Page 198 of Sins of the Hidden

Nyla didn't push. Her dark eyes—always too knowing—returned to her phone, thumbs scrolling absently, but her shoulder pressed against mine. Solid. Present.

Behind the counter, Joslyn arranged cookies, lining them in perfect rows. Her gaze flicked up, catching mine. Joslyn with her practical ponytail and flour-dusted hands, steady as bedrock. Worry etched deeper each day—like cracks spreading slowly, inevitably across a porcelain doll's face.

"It's okay to be tired," she said, voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to be strong all the time."

The words sank into me like stones in still water. Ripples of something dangerous—permission to break—threatened my carefully constructed calm. My throat squeezed shut. The walls of my chest constricted, lungs struggling for air that suddenly tasted metallic.

Nyla's phone erupted against the wooden table, rattling cups and silverware. The screen flashed "Mitchell" with each violent vibration. She grabbed it, fingers trembling as she tapped the speaker button.

"Hey—"

"Where the fuck is Oakley?" Mitchell's voice ripped through the speaker, each syllable jagged with fear. Guttural screams. Heavy thrashing. Desperate cursing.

Joslyn dropped a plate. It shattered on impact, but none of us moved.

Nyla's voice fractured. "What's happening?"

A crash thundered through the speaker, then Mitchell's breathing—like he was drowning in his own lungs. "V—" His voice cut out. Shouting. Someone wailing. Mitchell gasped raggedly through the phone, "Oakley—fuck, he's lost it. He's tearing us apart, screaming your name like you're already fucking dead."

Glass exploded. A scream. Then silence for three heartbeats.

"Mitchell!" Nyla shot upright, chair crashing backward, her face drained of what little color remained.

"Jesus, he just—" Mitchell's voice shattered. "Oakley! If you can hear me, get to Hellbound now! He's hurting everyone in the club. Thinks we hurt you. Fuck?—"

The line went dead.

"My God." Joslyn's whisper cut through the silence. "What's happening?"

The chair beneath me toppled as I lurched to my feet, heart pounding against my ribs, rattling my skeleton from the inside. "We have to go. Now."

The drive blurred—streetlights smearing into golden streaks, traffic signals bleeding into the pulse pounding in my skull. My hands trembled against my thighs, nails cutting half-moons into my palms. Every second stretched into eternity.

My throat closed around a sob. Not now. He needed me clear-headed. Needed me whole when he was shattered.

Hellbound loomed ahead. The front door hung open, yellow light spilling into the night.

My feet hit pavement before Joslyn fully stopped, my body moving on instinct. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I ran, Nyla and Joslyn's footsteps pounding behind me.

I pushed through the doors into the graveyard of V's sanity.

The devastation spread before me like a nightmare carved from flesh and bone. Tables overturned, their legs snapped clean. Glass glittered across hardwood like fallen teeth, each fragment catching overhead lights in fractured rainbows. The heavy oak bar had been split down the center, wood grain exposed like a ribcage torn open.

Dark pools spread across the floor in abstract patterns. Handprints sliding down walls where men had reached for mercy that never came. Bodies scattered like broken dolls, breathing but hollow, their eyes reflecting nothing but terror.

The smell hit me in waves—copper pennies and iron nails, fear, sweat and something else. Something that made my stomach lurch toward my throat. The metallic tang coated my tongue, thick enough to choke on.

The room spun violently. My vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges as the copper scent overwhelmed everything. I pressed my hand to my mouth, retching, but nothing came up except the taste of metal. My knees gave out completely, sending me stumbling against the doorframe.

"Oh God," I choked out, bile burning my throat. The room tilted sickeningly, and I had to grip the splintered wood to keep from collapsing. "Oh God, oh God..."

This wasn't just violence. This was an apocalypse. The end of everything, written in flesh and bone and the wetness that painted every surface like some unholy baptism.

Club members pressed themselves against walls like shadows, afraid to draw breath loud enough to remind him they existed. Mitchell slumped by a spider-webbed window, his shirt darkening where glass had found purchase. Dad stood frozen bythe ruined bar, fury and helplessness warring across his face, a bruise blooming like a black flower across his cheekbone.

And there, in the eye of this hurricane—V.

Something fundamental had shattered inside him, leaving only raw nerve endings and animal need. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, each breath a battle against drowning. The bat hung from his grip, warped and weeping dark stains that dripped steadily onto the floor.

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