Page 109 of Sins of the Hidden

She needed me—whether she wanted it or not.

This was progress.

We were crammed in Grim's office at the back of the clubhouse—a claustrophobic room lined with dark shelves packed tight with files, bottles of expensive liquor, and decades of buried secrets. A single dusty lamp buzzed overhead, casting sickly yellow light over the scarred oak desk. The air was thick with violence waiting to erupt, each breath tasting of stale cigarettes and bitter rage.

Grim stood at the desk, eyeing us both, his fingers drumming silently against the worn wood.

"You let him marry my daughter. You signed the fuckin' certificate, Mitchell." Law's voice cracked, his eyes that looked like my wife's filled with betrayal. "You stood there and watched it happen."

Grim didn't blink. Didn't even look up at first. Just kept flipping a page in the file like Law was background noise. "I watched every second. Signed it with a steady fucking hand," he said finally, tone flat. Final.

Law lunged across the desk, hands locking around Grim's throat, desperation making him sloppy. Grim didn't flinch,didn't struggle. He simply waited until Law's grip weakened, then effortlessly slammed him against the wall, scattering papers and rattling the shelves. "You signed your fucking name on my daughter's life!" Law choked, voice breaking into despair.

Grim's hand tightened, calm but ruthless, suffocating the rage out of Law. His eyes were steady, coldly indifferent to Law's desperate struggles. His voice remained unsettlingly quiet, as cold and unfeeling as polished marble.

Law charged again, a wild, desperate swing. Grim caught him by the throat and slammed him onto the desk, scattering papers. "You fucking betrayed us—betrayed Oakley," Law choked out, voice breaking with rage and despair. "That's your wife's best friend. How the fuck do you think she's gonna feel about this?"

I tapped the bat against my boot, feeling the weight of it like an extension of my arm. The sound of wood on leather was oddly satisfying—almost as satisfying as crushing his skull would be. I could feel the rhythm of my heartbeat syncing with each tap, steady and unforgiving. "She didn't say no."

His neck twitched, like even his blood wanted out. Law's eyes cut to me, horror and hatred mingling in equal measure—the look a man gave when he realized exactly what kind of monster he was facing.

Grim's gaze flicked toward me, sardonic. "He married your daughter because he's obsessed, Law. Not for some grand fucking plan—because he couldn't stop himself." He stepped forward, crowding Law against the desk, daring him to retaliate. He leaned forward, plucking a stray thread from Law's collar like it offended him, adjusting his cuffs casually while Law's breathing grew erratic.

Watching Law's crumbling confidence, I felt a twisted echo of satisfaction. He'd never understood Oakley, not like I did. She wasn't his fragile thing to protect—she was my sacred ruin to worship.

"You fucking bastard!" Law spat, veins bulging at his temples. "She was coerced—you think I don't know what that psychopath is capable of? He's got her terrified for her life!"

"She's wearing his ring, isn't she?" He straightened a paper as if Law's fury was just clutter on his desk. His palms pressed flat on the desk, an indifferent gaze fixed coldly on Law. "Nobody put a gun to her head at the altar. She didn't say no when it mattered. That ring's sitting on her finger just fine, and we both know fear makes a better chain than love ever did."

Law's body tensed at the mention of Oakley's "choice," doubt and suspicion etched in every line of his face. I watched the struggle play out behind his eyes. He couldn't prove coercion, but he knew his daughter. And that knowledge was turning his blood to ice.

Grim got closer to Law's face, invading his space. "Prez signed worse papers. You didn't mind it then." His eyes narrowed, leaning in closer. "You don't wash away sins in this club. You wear them like skin until they fit."

Grim adjusted his cuffs, his gaze sliding briefly to the worn picture of Darrell pinned behind the desk—Prez's crooked smile mocking us. Grim's eyes flickered briefly to Darrell's faded photo, bitterness sharpening his expression. He wasn't just destroying Law—he was erasing Prez's lingering shadow.

Law's lip curled, defiant, voice edged with icy contempt. "All this talk, Mitchell—but we both know Darrell never trusted you with his secrets. If he left something behind, maybe you're the one he was planning to bury."

Grim's gaze hardened dangerously, anger flickering behind ruthless control. "Careful. Or I'll bury you so deep, your daughter will forget your fuckin' name."

"Not sure I want to be part of this fuckin' club anymore." Law looked at me, then back at Grim, eyes darting with the panic of a trapped animal. "My loyalty was with Darrell, not you." Law'slip curled bitterly. "Darrell kept this club in line. He wasn't just President; he was the only damn thing holding this crew together."

"Or maybe he was the one making it fall apart," Grim didn't give a damn about Law's moral high ground. He wanted control—over Law, over me, over the club. "Your loyalty is with whoever the fucks in charge."

Law stepped back, but Grim followed, calmly reorganizing scattered papers. "You're not better than us—you're just better at hiding who you truly fuckin' are." He paused, eyes cold. "I could end your life with a pen stroke. You think that makes you free?"

Grim dropped the file on the desk, then deliberately spread the photos out one by one, like he was dealing cards in a game he'd already won. Bodies. Blood. Men we'd buried deep. His fingers lingered on each image, meticulously aligning each scattered photo, fingers careful, almost reverent—as if death was something sacred. The glossy prints caught the light, reflecting horror back at Law's widening eyes.

I watched the transformation on Law's face—from righteous father to cornered animal in the span of seconds. The lawyer becoming the accused. Sweat trickled down his temple, catching the light like tears he was too proud to shed.

"These aren't strangers. Every one of these bodies has your fingerprints on their deaths." He tapped a photo showing a man face-down in a warehouse. "Remember him? You gave the okay on that hit while drinking scotch, probably with Claudia and Oakley at home waiting."

Law stared at the photo, confusion momentarily overshadowing his anger. He didn't recognize the man, had never seen the warehouse before. His eyes darted from the image to Grim's face, searching for the trap.

I'd seen men panic before, but Law looked like Grim had gutted him.

"What is this?" Law's hands trembled violently as he reached for the photos, his breathing shallow and quick. His eyes darted to the door—not calculating an escape, but terrified of who might be hearing this confession.

"Looks like your résumé." He flipped the photo toward Law like it was a receipt. "Difference is, you bill by the hour instead of burying 'em by hand."

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