Page 10

I watched that delicate beat under her paper-thin skin—one I knew better than my own.

The gentle rise beneath her chest wasn't just breathing—it was a siren's lullaby, keeping time with the madness gnawing at my insides. She had no fucking clue I was here, standing over her bed every night, watching sleep soften features I'd carved into my brain. My grip—calloused from what I've done and stained with the crimson streaks of everyone I've killed—twitched with the need to trace the slender column of her neck, to feel life fluttering beneath my fingers without squeezing too tightly.

The worn wood on my bat, fucking beautiful in its rust-colored residue, told stories with each mark. Every dent was a memory of someone's face caving in, every stain a reminder of how long they took to stop screaming. That missing chunk? My favorite trophy from the night is how many strikes it takes to make a face unrecognizable. Some begged. Some fought. In the end, they all made the same wet sound when they split apart. The tacky substance of yesterday's work still coated my palm, making my knuckles twitch for more. That used to be the only thing that ever felt close to home.

When crushing bones, her wrists haunt me—delicate as bird bones, so easily snapped. But the thought sickens me now. Turns my rage outward—toward anyone who'd dare brush what belongs to me. She's the only one I want unraveling beneath my grip—not to ruin, but to keep breathing just for me.

She was different from everyone else I'd been around. Her presence corrupted the part that didn't hesitate. Our nightly ritual consumed me: waiting for her meds to knock her out before settling into my space beside her bed. She never stirred, even when my bulk made the mattress dip. Sweet, oblivious girl lost in drug-induced dreams, and I kept count of every time her chest rose—just to make sure it didn't stop.

My jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly in the silent room. She seeped into my skull, an infection spreading through bone, every pulse tightening the chains she'd woven inside me. Each night I watched her, it burrowed further inside, erasing the line between my obsession and her existence. My fingers curled tight enough to ache, needing the familiar rush—grab, break, destroy. But not her. Never her.

I propped my bat against her bed frame, dried evidence stark against purple sheets before shrugging the cut from my shoulders, folding it over my forearm. The weight of it—the history, the blood, the brotherhood—fell away from my body for the first time willingly.

No one wore it. No one touched it. Club life wasn't for the weak—the ones who were already dead, and the rest of us just waiting our turn on borrowed time.

Her sleeping form drew me closer. Dark strands framed her face, catching light in copper threads. The curve of her cheek, the slight part of her lips—she existed this way only for me. Watching her, trusting and vulnerable, made the war inside my head stop. It was silent–it always was when she was near. I'd fucking kill anyone who tried to take this from me.

Carpeted floors complained beneath my boot as I moved closer. She didn't stir. Standing over her, I slowly unfolded the cut, letting it hang suspended between my hands. The white roses on the back caught what little light filtered through the blinds, their stitching almost luminous against the black leather. I held it there for one heartbeat. Then I dropped it onto her, my colors claiming her body.

The leather settled across her, the bottom edge brushing her hip, the collar draping near her throat. My fingers lingered, smoothing it over her shoulders, patches that marked me as the enforcer now branding her. It looked wrong on her—too harsh, too soaked in everything I'd done. But I didn't pull it back.

Those white roses stretched across her now—thorns and petals marked in iron and aftermath. The embroidered flowers that had witnessed countless deaths now watched over her breathing. Fuck brotherhood. Fuck territory. This was different. She belonged with me—claimed, shielded, where darkness met innocence. My protection was painted across her skin in leather and thread.

Seeing her wearing proof of all the lives I'd ended made me want to bite through her throat just to taste how sweet she'd be. But not to end her. To own her. To make her body remember who she belonged to.

She stirred, making these soft little sounds—half-sighs that barely disturbed the air.

Even unconscious, she was dragging out parts of me I didn't know existed. Ignited thoughts of other sounds I could draw from that pretty throat, sparking an urge to crawl inside her dreams just to make sure I was all she saw. Parts that wanted to keep her sleeping forever in my basement, just so I'd be the only thing in her world.

That's why I took her down to Hellbound until her prick of a father showed up.

Brotherhood meant fuckin' nothin' to me. The others earned their place with loyalty, but I earned mine by turning a basement into a morgue. Prez pointed, and I painted the walls. Simple as that. Some bodies they found, if I let them. Some I liked keeping pieces of—turning finger bones into necklaces and pressing ash into rings to send as gifts to families who thought their loved ones just disappeared. Sometimes I wore them myself, letting their remains decorate my skin while I planned the next one. Didn't need a name. Didn't need a past. Just needed my bat and fresh materials for my collection.

Hellbound's concrete walls rose three stories underground, a forgotten industrial basement the club had claimed decades ago. My tools lined the walls where others hung family photos. Saws for bone, pliers for teeth, furnace for the rest. Every kill became art down there. No one bothered me while I worked—they all knew what kind of gifts I liked making.

Prez kept my chain loose, knowing I'd always return to my den after each kill. Victoria made sure I ate, leaving plates at the top of the stairs along with clean clothes to replace the ones I ruined. Closest thing to a mother the club had, but she knew better than to treat me as one of her boys. The brothers never came to Hellbound unless they needed someone dead. They knew exactly what I was capable of, and they kept their distance.

I preferred it that way—just me, darkness, and whatever poor fuck was living their final moments in my workshop. Oakley got under my skin worse than the copper smell that never quite washed out. Made me want to leave my sanctuary just to hunt down another glimpse of her. Stripped away reason, unleashed something rabid.

My touch knew destruction, but for her, it learned restraint. Before her, the basement was enough. But now the tranquility feels wrong. The dark feels empty. Even the sound of begging hasn't hit me the same since I first saw Oakley.

A soft sound pulled me from my thoughts. Each movement she made hooked barbed wire deeper into my chest. Yesterday's demons haunted me. Her anxiety wasn't something I could smash to pieces. Those tears on her face made me want to set the whole fucking world on fire. Made me want to wrap my palm around her throat just to feel her panic slow down, to press my thumb against her lips until they stopped quivering. I'd never wanted to be gentle before. Never needed to be. But watching her break apart made me wish I knew how to put someone back together instead of just taking them apart. Unless...

Gifts.

The memory crashed through me. Mother on her knees, scarlet dripping onto the new diamond necklace he'd just clasped around her bruised throat. "Look how much he loves me," she'd whisper, showing me the bracelet that matched the pattern of fingerprints blackening her wrist. Every sparkle hiding a new break, every precious stone reflecting the light in her swollen gaze. She collected them as fucking trophies—lined them up on her dresser next to bottles of concealer and gauze.

I learned young what gifts really meant. Watched her trace each new piece of jewelry with shaking fingers while I counted the fresh bruises underneath. "See how special I am?" Her voice would crack in echo with her ribs, pride mixing with pain as she showed me the dress she got for letting him put her in the hospital. The diamond earrings that cost her three teeth.

I shifted, boot scraping against last night's debris—the mirror shards from when I'd smashed the glass to silence the demons in her reflection. Scattered pieces reflected my failure—I couldn't find what made her gasp and claw at her throat. No visible wounds. Nothing tangible to destroy.

She'd backed away until glass stopped her, heart hammering wildly as I caged her in. "I'm fine," she whispered through an obvious lie.

My fist had found the mirror instead. Needed iron under my knuckles. Glass fragments rained through her hair, each broken piece now staring back, showing all the ways I'd failed to protect what was mine.

Hand gripping the doorknob, I glanced back. She was curled up small, swimming in material that had heard more confessions than a priest. Her hand shifted in sleep, fingers curling tighter around the patch over her heart. The curve of her neck disappeared into leather, and something twisted in my gut seeing her wrapped in the colors. Her brunette strands caught the moonlight, stark against my cut. The image burned into my retinas, something I'd keep forever.

Her door clicked shut behind me as I made my way outside to the driveway. My bike's engine roared when I twisted the key, gripping the handlebars until the metal bit into my palms, forcing myself not to turn around. To not go back in and watch her until she began to stir from her sleep. Streets blurred past in smears of neon, familiar hunting grounds turned strange as I pulled into a place I'd never stepped foot in.

The automatic doors of the superstore hissed open, blasting artificially cooled air against my face. The harsh fluorescence stripped away shadows, leaving nowhere to hide. The air tasted of fake sugar and plastic–nothing like Oakley's real vanilla scent mixed with that fear that made me want to sink my teeth in deep.

Muzak trickled from overhead speakers—some cheerful bullshit designed to make people buy more shit they didn't need. The mundane chatter of normal people living normal lives grated against my nerves like sandpaper.

Everyone's line of sight skipped right over me—trained to unsee what didn't belong in their safe little world. Fear perfumed the air as shoppers scattered. At least fear made sense. Not like how Oakley's sleeping face haunted even this sterile hell, making my knuckles twitch with the need to carve my ownership into her bones.

Kitchen stuff lined the back wall. Rows of chrome and teflon. I needed something softer. Something worthy of her. She had pots, pans, and baking sheets. But those weren't–

Light purple caught my eye. Her favorite color.

I stepped closer, reaching for the item on the wall, picturing her hands, not trembling but safe in them.

The cashier flinched when I pulled out the bills. His eyes darted between the bloodstained money and the exit, calculations transparent on his face. I offered a slow blink at him, wondering how much minimum wage was worth dealing with me.

Memory cracked open like a skull–mother sprawled on the kitchen tile, her new dress spread around her pooled wine. Men laughing as they draped it over her broken body. "They love me, they love me, they love me," she kept whispering through bloodied teeth, clutching silk to her chest while red soaked through. Seven years old, hidden behind the counter. Learning that gifts meant someone was about to bleed.

Oakley wouldn't bleed. Not like Mother had.

I parked my bike behind her car, making sure she couldn't run. Using the key I borrowed, I opened the door, seeing Oakley on the couch, my cut still clutched tight between trembling fingers, her expression glazed and distant.

My mind skipped, seeing my cut in her soft grip felt wrong and perfect all at once. Something wild thrashed beneath my sternum, each beat resonating through my fingertips. I’d never allowed anyone to touch my cut before, and there she sat, wrapped in everything I'd done, everything I was. Something twisted behind my ribs, sharp and certain, like instinct turned inside out. She'd absorbed me and didn't even know it—the only person allowed this close to my horrors and permitted to survive.

She stiffened the instant my shadow reached her. The noise that escaped her throat sliced through my chest. Her scream—I'd always lived to rip that sound from throats, fed on it, thrived on it. But hers tore something open inside me, raw and wrong. She scrambled backward, the vest slipping from her lap, green eyes wide and panicked. That same panic I'd seen the night before that forced my fist through her mirror. Needed to break something, but never her. Others could shatter, but not my Oakley.

"I-I'm sorry. I-I didn't—" Apologies spilled from unsteady lips, landing bitter when they should've been sweet.

Kicking the door shut, I pressed the bag against my chest. "Why were you looking at it like that?"

She paused. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you put your cut on me?"

"You said weight helped you sleep." I shrugged, "My cut is heavy."

Her fingers dug into the leather. "Doesn't this mean a lot to you?"

I moved closer to her, watching goosebumps rise along her exposed skin. "Means nothing unless you're the one wearing it."

Her mouth formed a perfect 'o' shape, awkwardly looking down at her feet. She began to shift her wringing her hands. "T-Thank you. I-I slept better w-with it." The words spilled out in staccato bursts. "I-I um..." Those spring-green irises darted everywhere but at me, tracking invisible escape routes across the room. "Here."

She held it out. Her cheeks flushed crimson, mouth opening and closing before she finally whispered, "My room smells like you now."

"What do I smell like?" My voice dropped to a rumble. Each breath suspended as I waited. I couldn't understand why her answer mattered so fucking much.

"Smoke." Her voice softened, almost reverent. "It's… comforting. Bittersweet like when I bake."

"You like the way I smell?"

Her head dipped, cheeks burning brighter. She looked up at me, gaze flicking between my eyes and the scratchy synthetic that stretched over my face—like she was trying to see what I'd do next. Like she wasn't sure if she wanted to run… or stay. Instinct drove me forward before thought could intervene, knuckles reaching for fevered skin. I froze inches from contact, knowing how these hands turned beauty to ruin. How everything I brushed shattered into crimson-stained pieces.

Her eyebrows shot up, lips parting. "You stopped?"

"I don't want you to hurt yourself again." Again. Fucking again. Because I'd watched her try to claw her own throat open last night. Because I'd seen what anxiety did to her. Because for the first time in my life, I'd wanted to stop someone's pain instead of causing it.

Her gift sat heavy inside the plastic bag. I couldn't fucking think straight with her standing there, vibrating with leftover fear. Needing to give her something, had to make it stop. Had to show her...fuck. I didn't even know what I needed to show her.

I yanked them out and held them toward her. My hands had never shaken before, not even during a kill, but they trembled now as I offered them to her. Fuck.

She blinked, unable to process what she was seeing. Her fingers reached out slowly, hesitant, wary I'd snatch them back. When she took them from my hands, that brief brush of her fingers sent my pulse hammering against my ribs.

"You...got me oven mitts?"

Words failed me completely. Just stood there watching her face, waiting for her to understand what this meant. What she meant. Did she not like them? I wasn't going to hurt her, my gifts were different than Mother's. Lungs constricting, I struggled to draw breath while her gaze locked on mine.

Then it happened.

She fucking smiled.

The first goddamn smile anyone has ever given me.

I forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to be anything except hers.

That expression didn't just undo me—it rewired every kill, every scar, every rule that kept me alive. If she stopped looking at me like that, I'd go back to what I was before—hands that don’t know what to hold unless it’s her.

That smile—fragile, fucking beautiful—slammed the black hole where my heart was supposed to be. Something so gentle had no right to exist in my world. It tore through me, and I wanted to kill the feeling before it spread.

Pressing my fist to my chest like pressure could cage the thing clawing to get out. It didn't feel like a heart—it felt like something unhinged, something she'd put there just to see if I could survive it. I wanted to rip it out, hold it in my palm, shove it into her hands so she'd know what she did to me.

So she'd know she made whatever lived inside me beat.

The world's noise faded to nothing, and all I could do was stand here like a fucking idiot.

No one had ever looked at a monster and offered that smile like it meant something. Like I was worth giving it to. But she stood there holding those stupid fucking purple mitts like something precious. As though I couldn’t give without hurting. As though Mother had been wrong all those years ago, lying broken on that kitchen floor. Maybe sometimes gifts didn't have to accompany screaming. Maybe they could feel like this instead–my newfound heart strangling itself in my chest while Oakley looked at me as though I deserved the way her mouth curled up at me.

The mitts hit the couch with a soft thud. Then she was there, right in my fucking space. Vanilla wrapped itself around my throat, suffocating me in comfort I didn't deserve. It drowned out the copper tang that usually calmed me. I wanted to inhale deeper. Wanted to choke on it. Sweet and clean—nothing like the metallic taste that followed me everywhere.

Hellbound had always felt like home.

Until this.

Her curves pressed against my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. Soft where I was hard, warm where I was cold. The contrast of her body against mine felt like stepping into sunshine after a lifetime underground.

My back stiffened. My muscles coiled tighter, heart ricocheting as her hair brushed my jaw. Her pulse trembled against my sternum, strong and rapid. My right hand twitched for my bat. My left—used to grabbing throats—shook instead. This was wrong. Bodies coming at mine meant a fight. Always. My brain screamed danger while something else—something broken—short-circuited the response.

No one had ever trusted me enough to get this close. But there she was, face pressed against my core, oblivious to my heart hammering against my ribs.

Her fingers twisted in my shirt, acting as if I was her lifeline in drowning waters. "Thank you."

Words vibrated, reaching for something buried beneath layers of aftermath and void. Each syllable turned keys in locks I'd forgotten existed. Her heartbeat echoed with mine - strong, steady. Never before had I experienced hands touching without hurting.

My fingers hovered, uselessly. Having never hesitated like this, I remained clueless about how to proceed. My arms moved slowly, until they closed around her. She sighed and melted closer—validation that I might be doing something right.

This was fucking dangerous. Weakness, giving something power over you—that's how you die in my world. I've killed men for less vulnerability than what was cracking open inside me now. Every killer instinct I had was screaming to run, to get distance, to not let this gentleness dig in any deeper. But I couldn't move. Couldn't pull away. Whatever was breaking in me felt better than remaining whole ever had.

If she begged me to go, I'd carve my fucking name into her delicate body so she never forgot what she threw away.

She belonged to me—not just her body but whatever this fucking feeling was that burned my center when she looked at me. No one would take that away—not her, her father, or anyone else.

My arms tightened around her, too hard, crushing her against my body. A soft gasp escaped her lips—should've made me loosen my grip, should've made me more gentle. Instead, it shot straight to my bloodstream like the purest form of addiction. Every second of holding her rewired something in my brain.

She looked up. Those green irises locked onto mine. Innocent. Pure. Something different flickered in her gaze—not terror, not wariness. Her lips parted, tongue darting out to wet the bottom one, leaving a glistening trail I couldn't look away from.

My stare locked onto her mouth. I was tempted to know what sound she'd make if I took her lips. Would she whimper? Fight? Would she give in and let me consume every innocent inch of her until there was nothing left that wasn't marked by me?

Her front door opened. "Oakley, we brought?—"

One second. That's all it took for everything to turn to shit.

The door hit the wall with a crack that echoed like gunfire—the sound of my perfect moment shattering. She went stiff in my arms, her whole body trembling against mine. The color draining from her face. Grocery bags crashed against hardwood as Claudia made a sound like she'd seen a ghost. Not a scream—like she'd finally caught the monster under her daughter's bed.

But all I could focus on was the soft tremor in her throat going wild. The way her fingers dug into my shirt, not asking for help—just trying to stay upright.

Law's line of sight locked on my grip around Oakley's waist. Something deadly crawled into his expression. Something worse than any look I'd seen on him in court, in combat, in all our years in this club together. The lawyer, the brother, the father—all three versions of him converged into something that might have made a lesser man back down.

His voice came low. "Get your fuckin' hands off my daughter before I break them."