Page 190 of Sins of the Hidden

"I don't hide." My fingers tightened around the bat, knuckles blanching. "I want them to see me." I wanted them to believe in the Devil before he took their life.

"I'm at the clubhouse."He told me."Get here or I'm going without you."

He hung up. I lifted the bat, turning it slowly, reverently—memorizing every clean patch like a map of restraint. By the time I was done, there wouldn't be an inch left to repent.

Maybe I would fuck Oakley again with it when the blood dried.

That thought pissed me off. Not even their blood deserved to dry where my mouth had been. Oakley was too pure for that, too good. Even in my darkest moments, she remained untainted. Her body was mine to worship, mine to protect. I'd memorized every curve, every freckle, every sound she made when I touched her. The softness of her beneath my hands was the closest thing to peace I'd ever known. One thought too far and I wanted to lobotomize myself. I slammed the bat into my temple—deliberate, controlled. Warm liquid trickled slowly down my cheek.

Shut the fuck up, brain. If you think of Oakley with any other man, I'll cut you out of my fucking skull myself.

Droplets crusting on my temple, I walked out. The path through the trees from Hellbound to the clubhouse on the sameland. The parking lot was nearly empty when I emerged from the tree line, save for a few bikes. Chet leaned against the side by the front doors, cigarette dangling from his lips, his greying hair pulled back from his face in a messy knot.

"Well, if it ain't the boogeyman himself," Chet called, flicking his cigarette. The ember arced through the darkness, scattering sparks across the asphalt before dying. "Grim called me in for a chat, but Law says you two are going hunting. Sounds like my kind of night. I'm coming with."

I didn't answer as Law emerged, shirt wrinkled, tie gone. Whatever he'd been holding together was unraveling. His focus flicked to Chet. "Put that shit out."

"Sorry, didn't realize I was fucking up your murder aesthetic." Chet threw it on the ground, putting the ash out with his boot.

Law's eyes narrowed. "What did Grim want with you anyway?"

Chet waggled his eyebrows, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll tell you after this murder spree. Priorities, right?"

"Yeah." Law's eyes darkened to emeralds. "Nothing more important than this."

"Then let's fuckin' go already." Chet said, rolling his shoulders with a series of pops and cracks. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh.

Law checked his watch. I checked my bat. Chet checked his knife.

Time to hunt.

They'd never touch her again.

Not in memory. Not in photographs.

Not even in the afterlife if I had to follow them into hell with my bat and keep killing them for eternity.

Jensen fell first. Found him in his penthouse, surrounded by wealth that couldn't save him. His kneecap exploded beneath my bat like kindling, expensive Italian wool soaking up what spilled from him. He tried to bargain with broken words, but money meant nothing when weighed against what he'd stolen from her.

Michael was drunk when we arrived at his house, hurling bottles and curses in equal measure. He didn't even remember her face, didn't recall the damage he'd done. When Law stepped into the light and told him whose father he was facing, Michael spat defiance even as his bones shattered. Some men die with honor. Others die screaming about lawyers and rights that no longer existed.

Tyler ran through his darkened mansion. Glass rained from overhead lights he'd smashed, thinking shadows would save him. But I was born in those depths. I caught him crawling across hardwood, nails breaking, animal sounds tearing from his throat. The bat ended his desperate pleas as we secured him for Hellbound.

And Karson—who was studying to be a therapist. He preached healing while creating wounds that would never close. His hand barely grazed the gun in his nightstand before my bat introduced itself to his skull. That was when Law's control snapped completely. This man had worn the mask of a healer while poisoning his daughter's mind, had taken her trust and turned it into something that made her flinch at sudden movements.

I had to watch Law’s soul fracture. His fists found Karson's face again and again, methodical as a blacksmith working steel. Each impact carried years of helpless rage, of therapy sessions that left Oakley hollow-eyed and shaking, of watching his daughter blame herself for what this monster had done. Karson's degrees and credentials meant nothing beneath a father's fury. His white coat would never be white again. Chet had to drag Law away before he beat the therapist into pieces too small to burn.

Four men who had torn pieces from her soul. Four men who thought their status, their wealth, their positions made them gods. Four men who discovered that gods bled just like everyone else when you knew where to cut.

Law put his hands on his hips when he calmed down enough. "Looks like that's it?—"

It wasn't. "One more stop."

Law quirked an eyebrow at me, but didn't say anything further.

Dr. Marshall's modest colonial stood dark and silent, nestled in an upscale neighborhood far from the homes we'd already visited. His Mercedes sat in the driveway, shining under the moonlight. No cameras. No security system. The house of a man who believed his reputation was enough protection.

The van stopped at the curb, engine idling. Law's expression twisted with confusion.

---