Page 93 of Sins of the Hidden

"It's goddamn perfect," Tyrant said, voice dropping an octave, sliding into something almost intimate as he examinedKnight's rapidly swelling eye with professional interest. "You're gonna have a beauty there. Like a little wedding favor."

Knight glared at me with his good eye. "You're fucking insane."

Tyrant rolled his eyes, “At least it wasn’t your kneecap.”

I turned my attention back to Oakley. The rise and fall of her chest beneath the white shirt hypnotized me, promising redemption I knew I'd never deserve. Salvation I'd take anyway.

The room fell quiet, a silence so complete it seemed to have mass, to press against eardrums. The only sound was Oakley's steady breathing and the faint hum of the air conditioner— white noise underscoring the surreal scene. I counted her breaths through the thin fabric of her shirt, each one a gift she didn't know she was giving me. Each one mine to take if I chose.

Tyrant whistled low, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. His shoulders relaxed, as if this moment of quiet contemplation had renewed his enthusiasm for the blasphemy at hand.

"Alright then. Ceremony's legit."

No audience would clap. No priest would bless this. But it didn't matter. This wasn't a wedding. It was a possession ritual disguised as devotion.

Knight snapped his fingers again, his brow furrowing as a new thought interrupted his focus. His eyes darted between the flowers in Oakley's hair and Tyrant's notebook, connections forming.

"Wait, did we settle on borrowed?"

The question hung in the air, sticky as cobwebs. Tyrant raised a single eyebrow, the gesture somehow both questioning and knowing, a silent interrogation.

"You borrowed those?" His tone suggested he already knew the answer and was simply giving Knight the opportunity to confess.

Knight's shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug, but there was nothing casual about the glint in his eyes—predatory satisfaction barely concealed beneath the surface.

"Not exactly."

A pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken meaning.

Knight's lips pursed, "Did you kill Oakley's neighbor?"

The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of silence radiating outward. Grim's head snapped up so quickly I heard the vertebrae in his neck crack, his eyes suddenly alert and horrified. The color drained from his face, leaving behind a mask of disgust. A map of revulsion etched in bone and skin.

My gaze didn't waver. The memory of the neighbor's screams played faintly, a lullaby of control. Some things shouldn't be asked. Some answers shouldn't be heard.

I said nothing.

"Holy shit, you did," Tyrant breathed, laughter and horror battling across his face. "Guess nobody's going to be reporting suspicious activity around this place anymore."

Grim pressed his palms against his eyes, as if trying to physically block out the knowledge. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered.

Tyrant grinned, teeth gleaming in the low light. He flipped his notebook closed with a flourish, tucking it into his pocket with the practiced movement of a magician concluding a trick. "God, I fucking love weddings."

Knight rolled his eyes, the gesture dramatic and exaggerated. His patience was wearing thin, the initial amusement curdling into impatience.

"Can we get on with this bullshit?"

The impatience in his voice grated against my nerves. My hands trembled with barely contained rage, but I forced myself to breathe. To focus. Oakley needed this to be perfect.

Tyrant straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders as he stepped between us like a ringmaster taking center stage. The gold rings on his fingers caught the dim light as he raised his hands in a pantomime of divine blessing. He cleared his throat dramatically, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice falsely solemn, "we are gathered here today?—"

"Just get to the fucking point," Knight and Grim interrupted, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

Tyrant shot him a glare. "Don't rush art, asshole." He steadied himself with a deep breath. Flipping through his little notebook with theatrical flair, finding the page he wanted with an exaggerated flourish. "Oakley Anson?—"

The sound of her full name in his mouth ignited white-hot rage through my veins. Another man speaking her name wasn't fucking allowed—it was sacrilege. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging crescents into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me as jealousy threatened to consume all reason.

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