Page 228 of Sins of the Hidden

I watched her go, rain flowing into my eyes, unable to follow as she disappeared into the downpour. The child in me still wanted to call after her, still stupidly hoped she'd turn around, that she'd say my name one last time with love instead of hatred.

Only then did I try to stand, but my knees gave way and I fell back into the mud, the gash on my forehead throbbing in time with my pulse.

Footsteps approached from behind. My hand automatically reached for the bat that lay embedded in the earth beside me, but I couldn't summon the strength to pull it free.

"V!" Law's voice cut through the storm. I couldn't turn to face him, couldn't let him see me like this—shattered, wounded, ruined by a woman who should have protected me.

His hands found my shoulders from behind, unexpectedly gentle for a man his size. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, moving around to face me. His eyes widened at the gash on my forehead, fingers carefully probing the wound. "What happened?"

My eyes met his, the jade that looked so much like my wife's giving me the strength to confess, "Mother."

Law dropped to his knees in the mud beside me, the downpour plastering his gray hair to his skull. His eyes were swollen with grief as he took both my shoulders firmly in his hands.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice rough. "I don't know what the fuck she did to you. Honestly don't want to fucking know." His grip tightened, the pressure anchoring me to the present moment. He pulled me forward then, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace I couldn't remember ever receiving from a man who wasn't trying to hurt me. My body seized like I was being choked. It took a second to realize I wasn't. He was trying to hold me together. Not control me. Not hurt me. Just… hold me.

I didn't know how to be held. I didn't know how to be a son. But I let him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember I was alive.

"You're my son now." His voice dropped to a fierce whisper against my ear. "You fucking hear me? Not hers. Mine. You're mine, V."

Something cracked inside my chest—not breaking, but opening. Like a door I'd nailed shut years ago suddenly swingingwide. I tensed, every muscle locked against the foreign sensation of being wanted instead of used. My throat closed around words that had never existed, sounds that belonged to the boy who died in her basement.

He pulled back, rain cascading down his weathered face, and I saw tears mixing with the storm. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, something worth saving. "I should've found you sooner. Should've gotten you out of there."

The words hit like fists to places that had never healed. All those years, someone could have cared. Someone could have looked.

"I'm gonna look for Oakley in a few secret spots. Tyrant took that girl back to Hellbound, but the others are looking too." His voice cracked as he stood, hands lingering on my shoulders like he was afraid to let go. Like I might disappear if he wasn't touching me. "Stay safe, V. You hear me? You stay fucking safe."

He ran off into the storm, leaving me kneeling in the mud. I heard movement down the hill, my gaze snapped toward the dock.

The confrontation had left me hollow, but there was no time to process it—not with Oakley still in danger. The cost of this mercy was steep. No catharsis. No revenge. Just clarity that ached worse than rage ever could.

I forced myself to my feet, legs unsteady. The bat lay embedded in the earth where I'd driven it beside my mother's head. I pulled it free with both hands, mud clinging to the splintered wood.

Rushing down the hill, I spotted figures at its far end. Three men. And behind them, I could see her.

Oakley was bound at the wrists and ankles. A cement block rested by her feet, thick rope coiled around it and tied to her legs. They were preparing to drown her, to let the water swallow everytrace of her existence. One man had a gun trained on her head while the other two secured the final knots.

I moved without thought. Each blow shattered another chain from my past, each broken bone erased a memory of my mother's cruelty. Their bodies fell beneath my bat like the men who'd paid to use me, their screams no different from the ones that had filled my childhood bedroom. Bones snapped like dry branches, their flow hot against my skin as I carved a path toward Oakley.

If Oakley died, I wouldn't just break—I'd become something worse than the monster I'd spent my life being. I'd peel the world apart layer by layer until nothing remained. I'd hunt down every person who ever looked at her and carve her name into their flesh before feeding them their own organs. I'd burn everything to ash and choke on the remains. Her death wouldn't just end me—it would unleash something that even Hell wouldn't recognize.

The storm eased just enough to reveal the rickety dock stretching over water as black and endless as my fear. She was at the end of it, her body slumped forward, head lolling. Even from this distance, I saw what they'd done to her—her flesh torn, marks carved into skin that was mine to protect.

I couldn't breathe. Not again. Not after everything. I dropped to my knees in the mud, the bat falling from my nerveless fingers. My scream tore through the storm—wordless, helpless, the sound a man made when he was about to lose the only thing that ever made him human.

But even from this distance, I saw the way her ribs struggled against torn fabric. I saw the way she refused to surrender, even broken, even bleeding.

I forced myself back to my feet, snatched up the bat, and ran toward the dock.

"OAKLEY!"

Father Sal dragged me to the edge of the dock, the wound from my severed finger a throbbing absence sending waves of agony through me. Rain lashed my face—each drop icy against fevered skin, my vision narrowing to a pinprick. His fingers dug deeper into my bicep as I stumbled, the dock's edge yawning beneath me. My legs buckled as I fought to stay upright.

"Stay, wench," he spat, shoving me to my knees. The wood bit into my flesh, splintering through my already torn jeans. Behind him, the apostle called John leveled his gun at my head, the metal catching what little light cut through the downpour. My thoughts scattered to Callista—had she escaped? Or had my desperate plan only condemned her to worse torment?

Father Sal knelt before me, rope twisted in his hands. He yanked my wrists forward, the hemp scraping against tender flesh, reopening welts that had barely scabbed over. Each loop around my wrists sent fresh jolts of pain shooting up my arms. Every muscle tensed to fight, to kick, to run—but the gun barrel pressed against my temple kept me frozen.

I wanted to live. God, how desperately I wanted to live now. I had promised V an answer today, words both of us had waited our whole lives to exchange.

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