Page 37

M y knuckles split open, nerves silent beneath shredded skin. I just wanted something—regret, guilt, pain—some proof I hadn't rotted from the inside out.

I wanted to be her heart like she was mine—something she couldn't live without. She flinched away from my hands like they'd sear her flesh. I'd brand myself with her fear if it meant she'd never look away again.

The sound of this man's bones cracking under my fists echoed through the empty space. Another stranger who'd never understand why he'd become my outlet. Just another body strapped to my hook, absorbing the fury impossible to unleash on myself. Since forcing that ring onto her finger, she'd changed. Dead-eyed. The light that used to fill her gaze when she saw me—extinguished. And it was turning me fucking feral.

Not at her. Never at her. But at myself? At the world? At whatever had made me so fucking broken that possession became the same as love? No path to fix what lay destroyed. No way to earn back what had been stolen.

Each rejection fueled another hit into the near corpse, blood spattering across my cheek with each dull crack of bone.

Say it. Regret it. Mean it.

The air carried copper and suffering—raw, bitter, and bleeding at the edges. The nonexistent pain in my hands making everything worse. More enraging. This wasn't about release anymore butpunishing myself through him.

Marriage was supposed to make her mine forever.

Instead, it had made her a stranger.

And I had no fucking clue how to grovel back to her heart. How to make her see that this wasn't just possession.

I just... wanted her to love me.

The hairs on my neck prickled. The heavy silence around me shifted, disturbed by a presence. The door opening broke my thoughts. Who was here? No one was stupid enough to disturb me in my domain.

Dark stains dripped from my knuckles, splashing softly against the concrete floor—a steady rhythm to the intruder's casual footsteps.

"Nice place you got here—very Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes. You're really leaning into the whole serial killer chic thing, huh?"

My head jerked toward the voice. Chet. Chet standing in my doorway like he owned the place. Last time I saw him, I was beating the shit out of him with my bat before we did a drive-by at the hospital. Now here he was—bruises still yellowing his skin—eyes scanning from the broken body on the floor to my wall of toys, then back to me. Not a flicker of fear in his face.

Too comfortable in my space. Either fearless or insane. Both, probably.

"Are you fucking stupid?"

He held his hands up, casual, like we were old friends having a disagreement. "Well, you knocking me around with your bat didn't fucking help." One hand dropped to scratch the shaved side of his dirty blonde hair. "I just came to talk."

"Talk?" People didn't come here to talk. They came here to die.

His eyes drifted past me, taking in the walls that held more confessions than a priest, ignoring my question entirely. "Charming place. I'm guessing your guests don't come back for seconds?"

"Get to the point." My fingers twitched, craving the satisfaction of snapping bones.

"No foreplay? Poor Oakley." His mouth curled into a smile.

This motherfucker. "You?—"

"You ever think about why Prez picks guys like us?" Chet's eyes scanned the room again, taking in the mess on the floor. "We're damaged goods, easy to mold. Easy to weaponize."

My hands lowered a fraction. My jaw tightened, brow pinching.

"Funny that I can't find any information on you." He stepped closer, unafraid, cutting me off. "No driver's license. No social security card. No bank account. No passport. Nothing." Another step. "You really are like something from hell."

Chet didn't flinch as my anger filled the room. Instead, he laughed—soft, knowing—like we shared some private joke. "Darrell said you were dangerous. He didn't say you were obsessed." Eyes traveling over the tools hanging on my walls. Head shaking. "How the hell are you even legally married without identification?"

The words buried themselves under my skin, digging deeper than I wanted to admit. "Shut. Up."

"Darrell found you outside your mother's house after two bodies hit the floor. Eleven years ago." He stepped closer. Too close. "Sound about right?" The knowing in his eyes cutting like a knife. "And you've been his little pet ever since."

Nails digging deep crescents into my palms. I wasn't a project. Nobody's fucking pet. Every muscle straining not to slam this guy's skull into the ground. Memories crashing back—that night—on the street—Prez's hand on my shoulder, leading me away.

"I used to pick fights in bars just to feel something," Chet continued, voice casual. "You ever do that?"

I wasn't biting.

Laughter erupted from his belly, echoing off the walls. "You're a hardcore guy. You're Darrell's favorite for a reason."

The game he was playing had too many rules I didn't know. Too many strings I couldn't see. "Who are you?"

His steps halted. His gaze darkened—memories turning it distant, haunted. "I was the first man Darrell ever saved." My stance remained ready, muscles coiled, bat gripped tight. "I owe that son of a bitch everything."

"Saved?"

"You ever feel dirt filling your lungs, V?" His voice dropped. "It's terrifying." Eyes unfocused, seeing something I couldn't. "Darrell pulled me out of a hole in the ground, literally." A shudder ran through him. "Turns out monsters save people too—just so they own your life afterward."

Something in that voice—the rasp of someone who'd tasted death—made my grip loosen. A warped recognition of his survival that I couldn't help but respect, even though I hated him for it.

"You think you're the only one who owes him?" His eyes found mine again. "Loyalty like that—it changes your DNA."

My reflection stared back at me through his eyes. Like staring through glass smeared with my own bloody fingerprints. And I hated how easily he saw through me.

"Darrell said obsession could break or build a man. Guess you're figuring out which." The words came suddenly, voice gentling in a way that felt more dangerous than any threat.

A dull pressure crushed against my sternum, suffocating. "Oakley's not your fucking business."

"She's not scared 'cause you love her too little, man. She's scared 'cause you love her like she's the only thing keeping you alive."

Because she was.

My jaw clenched so hard pain sparked behind my eyes, his words tearing open wounds I'd long buried. I ground my molars together until pressure shot through my skull.

"Maybe that's why we're drawn to obsession." His voice softened further. "We crave something to own because we've never had control over ourselves."

Twisted logic—but my mind latched onto it. Ownership felt safer than being owned.

The urge to crush his skull for seeing too much surged through me. For cutting too deep. For knowing. But beneath the rage lay something worse—the certainty he might be right.

"Trust me, V—" His voice dropped even lower, almost intimate. "I know what it's like when the monsters aren't just in your head." A haunted understanding passed between us. "Sometimes becoming one is the only way out."

His words pulled at something inside me. Unraveling threads I couldn't afford to loosen. "I'm not trying to escape the monster," I said, voice rough. "I am the fucking monster."

"If you want to make this shit right," he continued, eyes flicking to my damaged hand, "you're gonna have to stop breaking bones long enough to realize you're breaking her."

I didn't need advice from a man just as damaged as I was—even if his words burrowed under my skin like parasites.

"Tell me where Prez is." The demand burst from me without warning, changing course, desperate to regain control of this conversation.

Chet's expression shifted, something like pity in his eyes. "No can do. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't. I don't know where he is."

"Bullshit." I slammed my fist against the wall, inches from his head. He didn't even flinch.

"Listen—" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. "You don't have to trust me but you should trust that Darrell taught me loyalty." A pause. "He also taught me about when loyalty becomes chains. Think about which side you're on."

"Tell that bastard he's dead when you see him." I turned back to my toy, needing to get this new rage out of my system.

"You're not as fucked up as you think, you know." He shrugged, entirely unimpressed by my threat. "Well... maybe you are. But you're not alone in it."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" I resisted the urge to crush his throat, my knuckles cracking with restraint.

His gaze held mine, unflinching. "Prez built us as weapons. But weapons wear out—or turn." The words hung in the air between us, unanswered. "When you're finally ready to dig yourself out of your own grave, give me a call."

"I don't need your help," I called after him as he turned to leave, footsteps echoing on concrete. "I don't need anyone's fucking help!"

He turned away from me, but not without a parting shot. "Your tombstone's gonna look great, V Anson. Big block letters. Unread by everyone who ever tried to understand you."

And with that, he left.

I stared at the empty doorway, his words ringing—then the phone erupted. Oakley's ringtone shattered my focus—my own voice echoing from the phone, reciting wedding vows about love and protection while I stood dripping in proof that I didn't know how.

Her voice cracked through the speaker—terror so thick I could taste it. Someone had broken in. My wife was trapped somewhere in our apartment while I stood in a basement full of corpses, too far away to reach her.

My bike roared beneath me as I tore through the streets. Her breathing came through the phone in ragged gasps that made something twist in my gut—something that shouldn't exist in a body that couldn't feel pain. Every sound she made felt like someone was carving pieces out of my chest with a rusty blade.

The connection crackled. Shuffling. Sharp cracks echoed through the speaker. What was that? What were they doing to her? The sounds drove spikes through my skull, each one worse than the last because I couldn't see, couldn't know, couldn't do anything but listen.

My bike lurched as my hands convulsed around the grips. The engine screamed, but the streets stretched endless while sounds I couldn't identify painted nightmares in my head. Was she hurt? Was she fighting? Was she?—

Her scream tore through the phone. My name. She was calling for me, and I wasn't there. I wasn't fucking there.

Something crashed. The phone hit something hard, and then came sounds that made my vision go white. Impacts. Struggles. The wet, choking gasps of someone who couldn't breathe. The bike swerved as my hands shook against the grips.

Then silence. Dead fucking silence, leaving me alone with the roar of my engine and the echo of her terror.

The streets blurred past, but I might as well have been crawling. Every second that ticked by was another second she could be bleeding out, another moment she might be taking her last breath while hating me for not being there to save her.

I'd failed her in every way that mattered. Failed to protect her from the monster I'd made her marry. Failed to be there when she needed me most. Failed to keep the promise I'd carved into my own back.

The engine beneath me screamed, but all I could hear was the ghost of her voice calling my name—a prayer I was too late to answer.

Her name tore through my lips, ricocheting like gunfire as the bathroom door flew open under my shoulder. The scent hit first—blood.

Oakley's blood.

There she sat perfectly still, folded into herself in the tub, face expressionless. A deep gash on her hand painted bright trails across her ivory flesh. Violet marks bloomed across her jawline, throat, along the ridge of her collarbone—finger-shaped bruises that matched the sounds of her being strangled that I'd heard through the phone. Her eyes—her green-glass eyes—vacant, distant. Like someone had turned out the lights and left the body behind.

Every sound I'd been forced to listen to was written on her skin. Every choked breath I'd heard was now bruised flesh around her throat. Every impact I'd listened to helplessly was now a cut, a bruise, a mark on the woman I'd sworn to protect. I'd heard her almost die and done nothing but listen.

Pink tinge mingled with bathwater, threads spreading like ink through the murk around her motionless form. A razor laid discarded at the tub's edge, its blade stained—her desperate attempt at self-defense. Her chest barely moved with shallow, irregular breaths. Not panic—something worse. Complete shutdown. Her body stayed stiff under my touch, empty of everything that once made her mine.

"Oakley" her name a growl. Then louder, desperation clawing up my throat. "Fucking look at me."

No response. Just that lifeless stare, fixed on empty air. Every instinct screaming to break something, to find the motherfucker responsible and tear them limb from limb.

I turn the water off before grabbing a clean towel from the rack, tendons taut with the urge to rip it in half as I climbed into the tub beside her. Water sloshed against the porcelain as the towel pressed against the deepest gash on her shoulder. The things I killed with—attempting to patch up what some other bastard had torn open.

She stayed mannequin-stiff beneath my touch.

"Need to clean this," my voice rough, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Still in the tub with her, I stretched to reach the first aid kit under the sink, water splashing as I moved. Her eyes never tracked the movement. Antiseptic, gauze, tape—hands fumbling with items never used to heal, only to maim. The irony cut deep. These hands—weapons, not tools. No knowledge of soothing, only destroying.

Fingertips steady while dabbing the gash with antiseptic. No wince from her. No reaction to what should have been searing pain. Two fingers against her throat—counting five beats in one second. Pulse racing while her mind remained somewhere else entirely.

The flow mostly stopped, but her eyes—fuck, her eyes still hollow, locked behind walls I couldn't reach. I'd made her this way. Even now, even after she’d called me, she'd retreated so completely. Visible injuries were patchable. But the damage inside her? If she disappeared behind those dulled eyes again, I'd drag her screaming back if I had to.

"Don't leave me here alone," I choked out, voice torn raw like barbed wire pulled through my ribs. She stared through me, unseeing, empty. Wet fingers finishing the bandaging, white gauze stark against her pale skin. The cut was not deep enough for stitches, but it would scar. Another mark she'd wear because I wasn't here to fucking end the bastard who touched her.

Moving closer, gripping her face hard between both palms, thumbs digging into her cheekbones. Nothing.

"Five things," snarling the words, throat raw like swallowing glass. Her pulse thrashing against my fingertips—too fast. "Five fucking things you can see, Oakley."

Unfamiliar territory. These hands knew death, not healing. My thumbs traced her cheekbones, like I was learning braille. No way to smash through the walls her mind built around itself.

"Dammit, Oakley—just name something. Anything." The words harsh, commanding. Fists aching to punch through plaster. "Please."

No response. Just that empty gaze staring at nothing.

"The tile," desperation thick in my voice, pointing at the wall, knuckles white with tension. "You see the tile? It's cracked right there." Grasping at anything, fighting the urge to drag her back from wherever she'd gone. "The water. Look at the water, baby."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Teeth sinking into my tongue until copper flooded my mouth. Control slipping. Rage building not at her—God, never at her—but at the world for ever touching her. At myself for letting it happen. For not being there to slit the throat of whoever did this.

Her hand in mine, squeezing too hard, guiding her fingertips to the smooth edge of the tub. "Feel that? It's real. You're here. With me."

A tiny flicker in her eyes. The smallest contraction of her pupils. Not much, but something.

"That's it," urging her, voice still rough. "Come back to me."

I searched her face for any sign of returning awareness. "You feel my hand?" I guided her limp fingers to my face. "Feel that? I'm right here."

Her fingertips trembled slightly against my cheek. The smallest awareness flickering back into her vacant stare.

"Four things you can touch," I continued, desperate to keep that tiny spark alive. I moved her hand to my chest. "My cut. Feel the leather."

Her fingers twitched against the material, the first voluntary movement since I'd found her.

"Good," I encouraged, relief making my voice shake. "What else? The water?" I guided her hand to touch the cooling water. "It's getting cold. We need to get you out soon."

Her lips parted slightly, a small exhale that might have been a word.

"What?" I leaned closer.

A violent tremor ran through her entire body. Her pupils dilated impossibly wider, a small whimper escaping her throat. Her nails suddenly dug into my arm with surprising strength, hard enough to break skin—her first real reaction.

"Easy," I pulled her closer. "You're safe now."

A single tear tracked down her cheek. Then another. Then she was weeping silently, tears streaming down her face while her expression remained terrifyingly blank.

"I'm here," I whispered, gathering her carefully against me, mindful of the bandaged shoulder.

She blinked slowly, her gaze finally—finally—shifting to meet mine. Recognition flickered in those green depths. "V?" Her voice was barely audible, cracked and uncertain, like she was calling from somewhere far away.

The sound of my name on her lips made something in my chest crack open. I climbed out of the tub, water streaming from my clothes as I reached for a fresh towel to cover her shoulders where she sat. Her skin prickled with goosebumps, lips tinged faintly blue. I draped the dry fabric over her without trying to move her from the tub. "The water's getting cold."

Her body remained rigid, still not fully present, but her gaze tracked me—sluggish, unfocused, but moving.

"No one else will ever touch you again." The words scraped. She should've never been hurt in the first place. You fucking failed her.

Kneeling beside the tub, I kept one hand on her shoulder through the towel. The water turned pink around her, cooling rapidly. Her skin was too cold, but I didn't try to lift her out—sensing her need to stay contained, protected by the porcelain walls. The tub was her fortress, for now.

I checked her bandage again, the flow mostly stopped, but she still looked too pale. She hadn't spoken since whispering my name.

"Talk to me," I urged, desperate to hear her voice, to know she was truly back.

Her lips parted, then closed again. She swallowed hard, her throat working, the water lapping gently against her skin with each subtle movement.

"They... tried to take my ring," she finally whispered, voice so fragile I had to lean closer to hear it over the water.

I kept my face carefully neutral, focused on checking her injuries. "Did they hurt you anywhere else?"

She shook her head slightly, ripples spreading outward. "Just here," she whispered, touching the bandage on her shoulder. "And..." Her fingers drifted to her throat, where dark bruises were forming.

Rage surged through me at the thought of someone's hands around her throat, but I forced it down. She didn't need my fury right now.

"I thought..." Her voice cracked. "I thought they were going to kill me. And I couldn't do anything. I just... froze."

I grabbed a washcloth, dampened it with warm water from the tap, and gently wiped the dried stains from her arms, careful not to disturb her. She remained in the tub, the water around her now pink-tinged and cold, but she seemed unwilling to leave its protective confines. The blank in her eyes had receded. Now, they just looked exhausted.

"Do you smell that?" I asked softly, searching for any sensory detail that might pull her further into the present while she remained in the tub.

She inhaled shakily. "Iron." Then, after a moment, "And you."

My throat tightened. I'd never wanted to be a comfort to anyone before her. Never thought I could be.

"Why did you come?" she whispered suddenly, the question catching me off guard, her voice echoing slightly against the porcelain.

She thought I wouldn't come when she needed me—that I would abandon her when she called—was that the kind of monster I was in her eyes?

I forced the fury down, locking it away for later. My thumb brushing her cheek. "You thought I wouldn't come?"

The smallest flicker of something—trust? Relief?—passed through her eyes before they went hollow again. She nodded once, a barely perceptible movement, sending tiny ripples through the darkened water.

"Stay with me," I murmured, crouching beside the tub, one arm resting on its edge.

She nodded again, but her eyes remained distant, like she was already retreating back inside herself, to somewhere I couldn't follow.

My fingers slid to the back of her hair, tangling in her chestnut locks as I pulled her to me. Her delicate hands fisted weakly in my shirt, burying her face against me. I ran my hand along her back, feeling her shoulders shake with silent tears. She could never say or do anything to make me stay away from her. "I didn't think you would after?—"

"You called." I pulled her closer, careful of her injured shoulder. "I'll always come home to you."

That was what I was now—what she made me. A man who lived on commands.

"You're hurt too," she whispered suddenly, reaching for my split knuckles. I'd forgotten the wounds from earlier. It didn't matter. I couldn't feel it anyway.

"It's nothing," pulling her hand away from my wounds. "We need to call your dad."

She sighed, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. She didn't speak, just nodded her head.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, the screen cracked but functional from when I'd shoved it there after hearing her final whisper. Dialing Law's number, he answered sharply. "What do you want?"

I cut him off. "Someone broke in."

"Is she okay?" I didn't answer, but I heard movement on the other side. "I'll be right over."

I clicked end on my phone, setting it on the counter. "He's on his way."

I stayed crouched beside the tub, watching over Oakley as she huddled in the cooling water. I pulled another dry towel from the rack, draping it over her shoulders as the first one became damp. Her skin was still too cold to the touch. Every minute stretched like hours. My eyes kept darting between her and the bathroom door, muscles coiled tightly, ready to launch at the first sound. The thought of leaving her even long enough to secure the apartment made my jaw clench. Not again. Never again.

I wanted to press her for more details, but her eyes were beginning to go vacant again, retreating from the horror of the memory. I couldn't lose her to that emptiness again.

"We don't have to talk about it now," taking her hand in mine. Her fingers felt lifeless, cold.

Twenty minutes dragged before the front door slammed open, followed by frantic footsteps racing through the apartment.

"Oakley!" Law stormed into the bathroom, chest heaving, arrogance stripped from his face. His fingers trembled as he took in the scene—his daughter huddled in a tub of pink-tinged water, bandaged and bruised. Despair transformed his mask into naked suffering. He dropped to his knees on the opposite side of the tub from where I crouched, his eyes burning with accusation as they found mine.

"God, are you okay?" His palms framed her face, gaze fixed on the violet stain spreading across her cheekbone and the bandage on her shoulder.

"I trusted you," he snarled at me across the tub, voice splintering between torment and fury. "I fucking trusted you."

I couldn't say anything. He was fucking right—I'd failed. The marks on her skin, the violent shudders wracking her frame—undeniable testament to my inadequacy. Law's fingertips brushed over her wounds, and possessive rage scorched through me. No one deserved to touch her suffering—it belonged to me alone.

"I'm gonna fucking kill them," Law growled, his hands clenching into fists, veins bulging along his forearms as he looked at the bruises on his daughter's neck.

I turned back to Oakley, who had barely reacted to her father's arrival. Her eyes were focused on the ceiling, that distant look returning. Swallowing the acid rising in my throat, Law asked gently, "Can you tell us what happened?"

For a long moment, she said nothing, and I feared she'd slipped back into that unreachable place. Then, her voice barely audible: "I was reading on the couch when the power went off. I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and called V."

Eyes closing, a tremor running through her body, fingers unconsciously touching her throat, where bruises darkened against pale skin. "They tried to take my ring. When I wouldn't let them have it, they grabbed my throat, choked me until I couldn't—" Swallowing hard, voice growing fainter. "Grabbed my razor and cut them. Across the chest. They... they left after that."

"That's my girl," Law murmured, voice thick as he squeezed her hand.

No response, her eyes going distant again.

"She needs rest," speaking to Law without taking my eyes off Oakley. Her skin was too pale, and her breathing was too shallow. The bandage on her shoulder showing a small spot of fresh wetness.

My vision darkened with snapshots of violence—my thumbs crushing the attacker's windpipe, my knuckles shattering bone. The fantasy pulsed behind my eyes, visceral and sweet—then evaporated when I caught sight of Oakley's vacant stare. My rage wouldn't help her now. She needed something I'd never learned to give. Safety. My hands knew only how to break, not mend. Could these fingers that had spilled so much ever soothe without possessing? Ever protect without destroying?

Every drop of spilled blood would be a love letter she'd never read, but the world would fucking understand. A promise written in red. I'd skin him inch by inch. Not out of revenge—but so Oakley could see what it meant when something belonged to me. My love wasn't ownership. It was annihilation of anything that dared threaten her again.

Every mark on her was a warrant I'd execute by hand. I'd dissect the world down to bones before anyone touched her again. If I couldn't fix her, I'd destroy everything that broke her.

"She needs Hex," Law said, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

"I'll take care of my wife." I interrupted, voice final.

Law's eyes narrowed, but he nodded reluctantly. He understood the world we lived in. The rules we played by. He stood straight, turning to leave the small ensuite.

I leaned closer to Oakley, who'd gone silent again. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing. "I need to talk to your dad."

Her eyes dulled again—a small nod.

I rose reluctantly, every instinct screaming to stay by her side. The last time I'd walked away, she'd paid in what pooled around her now. But Law's grim expression told me this couldn't wait.

My eyes flickered back to her, reluctant, protective. She sank a little deeper into the cooling water, a silent signal she'd be okay. I stepped just outside the doorway, keeping it cracked open so I could hear her if she called. Close enough to reach her in seconds if needed.

Law handed me a folded piece of paper, his fingers lingering on it like he was passing a death sentence. "Found this on the ground."

His face alone made my stomach twist before I'd even read the note.

The paper quivered in my grasp, every fold awakening nightmares I'd buried so deep they'd infected my marrow. My pulse staggered, then froze. I wasn't V anymore—I was 6325 again, cold concrete grinding against raw flesh, doors slamming shut, every cell screaming with remembered torment.

Oxygen crystallized in my lungs, throat closing as if phantom fingers crushed my windpipe. My vision tunneled, heart hammering against my ribs as something fundamental ruptured inside me. My palm pressed against my abdomen, shielding old wounds that never truly healed.

I know you're alive, 6325.

"What the fuck is this?" Law hissed, his face inches from mine, voice low enough that Oakley couldn't hear.

I couldn't answer. I could barely fucking breathe as I looked at my childhood moniker—who I was before Prez named me.

Law leaned in closer, eyes blazing. "Whatever past you buried—it's coming for my daughter. Fix it or I'll bury you myself."

"V-V?" Oakley's fragile voice called from the bathroom, pulling me back from the edge of complete disassociation.

I shoved the paper into my pocket. Had to breathe. Had to move. Had to get back to her. Oakley needed me. Everything else—even the nightmare crawling out of my past—would have to wait.

If my past thought it could steal her from me, I'd drown it in every drop of blood I could spill until even memories died screaming.