Page 31

E ach morning Oakley woke up in my arms, it got harder not to lock her there permanently.

The curve of her shoulder peaked above the sheets, freckles scattering like constellations on pale skin.

Pressing kisses against her delicate shoulder. Her body froze under my touch as she hunched forward, trying to get away from me.

How cute she thought she could.

I tightened my arm around her waist, feeling her ribs expand in distress beneath my fingertips, keeping her firmly against me. Fear fluttered rapidly beneath my hand, like wings beating in panic. She needed something to hold onto. Something constant. I could be that. I would be that. I thought back to the movies we watched and the books of hers I read, thinking of the way the male leads woke their love interests up in the morning. I knew what to do. "I'll go make your breakfast."

She said nothing.

I slid from the bed and pulled on my jeans, padding silently into the slightly renovated kitchen. I glanced back at my wife who curled up in a ball and quaked under the covers. Her trembling reminded me of a leaf caught in a gentle breeze—delicate, easily crushed, safe within my grasp. The way her body shuddered was beautiful in its vulnerability. Perfect.

She clenched the sheets tighter beneath my gaze. The bedsheets pulled up to her chin, knuckles straining with tension, eyes squeezed shut as if she could disappear through sheer will. Mine.

I fixed her coffee exactly as she liked it—vanilla bean creamer, three sugars—and considered breakfast. Three stirs clockwise, three counter. The perfect shade of caramel—no trace of powder. Just how she liked it. I even added that extra splash of creamer she always requested. Taking care of her needs was my responsibility now.

So I went back into the room to ask her. I set the steaming mug on the coaster before her small voice asked. "Do you really think I'm going to drink anything you make me now?"

That was new. "You always do."

"That's before you drugged me!" She gripped her blanket tighter, fingers twisting anxiously in the blanket's fabric, the band of her wedding ring catching the morning light.

She didn't realize it yet, but soon she'd understand how safe she was here, with me. "I don't want you to be upset."

"All I ever wanted was a happily ever after." She breathed, the words barely audible. "My dream wedding. A loving husband…" Tears pooled in her eyes as she glared at me, jade irises swallowed by the red-rimmed whites. "You ruined everything."

I stood there not knowing what to say. She'd never been like this with me before. I didn't understand how I ruined everything if it was her dream to get married. I made it come true. She should be happy. In the movies, the woman always cried happy tears when the man proposed. Oakley hadn't even smiled when I slipped the ring on her unconscious finger. The metal sliding over her knuckle had sent a thrill of possession through me—like closing a lock with a satisfying click.

Oakley sat herself up and I could see now how swollen her eyes were, cheeks streaked with black residue from her makeup the previous day. Mascara streaked her cheeks like ink blots. Chestnut strands of hair sticking up at random places. How was it possible for her to still look beautiful like this? Even in her misery, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I wanted to hold her together. To be the one she broke in front of—and still came back to.

"We need to go to the club."

"Not today." Her shoulders sagged, head dipping forward like a marionette whose strings had been sliced. Her voice laced with a quiver, "Can you just leave me alone?"

Alone.

The word was a locked door, a dark closet, a punishment.

"You deserve to be alone," Mother's voice beckoned from the past, soft and merciless. I'd counted shadows under the door, footsteps that never paused—proof I could disappear, proof nobody would come looking.

Alone meant forgotten. Alone meant erased.

Leaving her alone was the worst thing I could do. "Get up. It wasn't a request."

She made a growling sound before throwing the blanket off of her, still dressed in her baggy clothes from last night. I watched as she went to the dresser, angrily taking out a pair of light gray leggings before going to her closet for a light red shirt with the Poppy Oak's logo.

"You want a lesson?" I'd never seen Oakley look at me the way she was right now. Her eyes wide, teeth gritted, she had fire within her. A feral animal backed into a corner. Beautiful. I wanted to bottle that look, preserve it forever. "Hopelessness."

I tilted my head, waiting for her to continue, savoring the way her chest heaved with each breath, the slight tremor in her lower lip. The tiny muscles in her jaw working beneath her skin.

"When you kill people." Her voice hushed to a murmur, like she was sharing a forbidden secret. "The look on their faces. The impending doom that makes their heart almost give out in fear that their life is no longer theirs to control…" Her voice sounded more choked, a vein pulsing in her throat. "That's how you make me feel."

I didn't respond, just tilted my head. She saw me clearly.

Oakley's voice broke, just a fractured whisper, eyes hollow with devastation. "This isn't love," she whispered. "This is prison."

The words punched into my chest. For half a breath, her words echoed too loudly—'This isn't love'—and a sliver of something sharp twisted inside me. Then I shook it off, knowing it was just confusion. She'd see clearly soon. A momentary crack in my certainty. But only momentary.

I didn't watch as she slammed the bathroom door. My attention was elsewhere.

But as the lock clicked into place, I found myself drawn to it, palm flat against the painted wood. Through the door, she counted quietly: "One... two... three..." The same pattern she used during anxiety attacks. Her breaths were measured, controlled—fighting to stay calm.

I could catalog every sound with perfect clarity—the initial gag, the splash of bile hitting water, the gasping breath between heaves, the soft whimper that followed. Each noise was a note in a symphony of distress I'd conducted. My palm flattened against the door, sensing her fragile shudders through the wood.

When she turned on the faucet, I knew she was trying to mask the sound of her crying. I'd memorized the specific timbre of her sobs—the way her breath hitched on the inhale, the barely audible whine on the exhale. Each sound tugged something in me. She was purging the confusion, the fear. Soon she'd feel clearer—safer.

Through the bathroom door, her voice ghosted between quiet sobs. I exhaled slowly, touched that she was finally releasing her fear. She was accepting us, at last.

I remained there, listening to her process the change between us, until I heard her slide down against the tile wall, the soft thud of her body meeting the floor. Only then did I pull away, certainty humming through my veins.

Shredded paper lay scattered beneath the mirror. I crouched down, gathering fragments between my fingers, inked words staring up like quiet accusations.

Hopelessness. Something that you didn't think would end. Instead of the light at the end of the tunnel, it was shrouded in a never-ending darkness you feel like you'd never crawl out of.

I looked at the closed bathroom door.

I already understand what it meant.

I straightened the collar of her shirt as we prepared to leave.

As I opened the door to the clubhouse, Oakley stepped through reluctantly.

"Oakley!" Joslyn's voice carried through the now silent room before charging toward her, stopping when she didn't respond. "Oak?"

She was silent, her face composed, but her eyes distant. A faint humming came from her throat—the melody she always used to calm herself during anxiety attacks. Joslyn noticed, her eyes widening in recognition and fear. "What's wrong with her?"

Staring her down, I simply said, "My wife isn't feeling well."

Joslyn’s eyes widened. "Wife?"

The word hung in the air. The entire room went dead silent. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Let the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak.

Husk leaned on the pool cue, watching the scene unfold. He silently carved another small tally mark into his forearm with his thumbnail, pressing deeper this time until a thin bead of blood formed. "Well shit, didn't see that comin'." Knight hit a ball next to him, his grip tightening on the cue until his knuckles went white before he tossed it down with a clatter and left the room without a word, deliberately avoiding Victoria's gaze.

Joslyn spluttered a laugh, her eyes going to Oakley's. Oakley's head was still down as I grabbed her wrist, holding up to show everyone our rings. Her wrist was slack, not putting any effort to show everyone the ring I put on her finger.

Hex muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "That's not a ring. That's a fuckin' leash."

Joslyn reached toward Oakley's face, then stopped herself halfway, fingers trembling in the air between them as if afraid her touch might shatter something fragile. Joslyn's eyes flickered between our hands, her face paling. "Oh my God."

I tightened my grip on Oakley's wrist, feeling the delicate bones shift beneath my fingers. My thumb pressed against the delicate bones in her wrist, sensing the rapid tremors of her panic.

Oakley stayed still, her head bowed, her body rigid beneath my grip. My fingers trailed to her shoulder, resting there in a casual touch that was unmistakably possessive.

She shifted beneath my hand. Not enough to pull away, not enough to defy—just enough to let me know she was still adjusting. She didn't resist. She didn't scream or run, because she knew me. She knew exactly who I was, what I was capable of—not against her, never against her, but against the rest of the world if she asked me to.

Faith spit out her drink from the couch where she sat with Victoria. "Wife?" Victoria echoed, her eyes never leaving Oakley's blank face. Victoria edged closer to Faith protectively, watching me with steady, suspicious eyes. She stepped slightly in front of Faith, a subtle shield.

Victoria stepped protectively forward. "She's shaking. That's what marriage looks like to you?"

"She's not shaking." I adjusted Oakley's wedding ring, turning it gently—like tightening a lock. "She's safe."

Husk whispered, just loud enough to carry across the room, "Does this mean we have to buy a fucking wedding gift?"

Another voice, Sarge, this time. "What's the registry—handcuffs and Xanax?"

Faith's eyes met Oakley's in a silent question: Are you okay? Oakley looked away, her eyes going glassy and unfocused. She was retreating inside herself, going somewhere I couldn't follow. Her consciousness folding inward like origami, creasing away from reality.

From the corner of the room, I caught Grim watching. His eyes shifted from Oakley's vacant expression to me, a flicker of dark amusement crossing his features. He approached us, face a perfect mask of control, though the corners of his mouth twitched with quiet enjoyment at the chaos unfolding.

"Funny how weddings are happier when both people remember being there," he said, just loud enough for me to hear. "You alright?" Grim asked Oakley, his voice surprisingly gentle, though his eyes betrayed his amusement at everyone's shock.

Oakley forced a vacant smile, though her jaw trembled visibly. Every heartbeat was a silent plea—play along, or they'll die. She didn't respond, didn't even look at him. Her fingers twisted the wedding band nervously, so much that the skin beneath was becoming red and irritated, mirroring the raw marks on her wrists.

I reached out to brush my fingers along her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. The touch was gentle, almost tender. She stiffened under my touch.

Victoria spoke up, eyes narrowed at me. "You've never even been interested in women until Oakley, and now you're married to her?" Her eyes softened at my wife. "Did he force you, sweetheart?"

"Oakley... this isn't you," Nyla added quietly.

Oakley looked up at Victoria, her voice perfectly neutral. "It's exactly me. You just weren't paying attention."

Joslyn reached for Oakley's hand gently. Oakley withdrew and visibly leaned into my side, the movement perfectly calculated.

"You don't have to worry," she said softly. "He takes good care of me."

Joslyn stepped back, her face draining of color. The gesture felt so alien and wrong that even her closest friend couldn't hide her horror.

Faith leaned forward, suspicious but softer. "Babe, your eyes are...different."

"Marriage changes people." Oakley's lips stretched into a forced smile, eyes vacant.

Sarge, who had been observing silently from the corner, finally spoke up. "If the girl says she's fine, she's fine."

Victoria's lips silently formed the words, "Tell us the truth," but Oakley's eyes flicked to me before dropping to the floor. I caught the subtle movement of her counting her breaths, her lips barely moving.

"No. I want to be with V." Oakley's voice was wooden, her fingers unconsciously rubbing at the raw marks on her wrists. Just get through this. Don't let him hurt Mom and Dad. The unspoken words seemed to radiate from her rigid posture.

The clubhouse doors slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls.

Every head snapped toward the doorway. Law filled the threshold, but instead of the explosive rage everyone expected, he entered with methodical calm.

He deliberately avoided looking at Oakley or me—didn't even blink in our direction. Instead, he slowly moved through the clubhouse, nodding to each person by name.

"Husk," he said with a nod. "Knight." A quick gesture. "Victoria. Faith." Each name spoken with perfect composure, each acknowledgment making his deliberate omission of Oakley more pointed. His calculated movements and icy composure created a silence more unsettling than any shouting match.

"Jesus, Law. Someone die or something?" Husk asked sarcastically, leaning against the pool table.

Law's mouth curved into a slow, unreadable smile. "Something like that."

He took his time getting a drink from the bar, making everyone wait in loaded silence, ice cubes rattling loudly as they settled in his glass. The tension stretched like a wire pulled taut across the room. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Oakley spiraled into quiet panic behind me, her breathing quickening with small tremors visible in her hands. Her eyes darted frantically between Law's back and my face, pupils dilated with fear. She unconsciously moved closer to me, seeking protection despite fearing me. The irony wasn't lost on me—Law's silence accomplished what I never could. It made her willingly choose me.

She stood behind me like I was her shelter. Like I was her safety.

Victoria quietly moved closer to Faith, placing herself between my wife and the brewing confrontation, visibly anxious. This silent, protective gesture communicated volumes without dialogue.

"He's not even looking at her," Joslyn whispered anxiously to Victoria.

Law took out a photo from his wallet—a family picture of Oakley as a child. Without looking at her, he carefully placed it facedown on the counter between us, a silent, chilling message: This isn't my daughter anymore.

He set the picture down like a gravestone, and I wondered if Oakley felt the same quiet funeral happening inside her chest.

I deliberately positioned myself between Law and Oakley, baiting him into confrontation.

Law's eyes flicked briefly, almost imperceptibly, to Oakley's shoulder. Jaw muscles twitched, knuckles whitening on his glass—but he still didn't speak. Instead, he took another controlled sip.

I showed him exactly who she belonged to. He drank slowly, like he was swallowing broken glass. But he didn't say a damn thing.

Whispered comments around the clubhouse slowly escalated, making it clear everyone was waiting for Law to explode.

Husk muttered quietly to Grim, just audible enough: "Ever seen Law this quiet before?"

Grim didn't say anything.

"Dad?" Oakley silently mouthed—a tiny, desperate attempt at connection. Law visibly stiffened, forcing himself not to respond, his fingers tightening around the drink until the glass cracked subtly, ice shifting loudly inside.

She shrank into herself like he'd slapped her.

My hand flexed into a fist, imagining Law's breath choked off, fading into silence beneath my grip. He was breathing borrowed air, living only because Oakley wouldn't forgive me if he died. I could visualize the precise angle needed—the exact pressure point at the base of his throat, the proper grip to cut off blood flow to his brain. One quick, practiced motion. The way his eyes would widen in that fraction of a second of realization before the lights went out permanently.

Grim settled into a chair, legs stretched out, openly amused at the tension, adding another layer of uncomfortable entertainment to the unfolding drama.

"Not gonna lie," Grim said, his voice carrying across the now-silent room, "this silent-treatment shit might actually be worse than yelling."

He stood from his seat, eyes cold and calculating, though I caught that flicker of satisfaction at having created this particular storm. He hadn't shouted, hadn't needed to. The authority in his tone was unquestionable. "You two." He turned his gaze to Law and me. "Office. Now."

He turned to Oakley, his tone conversational, almost casual. "Congratulations. If he tries to kill Law in my office, you want to know, or prefer plausible deniability?"

Oakley shrank back from Grim's gaze, her shoulders curving inward as if trying to become smaller in the presence of the man who had witnessed her nightmare beginning.

As I stepped away to follow Grim, her fingertips grazed my sleeve, featherlight, trembling. She understood now.

She needed me—whether she wanted it or not.

This was progress.