Page 60 of Sins of the Hidden

V's hand shot out, seizing Husk's throat, pushing him back against the bar. Glasses toppled, shattering on the floor. My breath caught painfully as his grip dug deeper into Husk's flesh, the skin whitening then reddening around each point of contact. The bat in V's other hand twitched, fresh blood dripping rhythmically onto the floor—marking time to something inevitable.

"What are you going to do, V? Kill me?" Despite the pressure on his throat, Husk's eyes locked with V's, something challenging flaring in their depths. "Do it!" The words emerged strangled but distinct. "Death doesn't scare a man who's already dead. You'd be doing me a fucking favor."

His hold shifted, crueler now, each digit pressing in with slow, deliberate force. Behind the mask, V's nostrils flared with each labored breath, the surgical fabric sucking inward then billowing outward. His thumb bore into Husk's throat, digging until a faint cracking sound emerged from beneath the skin.

Only then did Husk's lips spread into a smile—empty and resigned. Dead eyes stared back at V, challenging him to finish it. The veins in his neck bulged against V's crushing grip. A choking sound escaped his lips as his eyes—those hollow, devastated eyes—never wavered.

My legs locked. Run. The command screamed through my brain, but my body wouldn't respond. Crimson. Everywhere. On the bat. On his hands. Soon in Husk's throat. My stomach lurched as acid burned up my esophagus. I stumbled back one step. Then another. The supplies clutched against my chest likea shield that wouldn't save me. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out everything except the wet, choking sounds from Husk's compressed throat. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

"V," I whispered, but nothing followed. My breath caught on impact.

He didn't hear me—or chose not to. His body shifted closer to Husk as he lifted the other man slightly, feet barely touching the ground. The surgical mask pulsed with each breath. Faster now. Controlled fury.

"V, please," I begged, voice breaking. "Stop."

His head turned just enough—just a fraction—acknowledging my voice without obeying it. He constricted his hold once more, deliberately, a final squeeze that made Husk's eyes bulge slightly. A demonstration. A promise of what he could do.

Husk's eyes darted to me, then back to V. His lips moved, forming words I couldn't make out, his face contorting with the effort to communicate through his crushed airways.

Only then did V fully turn toward me, his eyes finding mine across the charged space between us. Something shifted in them—cold rage faltering for a fraction of a second. The trembling of my hands traveled across the space between us, weakening his grip on the bat.

He squeezed one final time, then released Husk. Husk slid down the bar slightly, coughing, but that terrible smile—that invitation to death—never left his face.

V stepped back, positioning himself between Husk and me, his stance recalibrated but no less dangerous. The bat lowered slightly, crimson droplets forming a constellation of violence at his feet. His free hand extended toward me—a silent offering to lead me away.

I couldn't move. My heart pounded as I gripped the baking supplies, feeling ridiculous holding them while these men threatened to kill each other. Every instinct told me to run.

Yet I stayed. I forced my chin up, meeting V's dark gaze directly.

Husk laughed then—a hollow sound that seemed to rise from deep within. His hand rose to rub at his throat, where a red mark was forming in the shape of V's fingers. V hesitated, his posture stiffening slightly. The bat in his hand lowered further, the weapon suddenly useless against a man who wanted to die.

My heart lurched for all the broken souls that made up this club. Men like Husk who breathed and moved but weren't truly living, who carried their ghosts like physical weights. Men like V, who channeled their demons into actions rather than letting their minds empty them completely.

Despite everything—the blood, the fury—I felt safer near him than I ever had anywhere else.

"C-Can we go home?" I said, my voice less steady than I'd hoped.

He turned to me immediately, the tension in his shoulders shifting, attention completely diverted from Husk to focus entirely on me. His eyes roamed my face, lingering on my parted lips, the pulse visibly throbbing in my neck.

New streaks soaked into older smears along the bat's grain. And God help me, watching him wield that bat made something primal twist inside me. I didn't want to know whose blood it was. But it was like looking at a half-finished recipe—the urge to see the final product nagged at me despite my better judgment.

He moved toward the exit, and I followed, drawn to him like gravity despite the carnage he carried. His broad shoulders blocked my view of the room, his height a shield between me and whatever dangers lurked in the world—dangers that paled in comparison to the violence he embodied.

"Oakley." Husk's voice stopped me. I glanced back to see him rubbing his throat, the red mark darkening where V's fingers had been. His eyes had lost their fury, replaced by something deeper. "Be careful."

V’s stance tightened, the bat creaking under his renewed grip.

I quickly spoke before he could turn back. "Thank you for the supplies," I said to Husk, deliberately vague.

V's free hand found the small of my back, his calloused palm warm and solid through the thin fabric of my shirt, urging me forward, away from Husk, away from the clubhouse, away from the kitchen that housed a dead woman's ghost and the man who refused to let her go.

And then it hit me—I called my apartment our home.

The hunt had always been the only thing that mattered. Until her. Now, blood was just an intermission before I could go back to her.

Emerging from Hellbound, my muscles felt loose, skin still sticky with someone else's blood. The screaming had stopped an hour ago, but the echo lingered in my ears like a ghost's whisper. Skin split at the joints, nails crusted with flesh. I didn't feel the wounds—pain was a language my body never learned to speak.

Evidence was the one filth I scrubbed away, not for my own comfort, but because Oakley couldn't bear the sight of it. Nothing steadied me quite like dismantling a man piece by piece, witnessing that final moment when understanding transformed to emptiness as their eyes went dead. But even that paled in comparison to the sight of her smile.

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