Page 20

T he 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.

That fucking smile —I'd buried men for less than what it did to me. It carved itself deeper than rage ever had. Left scars no kill could erase.

I found myself watching the clock during interrogations, calculating how soon I could wash off and head to wherever she was. Her vanilla scent haunted me more than the stench of burning flesh ever had. The pretty baker with her delicate touch hadn't weakened me—she'd weaponized my violence, sharpened it to a lethal point. Death no longer dominated my thoughts. She did.

My strikes were harder these days, each blow more vicious, her face flashing through my mind when crimson sprayed. Every potential threat to her had to be eliminated.

The job took six hours. A man who deserved every second. I'd broken him piece by piece—first his joints with my bat, then his will with each impact, finally whatever made him human—until all that remained was a crumpled form making sounds no mother would recognize. I'd studied his eyes, memorizing each shift as hope drained away, replaced by recognition, then terror, then nothing. I made him look into my eyes until he remembered me. The instant recognition flashed in his eyes right before my bat crushed his skull.

Each dull thud of my bat against flesh was a prayer in her name. A devotion she'd never see. Every man I put in the ground was one less that could ever take her from me. Some nights, I'd let the oven do the talking—the slow rise of heat bringing confessions no amount of strikes could extract.

A red light brought me to a halt. I glanced at the power pole beside me. An off-white missing persons sign stared back:

Missing: Carder Lincht Reward: Ten thousand dollars.

I revved my engine as I drove past.

The small velvet pouch in my jean pocket weighed heavier than its contents. Inside was a delicate silver necklace, a pendant of clear resin with flecks of gray ash suspended inside—Carder's remains.

Before heading to the flower shop, I made a detour to a quaint suburban neighborhood. The house was exactly as expected—pale blue with white trim, a perfectly maintained garden. A woman in her seventies opened the door after my second knock, her eyes hopeful. The resemblance to her son was unmistakable.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was soft, tired. Dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping.

I studied her face—the same gentle eyes, the curve of her jaw. Hard to believe someone who looked so soft could have given birth to a bastard like Carder. But monsters wear human skin like costumes, walking among the innocent undetected. I'd seen the darkness behind enough smiling faces to know the worst predators look just like everyone else.

She clutched the door frame. "Do you... have information about my son?"

I watched her face contort with what must be grief. These emotions were like foreign films without subtitles—I recognized the expressions but couldn't comprehend their meaning. People claimed to "feel" things so deeply. I studied them like specimens, observing reactions I'd never experience.

Men like her son made sure of that.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch.

She accepted it with a visible tremble, cautiously opening the drawstring. The pendant slid out into her palm, gray flecks suspended in resin catching the morning light.

"Thank you, but... I don't understand. Where did you find this?"

For a second, hope flickered across her face. Then confusion. Her fingers closed around the pendant, clutching it against her heart. She didn't know what she held—her son's remains converted to jewelry—but something inside her recognized the weight of finality it carried. Her body knew what her mind refused to accept.

I turned and walked away without a word. Let her hang it around her neck, keep it close to her heart, unknowingly carrying the ashes of her precious boy.

He wouldn't be coming home. He was number six. My list dwindled. Names that burned in my mind since childhood, carved into my brain like they'd been etched with acid, festering beneath the surface where no one could see them bleed.

My good deed for the day was done. I reunited a mother with her son.

The kill usually left me empty, hollow—satisfaction fleeting at best. Eleven years of hunting had taught me that much. But for the last nine months, the routine felt different. I had somewhere to be after. Someone to see.

Oakley.

She wanted to understand me. Teach me emotions since I didn't understand them. Her little sessions anchored her to my side more than she realized. Each time she tried to reach inside me, she got tangled deeper in my web.

I watched her though. Studied how her face changed. How she reacted to things. Memorized every detail. Every gesture. Every flicker behind those eyes. Not because I wanted to learn about feelings. Because I needed to know what kept her coming back. What made her stay when everyone else would run. How to keep her mine.

The engine rumbled beneath me as I headed toward Diamond Ridge, toward Oakley's mom's flower shop, where I'd wait for her to arrive. My mind was clear, focused on a new target—not for destruction, but something I couldn't name.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. The way vanilla lingered on her skin like a signature. How her breathing steadied when she fell asleep on my chest that one night. The way her hands trembled slightly whenever I moved too fast. She'd seen what I was capable of—glimpsed the monster beneath the mask—but hadn't run. She fractured the equation. A variable I couldn't solve. And I didn't want to.

The bell above the door rang. Sweet perfume of flowers immediately enveloped me as Joslyn looked up from the counter.

"V?" Fear flickered across her features despite her attempt to hide it, eyes darting to the analog clock on the wall. "Oakley isn't due here for another hour."

"I know." I pictured exactly where she was—at her weekly tea visit with her client, probably glancing at the clock every few minutes, counting down until she could leave.

"Christ, V, do you ever not look like you just crawled out of a slaughterhouse?" Her laugh was brittle, forced. Her eyes never left the stains on my bat.

My boots creaked against the wooden floor as I moved through the shop, scanning every corner. I stopped at the lilies, their pure white petals stark against my stained fingers. The sweet, heady scent filled my nostrils as I reached out to touch one delicate petal. "Oakley's favorite flowers are lilies." Her face would light up when she saw them, a softness appearing in her eyes that made something in my chest constrict.

"Oh! You brought your... bat with you today," Joslyn chirped, eyeing the weapon. I always brought it with me. A few rust-colored flecks clung near the handle, Carder's final contribution to this world.

"You don't come see Oakley." Something foreign seized in my chest as I said it. Unfamiliar. Rage-adjacent. I glared at her until she looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

Something flashed across her face, but Oakley hadn’t taught me that emotion yet. Her shoulders dropped as she traced a petal with her finger, avoiding my stare. Even sunshine could cast shadows.

"After the fire, I don't… I don't feel safe unless Sarge is around. Not even here. Especially not here."

The fire that almost killed her and Sarge. When we found them—him on top of her, clutching so tight we could barely pry them apart—black smoke pouring from their lungs. Soaked in vital fluids. Flesh melting. I was certain they were dead. Her scars remained, pink and raw, angry rivers mapping her skin. She could've escaped, saved herself. But she wouldn't leave Sarge. Would rather burn alive than be without him.

It was a shame they lived. I already had plans for their bones.

Joslyn finally shut up, accepting that I wasn't going to engage. Only two people were worth my words: Oakley and Prez.

Husk's words from yesterday echoed in my mind. What he'd mouthed when he thought no one was looking: "You're scaring her. " Scaring people was my job. I was good at it. Fear was a tool I wielded with precision—the way others used guns or knives. I'd made grown men piss themselves with just a look. Made them beg, made them break. I'd never given a fuck about the terror I caused. But the thought of Oakley being afraid of me gouged something raw inside me.

Was she scared of me? I replayed our interactions, analyzing her expressions, her body language. The way her eyes widened when I moved too suddenly. How her breath hitched when I stood too close. Signs I'd cataloged but dismissed. But now, with Husk's words burrowing under my skin, I couldn't ignore them.

If she feared me, I'd take it apart piece by piece. Show her. Teach her. She could fear the world, but she would never fear me. I'd kill anyone who made her afraid, including the parts of myself that triggered it. The thought of her fear—of me—was worse than anything I'd ever felt. I'd killed men for looking at her wrong, but couldn't bear the idea that I might be the one causing her distress. It made no fucking sense. I was exactly what I was supposed to be—a weapon, a monster, something to be feared. But she was the exception. The only one who would ever see something different.

An engine approached—the distinctive growl of Sarge's bike, different from any other in the club. Joslyn's face lit up as he strode in, oversized black hood covering his face, heavy boots announcing each step.

No one knew why I hunted specific targets. They assumed I was just wired wrong—the club's enforcer, unleashed when needed. If they knew there were specific names on my list, faces connected to my past...it didn't matter. Some things stay buried until you dug them up with vengeance.

His gaze locked on Joslyn before settling on me. "The fuck are you doing here?"

I turned from the lilies, silent.

He stepped between Joslyn and me, his body a wall of muscle. "I don't want you alone with Joslyn."

Sarge was the only one in the club taller than me, and only by an inch. We were matched in muscle and attitude. His fist clenched; I didn't blink. If we fought, he might actually challenge me—the thought sent a rare surge of interest through my dead nerves.

"You better fuckin' watch who you're talkin' to like that."

He invaded my space, close enough that I could see the tiny scar bisecting his left eyebrow. I remained motionless, picturing the precise angle needed to shatter his kneecap with one swing.

"It's okay," Joslyn called, her heavily scarred right arm reaching out to touch his, pink tissue glistening under the shop lights. Her eyes softened with unmistakable devotion as she looked at him. "It's just the way he is."

Sarge growled before retreating. "Unfortunately."

The front door chimed. Oakley entered, arms laden with bags—the scent of vanilla cutting through the floral air. I calculated exactly how many steps to reach her if needed.

"I hope today is not busy?—"

Joslyn cut her off, "Not with these two here."

Oakley's expression faltered. "Where's Nyla?"

"Nyla called off. She's sick," Joslyn replied.

"She's been sick a lot lately."

"I was going to go see her after work. Did you want to come?"

I spoke before she could answer. "She has plans." Her eyes widened slightly. "Bakery." My tone left no room for argument.

"Bakery? What is he talking about?" Joslyn demanded.

Oakley squirmed, fidgeting with the need to rub her arms, a nervous habit impossible with her hands full. "Oh, ah—" she started, voice catching. "I-I was g-going to tell you all soon."

I crossed the room in three long strides, taking her bags and drinks. We brushed briefly, the contact sending electricity through my veins. She looked up with a small smile, relief evident in her eyes. My heart rate spiked—a reaction no one else triggered.

"Thank you." The soft gratitude in her voice made my grip tighten on her belongings.

Joslyn snapped her fingers. "Focus." I pictured the satisfying resistance her teeth would offer against my bat. "What bakery?"

"V-V bought me a b-bakery." Oakley's stutter returned under pressure, a soft pink flush creeping up her neck, her pulse visible beneath her skin.

The bell above the door chimed, interrupting us. A man in a tailored suit entered, his eyes immediately landing on Oakley. Something about the way his gaze lingered on her made every muscle in my body coil tight.

"Good morning," he said, voice too smooth, too practiced. His eyes tracked down Oakley's body before meeting her face again. "I need to order flowers for my mother's birthday."

I moved between them before he could take another step, my bat tapping rhythmically against my leg. The man's eyes widened as he noticed me for the first time, taking in the blood on my clothes, the mask covering my face, the weapon in my hand.

"I..." he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I can come back another time."

"No, it's fine," Oakley said, stepping partially around me. "I can help you."

I remained rooted in place, watching as she moved to the counter. The man kept glancing at me, nervousness evident in the sweat beading at his temples. But it didn't stop him from leaning too close to Oakley as she showed him the catalog, leaning close enough to touch her as he pointed at different arrangements.

Each touch added his name to my mental list. Limp didn't know it yet, but he'd just become number eight—after I finished with number seven tonight. I memorized his face, the way he held himself, categorizing his weaknesses. His limp was slight, but enough. I knew where I'd start—where pain would scream the loudest. He'd touched what was mine. I'd make sure the memory of her burned in his bones before I broke them.

The hunger inside me grew as I watched him lean too close to Oakley again. I stepped forward, the wooden floorboards creaking under my weight. The man straightened immediately, putting distance between himself and Oakley.

"I'll take that one," he said hurriedly, pointing randomly at the catalog.

Oakley glanced back at me, a small frown creasing her forehead. "Are you sure? That's quite expensive."

"It's fine. Perfect. When can I pick it up?"

"T-tomorrow afternoon," Oakley replied, writing down his order.

The man paid quickly, nearly dropping his wallet in his haste. As he turned to leave, I shifted slightly, blocking his path momentarily. Our eyes met. His widened with fear. Good. He should be afraid. He'd touched what was mine.

When he was gone, Oakley turned to me with a questioning look. I said nothing, but moved closer to her, my body nearly touching hers, reclaiming the space the stranger had violated.

"He was just ordering flowers," she said quietly, but didn't step away from me.

I didn't respond. She was wrong. He'd been looking at her like she was something to consume. Something to take. And for that, he'd die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But his time was now limited. I'd added him to my list, which only got shorter when people stopped breathing.

Joslyn gestured impatiently. "Focus. What bakery?"

Sarge spoke then. "That's why you wanted that building?"

Joslyn turned to him, "You knew?"

"He talked about it in Church. Didn't know what he wanted it for."

"It's pretty run down, it needs to be fixed up." Her eyes warmed, taking on a dreamy quality that transformed her face. She traced a small circle on her wrist—the tell of her excitement. "But I love it." The genuine happiness in her voice made me want to hunt down anyone who ever made her cry.

Sweet Summer's. A bakery named after the child we would have together one day. I'd promised her our Summer would exist. And I'd make it happen, whatever it took. I'd hunt down anyone who stood in our way. Our child would come into this world through my will alone if necessary. Oakley didn't realize the lengths I would go to yet. But she would. That bakery wasn't a shop. It was a shrine. To her. To us. To the future I'd already decided we would have.

"We can help!" Joslyn volunteered.

"No." The word emerged as a low growl that made her flinch.

She pouted. "What do you mean no?"

"Oakley and I are the only ones allowed to touch it," I pointed my bat at her, dark matter flaking off the end. "Stay the fuck away."

Sarge stepped forward, chest expanding as he moved between me and Joslyn. "Watch who you're fucking talking to," he snarled, hands curling into fists at his sides. His eyes tracked my bat before locking back on my face. "Point that at her again and I'll skull-fuck you with it until your eyes bleed."

I didn't move, didn't blink. Just stared at him, waiting for him to push it further. Wanting him to give me an excuse to fuck him up.

Oakley rushed past me to the back, the warmth of her body briefly registering. "I'm…going to go get my stuff." I followed with her things, my long strides easily catching up in the narrow hallway.

The urge to press her against the wall nearly overwhelmed me—to feel her soft curves yield against my hard edges. Instead, I maintained the inch between us. Her body radiated heat. I caught the slight hitch in her breath when she realized how close I stood, fumbling with the door, her back vulnerable.

"I don't get off until nine." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

"I know." I'd memorized the rhythm of her days weeks ago—how she took exactly seventeen minutes to get ready in the morning, absently touched the scar on her right elbow when thinking, always checked her phone three times before setting it down.

"But I'm off tomorrow." She unlocked the door, brushing against me as she pushed it open. "W-We could start fixing it up then?"

She took my silence as confirmation before tying her apron around her waist. The seam accentuated her breasts, making them strain against her sweater. Pink bloomed across her cheeks as she noticed my stare, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. I remembered the warmth of her skin, the way her body had trembled above mine yesterday.

My body betrayed me around her. I wanted to tear my own skin off—just to see what she'd done to me. Oakley did something to me that I couldn't control. When she walked in, everything inside me twisted and knotted, my heart jackhammering against my ribs like it was trying to tear out of my chest and crawl to her. Arms that steadily crushed a man's skull shook when they brushed against her. The scent of vanilla hit like a bat to my own head, disconnecting my brain, making me forget names on my list I'd burned into memory.

I found myself studying the curve of her neck, not for where to strike, but for where to press my mouth. Blood screamed in my ears. I counted her breaths while she slept, sixty-seven inhales before she made that small sound in her throat that meant she was dreaming. I memorized the exact shade of pink that crept up her neck when I stared too long. I'd killed men for looking at her too long. I'd contemplated killing Knight because he made her smile once. The emptiness in my chest that had been there since I was seven years old filled with something that felt like hunger but went deeper, something that clawed at my insides and demanded more.

I'd murdered men without blinking, watched the light fade from their eyes and felt nothing. But Oakley cut through me in ways violence never could. I wanted her name carved into my ribs—a brand beneath the skin, where no one could take her from me. I wanted to lock her away where no one else could see her. I had no fucking idea what was happening to me, why she mattered, why the thought of her in pain made me want to burn the world to ash. Eleven years of perfect control, of being exactly what I was made to be, and this woman had somehow reached inside me and ripped out whatever was left of the human I never got to become. And the worst part? I'd let her do it again. I'd beg her to do it again.

"Y-You don't h-have to stay here my whole shift." She hesitated, then added softly, "S-See you tonight?"

I wasn't going to. I needed to hunt, to release the pressure building inside me. But for the first time, I found myself wanting to return when I was done. To breathe in her sweet scent, to feel her softness beneath my calloused hands.

Walking to the front, I caught Sarge with his hood down, hands gripping Joslyn's hips, his tongue down her throat. Their display of affection made my stomach turn. For a fleeting moment, I pictured Oakley's soft lips against mine, the taste of her, how her body would tremble if I pressed her against the wall. The thought sent heat coursing through me—unfamiliar, dangerous. I crushed the image before it could take root.

The bell's harsh chime cut through the air as I pushed through the door. Outside, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with cold air to wash away the cloying scent of flowers and cheap cologne. Joints cracked as I moved, skin still raw from the morning's work. I mounted my bike. The engine roared to life beneath me, vibrating through my bones like a war drum.

For the first time, the hunt wasn't the only thing calling to me. Oakley's image burned in my mind—more vivid than violence's aftermath, more intoxicating than screams. Her smile had somehow carved itself deeper than my rage.

And for once, I had a reason to come back when I was done. Oakley. A hunger worse than killing. Everything else was noise. She was the pattern buried in the chaos—the part that made my pulse slow instead of spike.