Page 41

T he clubhouse was chaotic when I stepped inside—Knight and Tyrant were locked in a near-shouting match over whatever the fuck they fought about. Tyrant raised a deliberate middle finger as Knight leaned forward, jaw tight.

"Touch that finger to my face again and I'll take it off," Knight warned, but Tyrant kept his finger up and pushed it closer to his best friend's face.

Husk stood behind the bar, pouring whiskey with theatrical slowness, amber liquid catching the light. He kept his eyes fixed on the stream, deliberately ignoring my entrance.

"Look who crawled out of Oakley's shadow." Husk lifted his glass in a sarcastic toast, finally looking up with eyes glittering with the hope I'd give him reason to bleed.

I clenched my jaw, counting silently to five. Forgiveness, motherfucker. Forgiveness—defined as not punching people even when they fucking deserved it.

Knight straightened, pulling back from Tyrant's finger. "How's Oakley doing?" His tone shifted, genuine concern replacing the irritation.

Not responding, I moved toward an empty chair and dropped into it, ignoring how the weathered leather creaked beneath my weight. Oakley, Law, and Claudia were having a "family day." I was family—I was Oakley's fucking husband and their son-in-law, for Christ's sake. But apparently that didn't mean shit. Since Oakley asked for peace, I decided to come to the only other place I was mildly tolerated.

Usually, I would've crushed Knight's windpipe for saying my wife's name, but this was what Oakley would call a "pissy mood." Like being excluded from your own fucking family was something to get over with deep breathing.

Husk snorted, deliberately swirling his glass. "Didn't think you could breathe without her in the room."

If Husk didn't shut the fuck up in the next five seconds, I'd rearrange his face into something even his mother wouldn't recognize. My fingers tightened around the armrest instead of his throat, wood cracking beneath my grip. Progress.

Did Oakley have any fucking clue how difficult restraint was? The beast inside clawed at my ribs, desperate to break free, and I'd been here less than a minute. I wanted her to let me back in, not stay distant and closed off, pretending things were normal when nothing was. But if that meant trying this bullshit compromise thing, I'd do it. For her. My thumb pressed into the silicone wedding band. The only tether keeping me human in a world that begged for monsters.

The door slammed open, wood cracking against the wall. Grim strode in, expression cut from granite.

"If you ladies are done with your fucking tea party, we have business." Grim slammed a manila folder down on the center table. "Dominic Moxley."

The name hung in the air for exactly two seconds before a distinct crack echoed through the room. Every head snapped toward the bar, where Hex stood with what remained of a whiskey glass deliberately crushed in his fist. He'd squeezed until glass shards embedded deep in his palm, blood dripping between his fingers.

His eyes didn't flicker, didn't register pain. Just cold rage wrapped in perfect control.

He looked at Nyla, Grim's wife, whom he was training to be a nurse. "We're doing stitches," he told her, voice flat. Then he walked out toward the infirmary, leaving a blood trail behind him. Nyla followed him without a glance back at her husband, careful not to step in her mentor's blood.

Grim watched her go, his eyes lingering on his wife's retreating form for a moment before he sighed heavily, resignation and something else—something darker—crossing his features.

"Cool. That's, what, Tuesday rage now?" Tyrant drawled, kicking his boots up on the table with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Want me to pre-fill the incident report under 'shit we don't talk about'?"

I didn't give a fuck who Dominic Moxley was or why Hex just shattered glass in his hand. Not my problem. I picked up the folder and flipped it open, skimming for anything that might affect Oakley. Nothing else mattered.

I'd barely registered a word in the file when the door burst open hard enough to rattle the walls. Every chair scraped back instantly. Guns drawn, safeties off. Husk vaulted over the bar, shotgun appearing in his hands—the alcohol buzz nowhere in his movements. Knight shifted into a shooter's stance within half a heartbeat, breath already controlled, finger resting beside the trigger—not on it. Perfect fucking discipline. Tyrant's eager grin widened.

A muscular figure sauntered in. He walked with the casual confidence of a man who'd already accepted death as an old friend. My fingers found my bat, wrapping around the familiar weight as I rose from the chair.

"Heya, fellas." His hands remained in his pockets, posture relaxed despite six weapons trained on him. He whistled low, tension sliding off him like water. "Warm welcome. Love what you've done with the place." His eyes scanned the room, lingering on me with unsettling recognition.

My bat spun once in my hand, catching the light. The familiar weight settled against my palm, already mapping the seventeen ways I could dismantle him without killing him outright.

Knight moved from his stance, closing the distance in two quick steps. One calculated shove sent Chet face-first against the edge of the table. A sharp crack filled the silence—teeth connecting with wood. Blood splattered across papers. Grim's pistol clicked, the sound cutting through the air like scissors through fabric as he aimed dead-center between the man's eyes that seemed too calm.

"Give me a reason this bullet shouldn't meet your teeth," Grim said, voice so quiet everyone leaned in to hear it. The barrel pressed firmly against the stranger's throat, leaving a pale circular imprint on his skin. Grim didn't blink, didn't show a flicker of emotion—just dead eyes calculating odds.

"I vote we skip the interview and go straight to the fun part," Tyrant chimed in, his smile widening as he cracked his knuckles one by one. "Been a boring fucking week."

Chet laughed, crazy bastard. "You boys keep this up, I'm gonna start thinking you have a soft spot for me."

Husk stepped forward from his position near the bar, fist connecting with Chet's nose. Cartilage crunched wetly as it exploded across his face. "Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it permanently."

He didn't even flinch. He blinked twice, then smirked like he wasn't about to die.

"Stand down," Grim ordered. Husk retreated just inches, while Knight remained perfectly still, barrel jammed beneath Chet's jaw, eyes flat and lethal. Tyrant leaned against the wall, inspecting his nails.

"Hey, V." Chet's eyes found mine through the mess, the twist of his lips widening as he wiped blood onto his sleeve with theatrical casualness. "You're looking quite stable today."

All attention swung sharply to me. Perfect fucking timing. My patience wore thinner than the line between mercy and murder. If Grim didn't kill him soon, I would.

I'd broken men for smiling at the wrong moment. He was seconds from becoming a fucking anatomy lesson.

"Care to explain how you know this guy, V?" Grim asked.

I let the silence hang until it became a living thing between us. "Chet. Prez's leftover problem."

The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch, oxygen thinning. No one moved.

"I figured I had about sixty seconds to impress you before I became a decorative stain," Chet said, blood bubbling between his lips. He didn't spit it out—just let it flow like he enjoyed the taste. "Though V here's probably calculating how long he could keep me screaming before I'd pass out. Old habits, huh?"

"Since when do we collect strays?" Tyrant asked, his tone honey-sweet while his eyes promised violence. He pushed off the wall, the movement lazy but sharp. "Or is this another souvenir from the Prez's glory days that should've stayed buried?" His smile never faltered, even as he reached into his pocket, flicking open a switchblade with practiced ease.

Chet's jaw tightened, eyes flashing briefly at Tyrant's comment—the first visible crack in his composure. Buried. That word again. His reaction said more than he did.

Grim ground the gun barrel harder into Chet's skull, the metal leaving a perfect ring on flesh. "Talk faster or die slower. Your call." Each word fell like a stone into still water.

Chet spat blood onto the floor, the dark liquid hitting the boards with a wet slap. "After everything me, V, and Law have been through, I figured there'd be a warmer welcome." He gestured around the room, his movements deliberately casual despite the tremor in his wrist. "Did they not tell you I was at Darrell's house that night?"

Grim's eyes flicked to me, cold calculation and fresh doubt. His teeth ground audibly as he looked back at Chet. "They failed to mention that."

"You're either suicidal or selling something worth dying for," Knight stated, no emotion whatsoever in his voice. "Tell us what you fucking want."

"I know what you're planning." Chet leaned forward despite the gun pressing harder against his skin, metal dimpling flesh, death just a twitch away. "Dominic Moxley's. I want in."

"Why the fuck would we do that?" Grim asked, his voice a chilling whisper that sliced through the room. The kind of quiet that preceded his worst decisions. His finger visibly tightened on the trigger, knuckle whitening with deadly intent.

Chet reached slowly into his coat pocket—just enough movement to set off every instinct in the room. Knight pressed the barrel harder against Chet's jaw. Husk's knuckles whitened. Tyrant's smile sharpened, hungry for death.

"Moxley's place looks like a normal suburban house," Chet continued, voice steady despite the guns trained on him. "But it's rigged to hell and back. Motion sensors disguised as garden lights. Pressure plates under the welcome mat. Reinforced windows that look standard but can stop a bullet." He paused, letting the specificity of his knowledge sink in. "And he keeps his office safe behind a painting of a ship. Fucking cliché, but there you go."

Husk furrowed his brows. "How the fuck would you know all that?"

"Same way I know you've got a crematorium in Hellbound," Chet replied without missing a beat.

No one was supposed to know about the crematorium. It was a secret code for the brothers. Anyone else who knew about it would be executed on the spot.

But no one moved.

"If Darrell's name still means anything in this room, I go."

No one breathed. Then—"Convenient timing," Grim said, his voice lethal.

The corner of Chet's lips twitched. "You know how Darrell operates. Always three steps ahead."

"Why should we believe anything you say?" Knight cut in, fingers twitching near his holster.

"Because if I wanted to screw you over," Chet replied, leaning back with infuriating calm despite his split lip and shattered nose, "I wouldn't be sitting here taking your hospitality so graciously."

"If you're lying," Grim said, voice dropping to that deadly whisper, "we don't kill you fast." He slowly pulled the gun back from Chet's throat, then straightened up, tucking the weapon away. "Until then, you're staying at the clubhouse. Under surveillance."

Chet shrugged, oddly calm. "Okay, you need to call my girlfriend then. She gets cranky when I don't come back home."

"You roll out at nine tomorrow evening. Just a small team—Law, V, and Chet." His eyes narrowed at me. "Law handles surveillance, V handles anything breathing wrong, and Chet—your ass better hope you're actually useful."

Knight cleared his throat. "You sure about this? Bringing an outsider?" The question hung heavy in the air—the kind that challenged leadership without crossing the line.

"We're keeping him close," Grim answered, voice hard. "Where we can watch him. Rather have a snake in my sight than at my back." He turned back to me, dropping to that dangerous register. "Keep it tight. No killing. No maiming. Fuck, don't even breathe on him wrong. Just find out who the fuck this Moxley is."

Husk's shoulders tensed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Tyrant's smile never faltered, but his eyes had gone cold. The club's displeasure was palpable, filling the room like smoke.

That was basically all three of my love languages, asshole.

My fingers itched for my bat, for the familiar weight that promised release from this constant pressure building in my chest. But I gripped the edge of the table instead, wood creaking under my fingers.

Grim was still issuing orders, something about club honor and brotherhood. I tuned him out, eyes already drifting to the clock, counting down until I could leave and go back to Oakley—the only fucking thing that mattered in this world.

"Not complaining, V," Grim finally spoke, eyeing me warily, "but why the fuck aren't you threatening someone yet?"

Tyrant chuckled from his corner, the sound sharp and humorless. "Look at him, all domesticated now. Got himself a wife and suddenly he's playing nice."

Knight leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Quiet V is worse than loud V."

Tyrant snickered. "Ten bucks says he cracks somebody's skull before sundown."

"Twenty says it's yours," Knight muttered.

I rolled my shoulders, neck cracking as I stretched it side to side. The room shifted, bodies leaning imperceptibly away from me.

"The club comes first, V," Grim's tone sharpened, a surgeon's blade of warning. "Remember that."

"No," I replied flatly, twisting my wedding band once more. "Oakley comes first. Every fucking time."

Air locked in my throat. I couldn't pull in enough to calm the twitch in my jaw. Restraint clawed at my windpipe, a noose tightening with each passing second.

They thought I was turning over a new leaf. That maybe love softened me.

But I was still me. And they'd do well to fucking remember that.

After Grim's orders, the hours dragged by, landing me reluctantly in the pharmacy aisle of a store I'd never been to before.

"Razors," I muttered to myself. "Simple enough." Except nothing was simple when it came to Oakley. She'd mentioned feeling self-conscious about the facial and body hair her PCOS caused. I hadn't given it much thought—hair was hair—but she cared, so here I was.

Razors lined shelves, pastel-colored promises of silk and blood. A middle-aged woman turned down the aisle, saw my expression, and promptly backed away. These razors apparently didn't just remove hair—they changed lives. Five blades. Moisture strips. Swivel heads. What the fuck were women shaving with these things, wild animals? I glowered at the display, imagining their plastic screams as I snapped them one by one. How many fucking blades did one woman's razor actually need?

I grabbed one with five blades and some kind of moisture strip that promised to solve all life's problems. Then another with a swivel head. Then a third because it claimed to be specifically designed for sensitive skin. Fuck it. I'd buy them all.

My eyes drifted to the next aisle over. Heating pads. Last month flashed through my mind—Oakley curled on our couch, hands pressed against her stomach. She'd murmured something about cramps and wanting chocolate. I'd wrapped her tight against my chest, feeling completely useless but content as she fell asleep halfway through some romantic comedy bullshit she made me watch.

I grabbed the most expensive heating pad they had.

As I turned toward the checkout, my eyes caught on a discreet black box labeled personal massager. I stopped. Remembered something Oakley had said offhandedly about orgasms helping with cramps. The box promised "relief and relaxation." I picked it up, turning it over in my hands, reading the details on the back with narrowed eyes. Waterproof. Multiple speeds. Rechargeable. Medical-grade silicone. Whatever the fuck that meant.

It reminded me of the one I broke the first time I saw her masturbating. I groaned in the middle of the aisle, picturing the way her legs were spread and how her fingers were pinching her nipple. A middle-aged woman with a shopping basket rounded the corner, saw me holding the box, and quickly reversed direction.

I stared at the box, jaw clenched. The thought of Oakley using anything but my hands pissed me off, but if it meant relief from her pain—I'd endure it.

I didn't want her to use toys. I only wanted her to use me.

But we weren't fucking. And orgasms helped her cramps, and since she wouldn't let me give her one…

Fuck it. If it helped her pain, my discomfort didn't matter. Just another tool to fight the enemy inside her body.

Fucking hell, the things I did for love. Or forgiveness. Or whatever the fuck this was.

I added it to my growing pile and headed for checkout. The cashier paled instantly, eyes darting from the items to my knuckles—all six-foot-four, scarred, dressed in black, probably looking like I was planning a very specific kind of murder.

I held his gaze, expression flat and dangerous. His smile vanished. He swallowed hard, hands fumbling as he bagged the items, eyes now fixed firmly on the register.

He told me my total, probably surprised I just didn't steal it. I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket, peeled off two hundreds, and tossed them on the counter, ignoring the tremor in his hands as he made change. The receipt printed slowly as I watched, wondering what shade of gem his ashes would make. Red like his hair? Yellow like the way I just made him piss himself?

"Have a nice day," he managed weakly, pushing the bag across the counter. Don't tell me what to fucking do. Only Oakley could do that.

I took the bag and turned to leave. He exhaled sharply behind me. At least he'd have a story to tell his friends later.

The day Death itself bought a vibrator.

L aw was sitting on the couch reading a newspaper when I got to the apartment. As soon as he saw me he stood and headed out the door. Fucking prick.

The lights were off, no cheesy romantic flick playing on the TV. It wasn't the time Oakley usually went to sleep. "Oakley?"

I moved toward the bedroom and heard it—a whimper, thin and ragged. The bedroom door yielded under my palm, revealing Oakley curled tight on our bed. Her body folded in on itself—knees drawn to chest, hands clawing into her sides deep enough to leave half-moon indentations in her skin. Sweat beaded along her hairline, dampening chestnut strands that clung to temples flushed with pain. Her eyes squeezed shut, jaw quivering against whatever war waged inside her.

The PCOS. Her invisible enemy. I recognized the position. I couldn't track her time of the month since she was irregular. She didn't have them every month. But when she did, she could barely move.

A second whimper escaped her, higher-pitched than before. Her pain crawled under my skin, burrowing deep. Just like her anxiety, this wasn't an opponent I could beat bloody. She sensed my presence, eyelashes fluttering against pain-flushed cheeks. Her eyes—pale green clouded with pain—struggled to focus.

Crossing to her, I knelt beside the bed. Up close, the salt tracks on her face glistened in the half-light. She hadn't called me. The evidence of her suffering, faced alone, tightened something in my chest.

My fingers brushed dampened hair from her forehead. I peeled damp strands from her skin. Let the touch linger longer than it should. I told her I wouldn't touch her, but I couldn't help myself. Not when she was fucking hurting. Her skin burned fever-hot beneath my palm as I traced the outline of her face.

Her body convulsed with another wave, muscles contracting visibly through her thin T-shirt.

I moved to the dresser where I'd dropped the pharmacy bag. The bag emptied under my hands, contents scattering across the surface. The plastic tore wrong under my hands. The cord tangled like it knew I was on edge. Even the outlet beside the bed resisted, the plug slipping once, twice, before it clicked in.

Cursing under my breath as the button blinked, refusing to yield to my thumb's insistent pressure. Three presses. Four. I couldn't feel the warmth of the pad, but I just hoped it wasn't too hot for her. I couldn't tell if it was.

Her hand reached out, trembling, grasping at air.

I kicked off my boots, letting them hit the floor with twin thuds. The mattress dipped under my weight as I knelt beside her, placing the warmth against an unseen enemy. Her fragility struck me anew—her softness contradicting her strength, the paradox of her.

She guided my hand, positioning the heat where pain concentrated most. Even this small movement cost her, face contorting as another cramp tore through. Her grip tightened suddenly around my wrist, a silent request for grounding. I answered instinctively, pressing the heating pad more firmly against her abdomen. Her body curled tighter, instinctively protecting itself.

Making space beside her—her body shifting despite the pain, creating a hollow for mine—she drew me in without words. The invitation more binding than any demand.

The bed accepted my weight as I aligned myself behind her—chest to back, knees tucked behind knees, arm sliding beneath her head. I positioned the heating pad firm against her lower abdomen, my hand holding it in place over the curve of her stomach. Her body quaked. Muscles drawn tight. Fighting something I couldn't kill.

I adjusted the blankets. Nothing exposed. Nothing left to the cold.

She pressed back, seeking more contact, more pressure. The small sound that escaped her throat wasn't pain but relief—a controlled exhale, the first easing of a vise.

Her touch found mine, fingers interlacing with mine atop the heating pad, grip tightening with each wave that rolled through her. My thumb brushed small, soothing circles against the back of her hand, the rhythm slow and steady, silently acknowledging the depth of her pain while reinforcing my unwavering presence. Her pulse thrummed beneath my palm, quick and frightened, gradually slowing as heat penetrated deep.

Minutes stretched, measured in her ragged exhales and subtle shifts. Her trembling continued—not the violent shaking of before, but constant micro-tremors as her body fought through the pain. Each shudder softened incrementally against me.

She trembled but refused to cry out, holding herself rigid against the agony as though her quiet defiance might lessen my worry. Even in her deepest pain, she was protecting me from the full weight of her suffering. The restraint in her body—deliberate control despite chaos raging inside—struck me as a different kind of strength than I possessed.

My hand moved in slow, firm circles, countering the internal spasms with external pressure. I carefully adjusted the heating pad's placement, silently tracking her responses, refining the pressure and warmth until I noticed the slight relaxation in the lines etched by pain around her eyes. Each breath came slower, less ragged. Her hand remained locked with mine, anchoring herself to the pressure point.

A shift in her body language—slight but unmistakable—as the heating pad's warmth penetrated layers of hurt. She melted backward into me by fractions, surrender disguised as acquiescence. Her shoulders eased, like she'd tuned into my heartbeat and decided it was safe.

The curve where her neck met shoulder invited contact. My masked lips pressed there, not in demand but acknowledgment. I pressed my face gently into the crook of her neck, inhaling slowly, grounding myself in her presence. Words weren't my language. Action was. This quiet attendance to pain—this was my dialect of devotion.

She pressed deeper into the hollow of my body, trust more dangerous than any threat I'd ever issued. Her head tilted slightly, seeking the warmth of my touch as an anchor through the waves of pain. Her knuckles traced the scars on my free hand, a tender exploration that spoke volumes about acceptance and closeness. For once, my hands weren't instruments of ruin. Just support. Just for her.

As her breathing deepened with sleep, I carefully began to extract myself from behind her. The mattress creaked as I shifted my weight, preparing to go to sleep on the floor?—

Her eyes snapped open—cloudy with near-sleep but suddenly focused. Small fingers wrapped around my wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd been trembling minutes before.

"Stay." I paused, making sure it was what she wanted. "P-Please."

Wordlessly, I settled back into position behind her, arm wrapping around her waist, chest pressed to her back. She curved into me, fitting perfectly against the hollow of my body. Her hand found mine again, pulling our joined hands against the heating pad on her stomach.

There would never be enough distance to keep her safe from me, and never enough proximity to satisfy the hunger her presence ignited in me.

But in this moment, in this bed, her pain gradually subsided beneath our joined hands. For one breath, balance existed. That in this moment, I wasn't a monster wearing a man's skin. That I deserved the trust she placed in my hands.

I'd burn the world if it touched her. Tear apart reality itself if it threatened what was mine. Become the villain in everyone's story but hers.

And everyone fucking knew it.