling under my breasts, the rubbing of the wire on my bra was torture. My bra, my shirt, my skin—it all felt like a curse. My fingers itched to do my usual trick—tucking my shirt under my boobs to stop the suffocating cling—but I couldn't do that here. Not in front of V. That was something I never wanted to explain to anyone.

I had researched CIPA after learning about V's condition. The articles online explained it was hereditary and extremely dangerous. Most people with CIPA didn't live past twenty-five, and V had already made it to twenty-six.

"So with CIPA, the life expectancy is pretty short," I said. "How do you keep it under control?" Without looking away from his task, he answered, hands flexing by his sides.

"Prez checked in on me." I blinked, startled. He turned his huge body back to the wooden table he had eviscerated moments ago. Picking up large planks of wood.

"But what if your appendix bursts or something? You wouldn't feel it and you'd…" Before that word left my lips, he had answered me.

"Hex took it out." My stomach dropped. He didn't mean Hex, like, surgically... did he?

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