Page 32

W e were crammed in Grim's office at the back of the clubhouse—a claustrophobic room lined with dark shelves packed tight with files, bottles of expensive liquor, and decades of buried secrets. A single dusty lamp buzzed overhead, casting sickly yellow light over the scarred oak desk. The air was thick with violence waiting to erupt, each breath tasting of stale cigarettes and bitter rage.

Grim stood at the desk, eyeing us both, his fingers drumming silently against the worn wood.

"You let him marry my daughter. You signed the fuckin' certificate, Mitchell." Law's voice cracked, his eyes that looked like my wife's filled with betrayal. "You stood there and watched it happen."

Grim didn't blink. Didn't even look up at first. Just kept flipping a page in the file like Law was background noise. "I watched every second. Signed it with a steady fucking hand," he said finally, tone flat. Final.

Law lunged across the desk, hands locking around Grim's throat, desperation making him sloppy. Grim didn't flinch, didn't struggle. He simply waited until Law's grip weakened, then effortlessly slammed him against the wall, scattering papers and rattling the shelves. "You signed your fucking name on my daughter's life!" Law choked, voice breaking into despair.

Grim's hand tightened, calm but ruthless, suffocating the rage out of Law. His eyes were steady, coldly indifferent to Law's desperate struggles. His voice remained unsettlingly quiet, as cold and unfeeling as polished marble.

Law charged again, a wild, desperate swing. Grim caught him by the throat and slammed him onto the desk, scattering papers. "You fucking betrayed us—betrayed Oakley," Law choked out, voice breaking with rage and despair. "That's your wife's best friend. How the fuck do you think she's gonna feel about this?"

I tapped the bat against my boot, feeling the weight of it like an extension of my arm. The sound of wood on leather was oddly satisfying—almost as satisfying as crushing his skull would be. I could feel the rhythm of my heartbeat syncing with each tap, steady and unforgiving. "She didn't say no."

His neck twitched, like even his blood wanted out. Law's eyes cut to me, horror and hatred mingling in equal measure—the look a man gave when he realized exactly what kind of monster he was facing.

Grim's gaze flicked toward me, sardonic. "He married your daughter because he's obsessed, Law. Not for some grand fucking plan—because he couldn't stop himself." He stepped forward, crowding Law against the desk, daring him to retaliate. He leaned forward, plucking a stray thread from Law's collar like it offended him, adjusting his cuffs casually while Law's breathing grew erratic.

Watching Law's crumbling confidence, I felt a twisted echo of satisfaction. He'd never understood Oakley, not like I did. She wasn't his fragile thing to protect—she was my sacred ruin to worship.

"You fucking bastard!" Law spat, veins bulging at his temples. "She was coerced—you think I don't know what that psychopath is capable of? He's got her terrified for her life!"

"She's wearing his ring, isn't she?" He straightened a paper as if Law's fury was just clutter on his desk. His palms pressed flat on the desk, an indifferent gaze fixed coldly on Law. "Nobody put a gun to her head at the altar. She didn't say no when it mattered. That ring's sitting on her finger just fine, and we both know fear makes a better chain than love ever did."

Law's body tensed at the mention of Oakley's "choice," doubt and suspicion etched in every line of his face. I watched the struggle play out behind his eyes. He couldn't prove coercion, but he knew his daughter. And that knowledge was turning his blood to ice.

Grim got closer to Law's face, invading his space. "Prez signed worse papers. You didn't mind it then." His eyes narrowed, leaning in closer. "You don't wash away sins in this club. You wear them like skin until they fit."

Grim adjusted his cuffs, his gaze sliding briefly to the worn picture of Darrell pinned behind the desk—Prez's crooked smile mocking us. Grim's eyes flickered briefly to Darrell's faded photo, bitterness sharpening his expression. He wasn't just destroying Law—he was erasing Prez's lingering shadow.

Law's lip curled, defiant, voice edged with icy contempt. "All this talk, Mitchell—but we both know Darrell never trusted you with his secrets. If he left something behind, maybe you're the one he was planning to bury."

Grim's gaze hardened dangerously, anger flickering behind ruthless control. "Careful. Or I'll bury you so deep, your daughter will forget your fuckin' name."

"Not sure I want to be part of this fuckin' club anymore." Law looked at me, then back at Grim, eyes darting with the panic of a trapped animal. "My loyalty was with Darrell, not you." Law's lip curled bitterly. "Darrell kept this club in line. He wasn't just President; he was the only damn thing holding this crew together."

"Or maybe he was the one making it fall apart," Grim didn't give a damn about Law's moral high ground. He wanted control—over Law, over me, over the club. "Your loyalty is with whoever the fucks in charge."

Law stepped back, but Grim followed, calmly reorganizing scattered papers. "You're not better than us—you're just better at hiding who you truly fuckin' are." He paused, eyes cold. "I could end your life with a pen stroke. You think that makes you free?"

Grim dropped the file on the desk, then deliberately spread the photos out one by one, like he was dealing cards in a game he'd already won. Bodies. Blood. Men we'd buried deep. His fingers lingered on each image, meticulously aligning each scattered photo, fingers careful, almost reverent—as if death was something sacred. The glossy prints caught the light, reflecting horror back at Law's widening eyes.

I watched the transformation on Law's face—from righteous father to cornered animal in the span of seconds. The lawyer becoming the accused. Sweat trickled down his temple, catching the light like tears he was too proud to shed.

"These aren't strangers. Every one of these bodies has your fingerprints on their deaths." He tapped a photo showing a man face-down in a warehouse. "Remember him? You gave the okay on that hit while drinking scotch, probably with Claudia and Oakley at home waiting."

Law stared at the photo, confusion momentarily overshadowing his anger. He didn't recognize the man, had never seen the warehouse before. His eyes darted from the image to Grim's face, searching for the trap.

I'd seen men panic before, but Law looked like Grim had gutted him.

"What is this?" Law's hands trembled violently as he reached for the photos, his breathing shallow and quick. His eyes darted to the door—not calculating an escape, but terrified of who might be hearing this confession.

"Looks like your résumé." He flipped the photo toward Law like it was a receipt. "Difference is, you bill by the hour instead of burying 'em by hand."

"I never did any of this!" Law's voice cracked, no longer the confident attorney but a man seeing his carefully constructed life imploding.

"Pictures don't lie in the eyes of the law." He tucked a photo back into the folder. "Prez collected dirt on everyone—insurance, blackmail. Call it whatever the fuck you want." His voice remained steady, almost bored. "He has evidence to put us away for life." He looked over at me. "Well, almost everyone."

Couldn't put me away if I didn't exist.

I didn't know what was in the folder, but I saw what it was doing to Law. Stripping him down, one indictment at a time. I'd never seen a man look like he was being skinned alive without a single knife in the room.

Law staggered back, his face ashen. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his body physically shook. He braced himself against the wall, eyes flickering with panic, gasping for breath as his throat worked convulsively. "Oakley can't—" he choked out, real fear in his eyes. Not for himself, but for what his daughter would learn.

Grim looked bored as Law clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white, eyes flickering with panic.

"Prez didn't just bury evidence out there," Grim handed Law a paper scrawled with coordinates. "You two go find out what he left."

Law stared at the coordinates like they were poisonous. "You're sending one of us to our deaths."

"Don't give a fuck." Grim deadpanned, cold and pitiless. "Honestly, it might be better if neither of you come back. Y'all are gettin' on my fuckin' nerves."

I circled Law, enjoying his discomfort as the coordinates in Grim's hand promised something neither of us fully understood. The weight of my bat swung lazily at my side, a pendulum marking the seconds of his deteriorating composure. I dragged the wooden tip across the edge of the desk, the scraping sound making Law flinch with each pass. Whatever Prez had left behind could destroy us all, but I had the least to lose. You couldn't take away what never existed.

Turning to look at him, the bat hovering inches from his knee, "Better make peace before you dig, Dad."

Law's head snapped toward me, eyes blazing with hatred so pure it was almost beautiful. His jaw worked as if chewing through all the things he wanted to say but couldn't risk. For a moment, something dangerous flickered across his face—the look of a man calculating how much prison time killing me would be worth. Then reality crashed back in, and the lawyer in him won out over the father.

Law snatched the directions off the desk, jaw clenched. He didn't meet my eyes as he stormed from the room, shoulders tense with barely restrained fury.

I followed silently, the space between us charged and toxic. Grim's laughter echoed behind us as we disappeared into the dark corridor, two men with nothing in common but Oakley.

The air shifted as I entered the main room. Where Grim's office had been suffocating with rage and threats, the air was charged with something different here—whispered concern and protective glances. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the metallic tang of fear hanging in the air. The jukebox clicked softly, cycling silently through forgotten songs. From somewhere deep in the kitchen, a faucet dripped steadily, echoing through the charged silence.

The other women were gathered around my wife, who still refused to interact with any of them. The women hovered around her, crowding her space, the soft rustle of their clothing as they shifted positions sounding unnaturally loud in the tense quiet. Their bodies formed a protective circle, shoulders and elbows creating human walls. I wouldn't let them poison her against me.

She sat rigid, her eyes locked on a single point on the floor, pupils dilated to black pools rimmed with thin hazel. The fear response of prey. The predator in me recognized it instantly and craved it.

I made my way across the room to her. "Let's go."

She didn't react as the women looked at me one by one with suspicion. Faith stepped between us, her eyes hard and challenging, her body angling protectively toward Oakley as Victoria shifted closer, arms crossed. The silent choreography of women ready to defend their own.

Victoria positioned herself like a human wall between my wife and me, her stance wide and steady—the practiced posture of someone who'd spent years in a fighting ring. Her eyes never left mine, tracking every micro-movement.

"Ya know, for someone who just got married, she doesn't look very happy." Faith's voice was steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. "Funny, V, she doesn't look safe. She looks scared."

I moved closer, circling Oakley's chair like a shark. Each step deliberate, marking territory, cutting off potential escape routes. The women shifted uneasily as I positioned myself directly behind her, placing my hand on her shoulder. My thumb traced small circles against the nape of her neck—possessive, intimate. A gesture that in my mind was tender, but made Victoria's jaw clench.

"I'm safe." Oakley's voice was barely audible. She lifted her head, giving her friend a smile that never reached her eyes—it broke for half a second, revealing raw panic before she forced it back into place. "I'm just trying to process it." Her hand trembled slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the new ring catching the light. Under the table, hidden from view, she dug her thumbnail deep into her palm, pressing harder with each word.

She looked at Law, who kept his distance from her, the crushing weight of his failures evident in the slump of his shoulders. The edges of her lips fell, eyes shimmering with tears as she dropped her head again. Her fingers reached out, squeezing Faith's wrist tightly until her knuckles whitened—a desperate yet silent plea to stop pushing. Faith recognized the signal immediately, her expression shifting from defiance to fear.

I caught Faith's gaze as I stepped closer. My hand resting on Oakley's shoulder. I brushed against a hot carafe deliberately, the scorched metal burning my skin with a sizzling hiss that should have made me recoil. But I didn't flinch. Letting Faith see I felt nothing. Faith's eyes caught the contact, narrowing slightly as she registered my complete lack of reaction, the color draining from her face.

"This discussion isn't finished." Faith's voice was quiet but fierce. She put her hand on Oakley's shoulder, Faith stepped closer, shoulders squared, body shielding Oakley instinctively. "She's gonna come stay with me for the night."

I imagined Faith trying to take Oakley from me. The thought ignited something behind my eyes. She belonged with me now. I pressed my fingers deeper into Oakley's shoulder.

Victoria moved beside Faith, eyes cold and calculating. She deliberately stepped on my boot while speaking, the leather creaking under her weight, not moving her full weight but applying just enough pressure to make her challenge clear. Her fingers flexed at her sides, ready, tendons visibly tightening beneath her skin. Not just cautious, but prepared. Her fighter's stance shifted imperceptibly as she sized me up, calculating exactly where to land the first blow.

"You're not taking her anywhere," Victoria said, voice low, her warm breath hitting my face as she leaned in. She put a hand on my chest and pushed me back hard, the thud of her palm against my sternum echoing in the quiet room, her eyes locked on mine, fighter's instinct evident in every line of her body. Her heartbeat didn't even quicken—it was a warning shot, not an attack.

Joslyn appeared at Oakley's other side, her usual smile replaced by something hard and unfamiliar. She gently positioned herself in front of Faith—not to stop her friend, but to shield her from what I might do. "Faith's right," she said, voice steady despite the slight tremble in her hands, her tone scary-sweet, too soft and too controlled. "We can make some tea, talk about what's next." Her eyes never left my face, watching for any reaction that might betray my intentions.

Nyla completed their circle, positioning herself directly behind Oakley's chair, hands resting protectively on the backrest. She said nothing as the tension in the room boiled, watching more than she talked, her eyes cataloging every movement. When she finally spoke, her voice was low but unmistakably firm.

"Nobody's taking her anywhere she doesn't want to go." She looked me dead in the eyes and smiled—a mocking, pitying expression that cut deeper than any shout could have. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—the kind that came from nights spent worrying, not sleeping—but her gaze was sharp, alert. She'd been watching me since I walked in, cataloging every movement, every touch. I recognized the vigilance of someone who'd learned to spot danger before it struck.

They'd formed a fortress around her—four women creating a barrier between Oakley and me. A silent pact to protect one of their own. They'd seen something in my eyes that alarmed them, recognized a danger they couldn't name but instinctively feared.

Oakley placed her hand over Faith's, not meeting anyone's eyes. "It's okay. I have a lot of orders to finish for deliveries tomorrow." Her voice was hollow, a rehearsed excuse to avoid conflict. She knew what would happen if she tried to leave.

"She's not going anywhere with you." Faith stepped between us, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. She grabbed a coffee mug from the table and hurled it—not at me, but at the wall beside my head. The ceramic shattered with a crash, fragments raining down, the bitter coffee splattering across the wall and floor in dark rivulets.

My hand choked up on my bat, not too ready—just to decide where I was breaking this bitch’s bones. Oakley's fingers flashed out, catching my wrist. "Don't," she whispered, so low that only I could hear it. Her grip was desperate. I froze, surprised by her touch—not to protect herself, but to shield her friends from what I might do.

Faith noticed the exchange, her eyes widening slightly as she registered what had just happened: Oakley had stopped me. The realization shifted something in the room's dynamic—a new, terrible understanding of what Oakley was doing by staying with me.

"I signed them because I wanted to." Oakley's voice was soft but carried across the room, stopping Faith mid-sentence.

She stood slowly, smoothing her dress in a mechanical motion that couldn't fully mask the tremor in her hands. Her voice was low, barely audible at first, growing firmer with each word like someone reciting lines learned by heart. "I chose him. I married him willingly."

Victoria shook her head in disbelief, reaching toward Oakley like she was about to pull her behind her for protection. "Oakley, you don't have to protect him. We can?—"

"Can what?" My voice was flat behind the surgical mask, eyes unblinking as I stared her down.

Nyla stepped forward, dark circles under her eyes making her fury look even more stark. She calmly poured tea into a delicate cup, the amber liquid steaming as it swirled into the porcelain, then let it drop from her fingers. It shattered at her feet with a delicate musical crash, the sound punctuating her words as hot tea splashed across the floor and onto her boots. The floral scent of jasmine rose with the steam. "You think we don't see what's happening?"

My head tilted, "And what exactly is that?"

Joslyn moved closer to Oakley, reaching for her hand and attempting to guide her toward the door. "Honey, you can tell us the truth. Did he threaten you? Your dad? Any of us?"

Oakley pulled her hand away, a flash of irritation crossing her features. "Stop. All of you." She looked around the room, her gaze hardening with each face. "I'm not some... victim you need to rescue."

"Bullshit." Faith spat the word, advancing toward me. "You've been terrified of him for months. Now suddenly you're married? You expect us to believe you just changed your mind?"

Oakley stood taller, a strange calm washing over her face.

"If I didn't want him," her voice was soft but steady, "do you really think I would have said yes?" She lifted her left hand, the wedding ring catching the light.

Before anyone could respond, she turned to me. Something shifted in her eyes—determination replacing fear, resolve hardening her features. She reached up, fingers curling into the front of my shirt, and pulled me down to her level. I felt her trembling, but to everyone watching, it would look like eagerness.

She pressed her lips against my masked mouth, the surgical fabric a thin barrier between us. The kiss was deliberate, performative—a desperate gambit to sell her lie—but the intimacy of it sent electricity down my spine. Her fingers gripped my shirt tighter, knuckles white with tension only I could feel.

When she pulled away, her eyes met mine with a silent message: See what I'll do to protect them.

"I chose this," she said, turning back to her stunned friends, voice stronger now. "I chose him."

The subtle tremor in her voice could easily be mistaken for emotion rather than fear. She'd become what she needed to be to survive, and watching her transform sent a wave of dark satisfaction through me.

Heat spread through my chest—obsessive, possessive, consuming. Even forced, her lie was perfect, just like her.

I stepped forward to meet Faith, something dangerous pulsing beneath my skin. The hairs on my arms stood on end, electricity crackling through my veins. I could feel my pupils dilating, sight sharpening, the world taking on a predatory clarity. "Back the fuck up."

Faith didn't flinch. Her chin lifted, defiance radiating from her like heat. "Or what? You'll show everyone exactly who you really are?"

My hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and twisting just enough to make her gasp. The bones shifted beneath my fingers. I could feel her pulse racing against my thumb, rabbit-quick with fear she refused to show. "You have no idea what I am."

Victoria lunged, shoving me hard with both hands, her fighter's strength sending me back a step. "Get your hands off her!"

The front door slammed open as Sarge, hood down, filled the doorway, his good eye locking on Joslyn first, then the scene unfolding. "The fuck is happening?"

He crossed the room in three strides, planting himself between Joslyn and me, his shoulder brushing hers protectively as his jaw clenched. He cracked his knuckles one by one, slow and deliberate, staring me down without blinking.

"You touch her?" His question was directed at me, but his eye sought Joslyn's. "You think not feeling pain makes you a god?" he growled, his voice vibrating with barely controlled rage, muscles in his jaw jumping visibly beneath his skin.

"I don't think it." My fingers tightened around the bat, knuckles bleaching white as I leaned forward, closing the space between us until I could see my reflection in his good eye. "I am one."

Sarge stepped closer, face twisted with fury. "I'll teach you pain ain't the worst thing a body can know."

Without warning, he grabbed a chair and threw it across the room—not at me, but close enough that the crash silenced everyone as wood splintered against the wall, the legs skittering across the floor like broken insect limbs, showing just how close to snapping he truly was. The air itself seemed to recoil with the violence of the gesture, dust particles dancing in the shafts of afternoon light streaming through the windows. The crack of wood splitting echoed like a gunshot, making Joslyn jump and Oakley flinch, her eyes squeezing shut for just a second.

Grim appeared from the hallway, his cold gaze taking in the scene. His boots struck the floor with methodical precision, each step a measured threat. "Someone want to explain why my clubhouse sounds like a fuckin' war zone?"

His eyes narrowed when they landed on Nyla, noting her exhaustion. He put his hand on her arm gently, and she flinched—the motion slight but unmistakable. Their eyes locked in a loaded stare that communicated volumes—her silent accusation, his unspoken regret. Grim dropped his hand like her skin had burned him, hanging back just long enough to assess whether she wanted him there.

"They're trying to take my wife," I said, the word 'wife' deliberately emphasized.

"Because she didn't marry you willingly!" Victoria snapped.

Grim tried to reach for Nyla again, a protective gesture in the rising tension.

"Don't." Nyla's voice cut through the room as she refused to even look at him. The weight of their broken trust hung in the air—her father, the old club President, now on the run, hunted by the very club her husband now controlled. Everyone knew if he was found, Grim would have to kill him. Grim backed off, his face a careful mask, but something flashed in his eyes—a pain deeper than physical.

The tension in the room escalated as Victoria and Faith stepped closer to me, their postures becoming more aggressive. Victoria's fists clenched at her sides while Faith's eyes darted between Oakley and me, her breath coming in quick, angry bursts. Joslyn moved to Oakley's side, whispering something in her ear that made Oakley's shoulders stiffen. The air crackled with unspoken threats and accusations.

"Stop it!" Oakley's voice cracked through the room like a whip, shocking everyone into silence. She never raised her voice. Ever. She stepped into the center of the tension, tears glistening but not falling, her body vibrating with a strange, desperate energy. The air around her seemed to ripple with the force of her unexpected outburst. "I am so sick of everyone thinking they know what I want."

"Oakley—" Faith began, arm outstretched, fingertips reaching.

"No." Oakley cut her off with a sharp gesture, the movement slicing through the air between them. "I married him. Me. No one forced my hand." Her voice strengthened with each word, her back straightening, shoulders squaring as if bracing against an invisible weight. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, trembling slightly. "I'm tired of everyone treating me like I'm some fragile doll without a mind of my own."

Doubt flickered across Faith's face. "But you were scared of him?—"

"I was scared of what I felt!" Oakley's voice broke slightly, her performance flawless. She glanced at me, something unreadable in her eyes. "It's... intense. What's between us. It always has been."

Grim studied her face, then mine, his jaw tightening as his eyes held a knowing darkness. The weight of what he'd witnessed earlier—me forcing the pen into her trembling hand, the unspoken threat hanging in the air as she signed those papers—passed between us in silent recognition. His fingers drummed once against his thigh, a private code of complicity.

"You're saying you married him willingly? No coercion? No threats?" His tone was careful, measured, giving her an opening she was too terrified to take. The question hung in the air, poisonous and heavy, each word carefully chosen to sound concerned while revealing nothing.

Oakley's eyes darted to Grim's face before quickly looking away, the memory flashing between them like electricity—his impassive expression as V forced the pen into her trembling hand, how he'd simply watched, arms folded across his chest, while she'd silently pleaded for intervention that never came.

A muscle in her jaw twitched involuntarily. Her body angled slightly away from him, revulsion plain in every line of her posture. "Yes." Her answer was firm but hollow.

She walked over to me, sliding her hand into mine with deliberate purpose, her fingers cold and stiff against mine. I felt her pulse racing against my palm even as her face remained composed.

"I chose this. I chose—" her voice cracked, betraying her for just an instant before she swallowed hard and met Grim's eyes with unnerving intensity, her gaze no longer afraid but burning with silent accusation. Something passed between them—her condemnation of his betrayal, his unspoken acknowledgment of his role in her nightmare. "I chose him."

"Bullshit," Faith whispered, but uncertainty had crept into her voice.

"Enough." Oakley's tone was final. "I'm going home with my husband. That's my choice."

The silence that followed was broken by Nyla suddenly turning away, walking toward the door without a word. Grim watched her go, his face unreadable, but his fingers curled into a fist at his side. He made no move to stop her. Faith exchanged a look with Joslyn before following Nyla out, her hand gentle on the other woman's shoulder as they disappeared from view.

Oakley looked at her remaining friends, resolve hardening her features. "I need you to let me live with this. Even if you hate me for it."

I watched in dark satisfaction as doubt took root in their eyes.

The corner of my mouth twitched.

She did want this. She wants me. Everyone else was wrong for doubting. They simply couldn't understand what we had.

"Let's go," she said to me, tugging gently toward the door. To anyone watching, it would look like eagerness to be alone.

Oakley squeezed my hand once—so subtle I almost missed it. A silent plea or warning, maybe both. Warmth flooded my chest at the tiny, involuntary contact. She was trapped, desperate, and lying—but she was still mine. That silent, terrified squeeze was as close to devotion as she could offer, and it was more than enough.

As we moved toward the exit, Law stepped from the shadows, horror and confusion etched on his face as he watched his daughter walk hand-in-hand with me. Our eyes met over Oakley's head, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across his weathered features. Something passed between us—a promise, a threat, an understanding that only one of us would survive this.

Law stared at his daughter, expression hollowing into something lost and broken. His lips parted silently, as if he wanted to speak, plead, or scream—but the realization in his eyes spoke clearly enough: he had lost her completely, maybe forever.

His face paled, not from threat but from doubt, skin going ashen beneath his beard as sweat beaded along his hairline. The possibility that he'd never truly known his daughter at all. I could see the terrible question forming behind his eyes: Was she a victim, or had she chosen this path?

Oakley's steps were steady but wrong as we walked out—too stiff, too rehearsed. Her shoes made hollow sounds against the wooden floor, each footfall a small surrender. The cotton of her dress whispered against her skin as she moved, her breathing shallow and quick. There was an emptiness to her gait, the absence of her natural self evident in every calculated step. With each stride, she retreated further into herself, building walls I could almost see materializing around her.

Oakley's eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully vacant, a void she'd practiced for survival. Her breaths came too evenly, rehearsed, mechanical—a puppet mastering its own strings. Her lips were bloodless from being pressed together too hard, tiny crescents of tooth marks visible on the bottom one.

I saw it clearly—but I didn't care. My fingers tightened around hers, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, her pulse fluttering against my grip like a trapped bird. I felt the tension in her body, the resistance she fought to hide, the silent scream building behind her ribs that would never escape. And I savored it all.

She walked beside me like she was walking into a grave. Graves were permanent, unyielding—like us.

And I'd build it from our bones if that was what it took.