Page 14

T he heavy oak doors exploded inward. Stale beer and cigarette smoke hit me like a wall, thick in my lungs. Tyrant and Knight's laughter died at my entrance, their bodies stiffening as my steel-toed boots carried me across worn floorboards. Each step echoed the chaos ripping through my skull.

"Somebody stab me." I gritted the words out as I claimed a stool, laying my bat across the scarred bar top. Under yellowed lights, each dent gleamed like battle scars—a testament to violence that flowed through me like blood.

"Good morning to you, too." Tyrant's voice dripped sarcasm as he nursed his beer. "Lovely day to get shanked, is it?"

Their tattoos caught my attention—dark ink crawling across skin like parasites. My jaw locked, muscles coiling tight.

Needles.

The room twisted. A memory bled in. That laugh oozed from the dark—thick, monstrous, clinging. The present dissolved under its weight. My hands went numb; my beloved bat miles away. Phantom pressure forcing my jaw wider, thick fingers tasting of metal and ash. Weight crushing down, concrete burning against my back, movement impossible. The zipper's metallic song, laughter bouncing off basement walls, bruises blooming like poison flowers. Then, screaming, my body jerked violently, the bat's familiar outline swimming back into focus.

My eyes swept the room, cataloging exits, threats, anchoring myself in the present. They were dead. I made damn sure of it.

"What are you doing here?" Tyrant's words came slowly.

"Don't you have a girl to stalk?" Knight's taunt cut through the fog, casual and unafraid, reality snapping back at the implied mention of her.

"Don't talk about her." Ice in my voice. Something territorial uncoiled in my chest at the mere hint of her passing through their lips. The same impulse that surged when I caught both of them watching her in that dance studio weeks ago.

"Somebody's dramatic this morning," Tyrant drawled, his lips quirking into that shit-eating grin that had gotten him knocked out in three different states. He tipped his beer back, throat I’d love to snap, working as he swallowed. "The hell you want stabbed for? Not like you'd feel it anyway. Just wasting good blood."

My fingers traced the fresh burns on my palm. She'd been so worried about them, those blistered patches from the baking tray. So concerned when I told her about CIPA, about not feeling pain. No one else had ever worried about my wounds before.

Silence stretched as I tried to make sense of what was happening to me. I didn't know how to explain how the crushing weight in my chest eased when she was around. Or how I actually slept without the usual nightmares. The thought terrified me—this weakness, this dependence on her.

"I felt something." The confession tasted strange on my tongue.

That got their attention. "Since when do you feel anything?"

I stared at the scarred bar top. Since her.

The thought hammered in my head. I couldn't explain how she'd broken through walls I'd built. How she'd gotten under my skin when nothing else could. How I draped my cut over her while she slept, letting its weight calm her anxiety. Watching her curl beneath my leather, finding peace in something that belonged to me alone.

Law had been in the club since I arrived eleven years ago. Just him and Prez at the time. No one knew he had family, but in this life, nothing stayed hidden. Law was a lawyer; thought he'd be smart enough to know I would've crossed paths with his daughter eventually. He couldn't keep her a secret from me forever.

I would've found her no matter where she was. The thought settled in my chest with the certainty of a death sentence—not for me, but for anyone trying to keep her from me.

Threaten me all you want, asshole. She was already mine. Try taking her, and I would take your fucking throat.

"Oh yeah?" Knight hopped on the bar, full bottle of tequila. "Fuck what I wouldn't do to feel nothing."

Dude had no idea what it was like. Not feeling shit would solve every fucking problem I'd got—especially with that woman who kept slicing me open.

I'd heard that throughout my life—jealousy of not having a grasp on what normal humans should know.

"You here for a reason?" Tyrant grinned from my side. He eyed the blood on my bat from my recent trip to Hellbound. In the mornings, I enjoyed some exercise beating corpses and barely alive toys.

Tyrant exchanged a look with Knight before leaning closer, lowering his voice. "You got that look again. The one you get when you're thinking about her." His lips quirk up. "Listen here, brother. We'll give you some tips about women."

What could they tell me about women when they couldn't get one? "You don't have one."

"Excuse you," Knight huffed. "I have a woman. I'm just doin' the long game with her. You gotta do that for the ones that are worth it."

Tyrant's lips flattened. "Dude, she gave you a scar."

Knight's fingers traced a pale scar on his throat, almost reverently. Like how I wanted to trace freckles scattered across Oakley's skin. The same way I traced her curves last night, when she shivered beneath my touch. "Yeah, she could've gone for the jugular, but she didn't."

"You're a delusional simp," Tyrant scoffed.

"I prefer the term hopeful romantic." Knight pressed a hand to his heart, puffing out his chest. He knocked back a shot, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What about you? Been what—a year since you got your dick wet?"

Tyrant's knuckles tightened around his glass. "Gettin' off ain't the problem."

Knight leaned in, voice dropping so only Tyrant could hear, the way he always did when no one else needed to hear part of their conversation. "You want what Grim and Sarge found. Someone to come home to."

"Fuck off," Tyrant muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He drained the beer in one swallow, shoulders tense. "Watching those bastards find someone who stays. Who knows what we are and doesn't run?" His fingers tapped against empty glass, the sound echoing like gunshots in the quiet bar. "Expected to die with my brothers, not... this."

I watched them through the dim bar light. Choice was an illusion humans clung to—thinking they could outrun death or hide their secrets.

My fingers tightened around the bloodied companion, dried flakes scattering beneath my clutch. Everywhere I went, I left pieces of me behind with her. Notes stuck to her mirror. My leather cut draped over her while she slept. My presence in every shadow she passed. I was in her life like a bullet lodged too close to the heart—remove me, and everything bled out.

They talked about love like it was something they understood. I knew better. Love was just the polite word for obsession. And I was anything but fucking polite. My Oakley deluded herself with the illusion of choice, but the things I'd do to keep her... language hadn't invented words dark enough to describe them.

They talked about finding someone who stayed. Oakley never had that choice.

They could drink and talk shit all they wanted. They knew what I was, but they didn't know what she did to me. What I'd do for her. She'd learn soon enough. She saw a glimpse when I smashed that mirror for her. When I brought her those purple oven mitts that made her smile for the first time.

The way she smiled at those stupid mitts—nervous, genuine, unguarded—was the moment I knew.

I'd etched myself under her skin in ways no one else could understand. One glance from another man, and I'd make his corpse an art form. I'd bathe in their blood without hesitation. I'd tear this whole fucking world apart before I'd let anyone take her from me. Everyone else would fucking beg for death long before I was done with them. What was imprinted on her bones now couldn't be dug out—not until her last breath. If she died, I’d go with her. No one got to hold her but me—not even death.

"You want our help or not?" Tyrant's voice cut through my thoughts.

"No." Simple. True. What could they teach me about Oakley that I didn't already know?

"You can always do what Sarge did with Joslyn." His grin turned sharp, calculating. "Bend her over counter and fuck her like a whore. Sweet girls are always the kinkiest."

One blink, and my weapon was at his throat. Something rose in my chest, threatening to choke me. "Don't talk about her like that. Oakley deserves to be respected."

Those romance novels displayed proudly on her living room shelf—I'd memorized every word. Not because I understood love like her fictional heroes. Because they were pieces of her. Fragments of her I owned.

My grip tightened until my knuckles cracked. Tyrant raised his hands, palms out. "I'm telling you, man, girls are into it." He looked at Knight, seeking backup. "Respect them in public, disrespect them in the bedroom."

My bat lowered slightly. "And since Law's been avoiding the clubhouse lately, perfect time to make your move." Tyrant's eyebrows danced, light reflecting off his piercing and into my eyes. "Have some fun before daddy shows up again and tries to kill ya."

Fucking ironic. Law had been avoiding the clubhouse since walking in on me with Oakley in my arms. He threatened to kill me if I touched her again, as if his words meant anything.

Law thought distance would change anything? I saw the hatred in his eyes when he found me with Oakley. Pure fucking rage. I knew that feeling well. The difference was I'd act on it. I wouldn't just make threats. His daughter chose me during her panic. She dug her nails into my skin instead of reaching for him.

Tyrant's laugh scraped against my nerves. "Who we kiddin'? This is V we’re talkin' about. He doesn't know shit about this shit."

I stood, the motion fluid and as silent as death. My bat swung in a lazy arc by my side. Both men's eyes tracked the movement, laughter following me as I left.

Let them laugh. They didn't understand. Their love was soft. Gentle. Mine was razor sharp, a need so deep it bled. Her books told me what she wanted. Every fantasy. Every dream. I learned them all. Not to love her—I couldn't. But to own her completely so she'd never want to escape.

"V," Tyrant's voice stopped me. "Just don't hurt her, yeah?"

I walked out without answering. The morning sun burned my eyes. Burned like the baking pan I'd picked up with bare hands while she watched, horrified by my inability to feel physical pain. The memory made my fingers flex beneath my gloves.

Hurting others was all I knew. What I was made for.

I didn't know if I could ever love Oakley. But obsession was deeper than love. Love made a man fall to his knees.

Obsession made a man willing to burn the world down if you just told him to do so.

U sing my key for Oakley's apartment, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The soft click of the lock echoed through the space, marking my invasion into her sanctuary without permission. Lavender soap mixed with something uniquely Oakley permeated the atmosphere, making my pupils dilate, every instinct howling beneath my skin.

My gaze cut through the emptiness of the living room. Empty couch, abandoned mug, novel face-down on the coffee table. The TV hummed in the background.

I moved toward her door, pushing it open. Then, I heard it.

Ragged, desperate sounds punctuated by a mechanical buzz. The rhythm of it—on, off, low whine to desperate hum. My knuckles clutched the doorframe, my lungs matching her pace. My tongue dragged over the roof of my mouth, parched and desperate, as if I could taste her from across the room.

Humid air wrapped around me, heavy with sweat and desire. My lungs seized at the vision sprawled across purple sheets—legs spread wide, fingers working desperate circles against the wet heat between her thighs, her face transformed by pleasure. Flushed, wet, aching—a prayer I didn't know how to answer.

I braced against the wall to keep upright. My jeans strained painfully tight against me. Her oversized shirt had ridden up, exposing soft curves that drew a primal growl from deep in my chest.

Crimson stained her cheeks, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted in silent pleas. The perfect arch of her spine burned into my memory—each twitch, each sound cataloged and claimed.

A bead of sweat traced her collarbone, demanding to be licked away. Time suspended as she chased her release, unaware of my presence, the toy buzzing against her while her free hand teased her chest through the thin cotton of her shirt.

A brutal ache coiled low in my body, all blood and hunger as I watched her pleasure herself. My hand moved to press against myself, doing nothing to ease the savagery tearing through me. Each sound she made—breathy, desperate—hammered against my restraint. This wasn't like killing. This was worse.

I stepped forward, drawn by those sounds like hooks embedded in my spine.

The floorboard creaked beneath my weight, and her gaze snapped open, locking with mine. Time suspended—her fingers still stroking, hips still rising. Then awareness struck like lightning. Her mouth formed a perfect O, motion halting mid-stroke.

The toy's relentless buzz filled the sudden silence. My vision tunneled with jealousy. Why should plastic bring her cunt pleasure when I was right here?

Shattered mirror glass reflected our bodies in fractured pieces—the same mirror I'd pulverized with my fist when her panic attack awakened something monstrous inside me. Now our distorted reflections told a different story. Broken, just like she would be when I was done with her.

"V-V?" Her body jerked backward across the sheets bearing a dark stain. Trembling fingers clawed at tangled bedding while the toy skittered across the mattress, its mechanical hum mocking her ragged breathing.

I froze in place, muscles locked against the urge to lunge forward and rip those pathetic sheets away. This control mirrored how I stood when I found her mid-panic attack—when the slightest movement might have fractured her. Her scent hung thick in the air—something primitive and forbidden. My lungs constricted as nails bit into scarred palms beneath leather gloves, pressure barely registering against the violent hunger clawing through me.

She grabbed for the sheet with shaking fingers, yanking it across herself. The thin fabric did nothing to conceal her racing pulse or how her chest heaved beneath the cotton, desire fighting terror.

My teeth caught the edge of my glove, pulling it off with predatory patience. Never breaking eye contact. The black leather dangled from my mouth before I spit it to the floor. I wanted nothing between us when I claimed her.

A broken sound escaped her throat—not quite a whimper, not quite a plea—making my pulse quicken with anticipation. The floorboard groaned as I advanced, the sound amplified in the weighted silence. Her eyes tracked every movement, pupils dilated until only a sliver of jade remained, her bottom lip caught between teeth begging to be bitten.

Another step closer. Her knees locked together beneath the sheet, a reflexive attempt at protection. The movement pulled a shaky exhale from her parted lips as she shrank against the headboard.

The mattress dipped under my weight, forcing her to slide toward me. Time stretched like heated honey, thick and dangerous. I counted each rapid pulse at the base of her throat, watched her chest rise and fall beneath thin cotton.

"P-please," she whispered, voice barely formed, hoarse with uncertainty.

Please what? Please stop? Please continue? Her muscles couldn't decide—disgust fighting the involuntary arch of her spine. A flush spread from her chest to her throat as her hips lifted once—muscle memory, not choice. She bit her lip while I stared her down. Not holding back a scream—but trapping a moan.

The sheet slipped from her nerveless fingers when I reached for it. I tore it away in one violent motion, the fabric ripping with a sound that echoed her gasp. Every inch of her was exposed to my hungry gaze—the soft curve where thigh met hip and the goosebumps rising on her flesh.

The image staggered me. Something dark and unfamiliar uncurled in my chest—a hunger I'd never confronted before. My hands shook. Not from doubt. From the need to carve this moment into her warmth, to brand it into mine. I dropped my bat to the floor, surging forward. My knee hit the mattress hard.

The dull thud of my knees hitting the mattress punctuated the moment my fingers made contact with her skin. The sensation of her warmth against mine sent electricity arcing through my body, a current so powerful it nearly brought me to my knees. Every cell in my body screamed to possess her completely.

She stared up at me, filled with conflicted need yet unable to look away. Her chestnut hair spilled across the purple sheets. She looks at me like I was made of nightmares. Pupils devoured jade, a warped mirror of my mask. Those perfect pink lips quivering, unspoken dread curling on her exhale. The tremble of her ribs beneath cotton, her heartbeat hammering beneath flesh that would bruise so easily under my hands. If I ever understood beauty, it would be the sound terror made when it had nowhere else to run.

"Open," I commanded, voice barely recognizable—a guttural sound ripped from somewhere feral inside, more animal than human. The single word hung between us, thick with a sinister vow, unspoken continuation clear: or I would force them open.

Her legs clenched, hesitating before parting. I couldn't speak, couldn't form words around the hunger clawing up my throat. Her knees remained drawn tight, cheeks darkened to crimson, lungs working with each panicked inhale. The sight of her vulnerable like this made something snap inside my chest. No other eyes would look upon her like this and continue breathing.

"Open wider." My hand was between her knees, forcing them apart with calculated pressure—the gentleness of my touch a stark contrast to the violence raging inside. I wanted to see her fully exposed to me.

I reached across her body, heat searing my skin as I grabbed the toy still buzzing against the sheets. I brought it to my nose, inhaling her essence before hurling it to the floor. Plastic shattered beneath my boot—weak, replaceable. Her startled gasp was sweeter than any confession I'd tortured from a man.

Her lungs caught as I braced my arms on either side of her shoulders, caging her beneath me. I moved with deliberate slowness, savoring her dread, letting her feel my intention with each calculated shift of my body. The mattress dipped and groaned as I swung my other leg over her, straddling her hips, my jeans rough against her exposed flesh. She shivered under me, every inhale catching as I settled my full weight onto her, pinning her completely.

Dread dilated her pupils until only a shard of jade remained around the blackness. Those eyes haunted me from the first moment—fascination and panic no one else ever dared reveal.

Her body trembled beneath mine as I aligned my face with hers, her lips hovered inches from mine.

The heat of her beneath me sent shockwaves through me—a sensation that nearly undid me. I'd dreamed of this moment, imagined it countless times, watching her from the shadows, but fantasy was nothing. My entire body locked with the effort to maintain control. This wasn't torture. It was something worse—uncharted territory and I was drowning.

"No toys," I growled, the words vibrating through both our bodies. "No substitutes. Only my hands. My mouth. My hunger. Nothing else will ever invade you again."

I pulled back, drinking in the sight of her laid out beneath me. Her shirt had ridden higher, exposing the soft curve of her stomach. Silvery stretch marks caught the moonlight streaming through her curtains, delicate threads mapping her flesh like lightning captured in bone. The image burned into my brain like a brand, something I’d revisit every time I closed my eyes.

I hesitated. Not from doubt. From the need to show her what no one else had seen—what the monster wore beneath its shell.

I hooked my fingers into the edge of my black surgical mask, lifting it just enough to free my mouth. I leaned in, claiming her completely. She tasted like shame and surrender. Like something sacred, desecrated. I savored her, memorizing every sensation.

Her hips bucked against my face, even as her body tightened. A sound escaped her—half gasp, half moan—as her nerves fired despite her mind's resistance.

"V," she gasped, shame blazing across her cheeks. "I-I wasn't thinking— it was just a fantasy–"

The words sliced through me, instant ice. Confusion filled her eyes as she quickly looked away. Rage burned my blood. My fingers dug into her flesh, leaving immediate marks of my fury. Her chin lifted—a flash of defiance beneath the embarrassment. “Who?"

The thought of her imagining someone else ignited something murderous. I leaned closer, voice scorching against her ear, hand tightening around her throat. "I'll find them. Make them suffer. Make them watch while I take you until you forget they existed." My voice dropped to something barely recognizable. "Only me in here?—"

One finger tapped her temple before dragging down between her chest. I circled sensitive skin through thin fabric, pinching until she gasped—pain and pleasure blurring. My touch continued lower, pressing against that soft place only I was allowed to touch as her throat worked beneath my palm. "Only me here."

My blood turned to ice, then back to fire—hotter, more dangerous. I pulled back, eyes deadly cold.

"Next time you think of someone else, picture this moment instead. Picture what I did to you—and what I haven't yet." Her lips refused to answer. But her body couldn't lie—not with the way she shuddered when I touched her again, not with how her pupils swallowed her irises when I leaned closer, my body pressing against her hip, showing exactly what she did to me.

"I-It's embarrassing," she stuttered, face deepening to crimson, humiliation mixing with fear in a cocktail that tightened my chest. Her hips shifted beneath me—a small, helpless motion she couldn't control.

"Embarrassing?" I repeated, watching her squirm under my gaze, my fingers tracing lazy patterns across her skin. Her discomfort only heightened my awareness—how she tried to disappear even as her muscles betrayed her with each involuntary shiver.

"W-Well," she stammered, "it's like underneath your skin is burning with shame, and all you want to do is crawl in a ball and hope no one ever looks at you again."

"Like fire under the skin," I echoed, understanding perfectly. My own skin burned whenever I was near her—a different kind of fire, just as consuming. Every inch of me hungered to invade every inch of her, to claim her so thoroughly she'd never wash me from her skin.

"I feel it right now," she whispered, probably hoping I wouldn't catch it. But I heard everything about her—every breath, every heartbeat.

I shifted back onto my heels, taking in the full sight of her spread before me—her flushed skin, her heaving chest. Her scent filled the air, making all my senses heighten with awareness.

"You will teach me, won't you, Oakley?" I asked, the question heavy with dark intent as I palmed myself through my jeans, letting her see exactly what she did to me, what was waiting for her. My other hand circled her ankle, squeezing just hard enough to remind her she couldn't escape if I decided to take what was mine.

Her eyes met mine, alarm coiling in their depths like a cornered animal. Her chest rose frantically beneath the thin cotton, each inhale shallow and quick. The sight made hunger bloom inside me like blood diffusing through water.

"I–I–" Words failed her as her gaze locked on my hands.

I traced a single finger up the inside of her thigh, then over the curve of her stomach. My touch left a trail on her flesh—marking her with my possession. When I reached her throat, I wrapped my hand around it—not squeezing, just letting her feel the weight of my palm against the frantic flutter beneath the warmth, a reminder of how easily I could take her life, and how I chose instead to take her.

"If not. I'll teach you," I whispered into the space between us, pressing hard down against the ache I knew was between her thighs. "And my lessons always leave marks."

A gasp lodged in her throat as I ground myself against her, the rough denim catching against her exposed flesh. One squeeze of her chest through thin cotton and she tensed—a sound caught between resistance and need. "Are you afraid?"

Her ribs stuttered beneath mine as I ground against her again, her spine arching off the mattress. One hand clawed at the sheets while the other gripped my arm, nails digging into flesh—not pushing away but anchoring herself against the tide she couldn't escape.

"V..." My name escaped her again—not in protest but surrender, a breathless plea she'd hate herself for later. For one heartbeat, she yielded completely, legs tightening around mine, pulling me closer. Submission flashed across her face like lightning before reality reclaimed her.

This moment of surrender hit me like a bullet. White hot tension flooded every nerve, stealing oxygen and control. Something dangerous coiled at the base of my spine as my vision narrowed to just her. I'd never felt this—untethered, primal, on the edge of something I couldn't name.

Shock ripped through me. I pulled back suddenly, staggering. Fingers slid beneath my mask to my mouth, testing her lingering taste against my tongue. The sensation pulled a low growl from my chest.

Her taste clung to my tongue, wrecking what little control I had left. I'd killed men with these hands, tortured information from the most resistant targets, but nothing had ever pushed me this far—to the edge of control, to this unfamiliar pleasure threatening to consume me. I needed to leave now before I took her completely.

I turned toward the door, adjusting myself in my jeans. The mattress creaked as her weight shifted, the depression left by my body slowly filling like a phantom reminder. Her fingers hovered hesitantly between her legs—quaking, needing, mine.

"Touch that pussy and I'll remind you what ownership means," I warned without turning, delivering a sharp slap to her cunt. Oxygen caught behind her teeth as she froze. "You exist for me. Try it, and I'll make you beg for weeks—nothing but your voice left. Only I control when you come."

Her ragged breaths followed me to the door, each exhale carrying a whimper that fed something dark inside me. I paused at the threshold, turning to memorize the sight of her—legs still unsteady, face locked in that perfect mix of confusion and dread. Mine.

Mine.

“Tomorrow,” I said, voice thick with control, “you’ll beg for mercy I’ll never fucking give.”

I knew exactly what I left behind—Oakley, frozen on the bed, still vibrating with the chaos I created. My fingerprints would fade. But the scars under her flesh—the ones only I could leave—would outlast us both.

She would press her thighs together, desperate to calm the storm I unleashed, but the pressure would only intensify it. My threat—how I'd destroy anyone she fantasized about—would echo in her mind, making her rigid in darkness. Evidence of her treacherous response staining the purple sheets beneath her.

Tomorrow loomed ahead for her like a cliff’s edge she was already falling from. Shattered toy on the floor—a warning of what happened when something dared replace me.

The moment she smiled at me with those purple oven mitts—nervous, genuine, unguarded—I knew. That first real smile. The way she melted against me during her panic attack, choosing the monster even as her parents tried dragging her away. No warnings would stop what was inevitable.

I'd written myself into her like a scar—with scent, with weight, with constant invasion of her space. Now my touch would be the only relief she'd crave. Next came her surrender, acknowledging what she was: bound to me by forces stronger than choice.

My boots echoed across wooden floors as I left, each step measured and certain. Let her parents rage. Let the club collapse over Darrell's betrayal. None of it mattered. Only Oakley mattered. Only possessing every breath, every smile, every frightened gasp.

She'd lie in that bed tonight, flinching at every creak in the floorboards. Not because she was scared. Because she was hoping it was me.

She would be mine forever—because the deepest chains weren't forged from metal, but from the scars I'd leave on her soul.