Page 43

I heard her footsteps stagger slightly when we walked down the stairs from her childhood bedroom. I knew my come was still between her thighs, how her unstable gait would last for the next day.

Part of me wanted to say fuck this mission and fuck her instead. But I wasn't going to push my damn luck. I was letting Oakley set the pace with how she wanted to handle our relationship, and I was going to enjoy every fucking inch she gave me.

Law and Claudia were by the front door talking when she looked up as we reached the bottom step, her expression brightening at Oakley. Her eyes flicked between Law and me—always a smile on her face.

"Are you feeling better?" Law's eyes flicked to the pink blooming across her cheeks, then to the mess of chestnut strands clinging to her neck. She gave a jerky nod, gaze fixed on the ground. He turned to me. "We need to leave."

Claudia smiled at Oakley. "Girls' night!"

The sound that left me wasn't human. I fixed my gaze on Claudia, watching the temperature of her expression cool beneath my stare. Then Oakley's hand touched my arm, bringing me back to her. "I'm staying here tonight, remember?"

I knew because I would never let her be by herself again. Not after she was almost taken from me.

"I even picked up the good cocoa for your favorite cake," Claudia continued before looking at me. "I'll even find some good snacks for your hubby."

My eyes moved between them, not understanding why Claudia looked so happy to spend time with Oakley. Was this what it was like to have a loving parent? Them actually wanting to spend time with you without anything in return when you had nothing to give them?

"I remember when you used to sneak chocolate under the table during dinner," Claudia snickered, manicured fingers brushing her lips.

Law chuckled. "Remember Oak's sixth birthday? She insisted on baking her own cake—wouldn't let anyone help."

Claudia laughed. "It looked like a brick and tasted worse, but we ate every bite and told her it was perfect."

"Because it was," Law said, his expression transforming. "Our little girl made it."

Their love had no price tag. No payment required. My fingers twitched. For a moment, I got a glimpse of what might have been if Mother had loved instead of used.

"Keep her safe," I told Claudia. My eyes caught on family photos lining the wall, on how Claudia touched Oakley's shoulder, on the protective heat in Law's gaze. These people would shield her in ways I understood and ways I never would. My eyes dropped briefly to her jaw, where makeup covered the mark from my failure.

Her expression softened. "I'd never let anything happen to my daughter, V."

Law checked his gun, tucked it into his shoulder holster. Claudia approached me without fear, making Oakley's heart rate accelerate. "I'll make you some eggs and bacon for the morning. Sorry I didn't know you were a carnivore, but I'll always make sure there are food options for you here."

I stared at her. Her words formed a pattern I couldn't decode.

She smiled, unbothered by my silence. "Trevor, bring him back in one piece. I'd like to see my son-in-law again."

The term struck Law first—his jaw tightened, veins mapping his neck as he made a strangled noise somewhere between curse and denial.

Law's expression shifted to something childlike. "What about me?"

She rolled her eyes, hand settling on his shoulder. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder, dear."

Something inside me shifted—a forgotten door opening. Like a punch to a place that couldn't feel pain but registered impact anyway. It vanished instantly, sealed away where weakness belonged.

"I-I'll see you tomorrow?" Oakley asked as we prepared to leave. Uncertainty threaded her voice.

I held her gaze, measuring her reaction. "Tomorrow."

She leaned forward suddenly, pressing her lips to my covered jaw. Law's breath caught. "I'll be waiting."

She played the role perfectly—devoted wife for watching eyes. But the expression in her gaze didn't feel like a performance. Like their lives depended on the lie.

"We're leaving," Law growled, knuckles white around the door handle. His body rigid, neck muscles straining. He threw the door open against the wall. Everyone flinched but me.

"You should go. My husband has a bit of a temper, especially when it comes to our girl," Claudia said gently. "Be safe, okay?"

I nodded once, keeping my eyes on Oakley as I followed Law. Cold rushed in as the door opened, carrying the scent of the coming rain. Law stepped out first. I followed like a shadow.

Through the closing door, I watched her. She should feel relief—the threat gone, leaving her in the safe hands of her mother. Instead, emptiness crossed her face. The spot where my eyes held hers retained the pressure of a gaze that took more than it gave.

The door shut. Outside, Law's hatred sizzled between us. But something new had taken shape—my taste on her mouth, her kiss on my cheek. Between those points, something tangible formed—something she no longer knew how to fight.

Something neither of us could escape.

"Wait!" Claudia's footsteps fluttered behind us, her heart racing beneath paper-thin skin. She gasped when she saw my face. "Oh my goodness, you're hurt."

Her hand rose toward my cheek. I stepped back immediately. Only Oakley touched. I was good earlier when I knew Oakley was watching, trying to show her without words that my threat to her parents' lives was just that—a threat. The only one I wouldn't ever act on. But not now, and not my face.

"I'm sorry!" Her hand retreated as she swallowed. "You just have a—wait here."

"For fuck's sake," Law muttered. "We don't have time for this shit."

Claudia returned clutching a small box, movements careful like approaching a rabid animal. She extracted a bandaid, removing the wrapper with nervous fingers. A square of pink—ridiculous unicorns grinning from the adhesive.

"Hold still," she instructed, voice pitched as if speaking to a child rather than a man who'd killed more people than she'd likely met.

I didn't move as she applied the childish patch to my cheekbone. Her touch felt alien—too gentle. Mother's hands had only ever touched to hurt, fingers digging into flesh, twisting deeper than necessary, enjoying the wounds she couldn't make me feel.

"There," Claudia said, stepping back with a smile that looked too much like Oakley's. "All better."

Law's laugh cut through the memory. His eyes fixed on the pink unicorns now stuck to my face, amusement crackling through his frame. Claudia shot her husband a glare sharp enough to kill lesser men. "Everyone needs a little care sometimes," she said, voice honeyed but firm. "Even men with weapons like yours."

My fingers twitched toward the adhesive. The urge to rip it off crackled beneath my skin—then faded. The patch would stay. Not because it provided comfort, but because Oakley would see it.

I should get her something. A gift. If Law didn't return tonight, would she appreciate a necklace made from his ashes?

"Let's go," Law said, already moving toward his car, assuming I'd follow.

Oakley lingered in the doorway, attention catching on the ridiculous pink bandaid, then meeting my eyes. For one heartbeat, her lips twitched upward. Almost a smile. Or maybe I imagined it. Didn't matter. I'd crawl through fire for even the illusion.

Forgiveness tasted close—toxic and sweet like her kiss.

T he clubhouse parking lot stretched empty under the night sky, just a few bikes scattered across cracked asphalt. Sarge's massive chopper with its matte black finish dominated the space like its owner dominated rooms. Law stepped out of the car, shoulders already tensing for whatever waited inside. "Think Chet's still alive?"

I shrugged. Didn't care if he was or wasn't.

Inside, the scent hit first—whiskey, cigarettes, old leather, and fresh blood. They were in the back room—Chet sprawled across the leather couch with the arrogance of a man who'd forgotten how easily bodies break. His feet rested on the coffee table, boots leaving dirt on the polished wood. Sarge sat across from him, hood pulled low, scarred face hidden in shadow like always. The air between them crackled with violence, barely contained.

Chet's eyes lit up when he saw us, relief flashing across features too sharp to be trustworthy. "Thank Christ. My knights in shining leather." He unfolded from the couch, stretching dramatically. "Thank you for your hospitality," he turned to Sarge with a mocking bow, "but I would love to have a conversation with someone that actually entertains me."

Sarge's massive frame didn't move, but his voice crawled out from the shadows—gravel and rust. "One more word and I'll rip your tongue out through your asshole."

Chet sighed, grabbing his jacket with exaggerated weariness. "You ever hear yourself talk? No wonder Joslyn looks bored half the time."

The room went dead silent. Law took a step back, leather creaking as he moved.

Sarge lunged faster than a man his size should move—pure violence compressed into flesh. His fist connected with Chet's jaw, the crack echoing like gunfire in close quarters. Bone meeting bone. The sweet sound of consequences. Chet stumbled backward, blood streaming from a split lip, yet somehow still grinning through crimson-stained teeth.

Law inserted himself between predator and prey before Sarge could finish what he'd started. "We need him intact," he reminded Sarge, lawyer voice activated. "For now, at least."

Sarge's eyes—one normal, one blind—locked onto Law's. The pulse in his neck throbbed visibly, counting down to murder. "Your problem now. Get him the fuck out of here."

Chet wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand, smearing red across his stubble. "Always a pleasure, Sarge. Tell the missus I said hi."

Law's fingers dug into Chet's arm, dragging him out before Sarge's restraint shattered completely. I followed, noting the fresh bloodstains on Sarge's knuckles—drying brown at the edges. Hadn't been a pleasant night for Chet, despite the swagger.

"You have a fucking death wish?" Law hissed once we were outside, shoving Chet against the building's wall. Brick dust scattered from the impact, settling on Chet's shoulders like snow. "Is it your life's mission to piss everyone off?"

"I gotta do something to contribute to the club," Chet said, straightening his jacket with practiced nonchalance. His eyes landed on my face, narrowing as they registered the pink adhesive still stuck to my cheek. "What the fuck is that?" He leaned closer, squinting through the dim parking lot lights. "Are those... fucking unicorns?"

My hand rose to my cheek, fingertips grazing the ridiculous paper and glue stuck there. My muscles tensed, fingers already calculating the distance to my bat. Last time someone laughed at me, I counted their teeth as they hit the floor.

Law snorted, earlier tension dissolving into dark amusement. "My wife takes care of our girl," he said, then added with a smirk that dug under my skin, "and occasionally her strays."

I better be Oakley's only fucking stray.

Chet's mouth twitched, a laugh building that he barely contained behind bloodied lips. "Cute bonding moment," he drawled, examining a fresh cut on his knuckles. "Though, gotta wonder—how many more of your girls will V poach? Daughter first, wife next? Or maybe you've got a grandmother stashed away somewhere? V's got a collection to complete."

The air stilled between us, temperature dropping ten degrees. Law's face darkened, hand twitching toward where a gun should be. If we're counting family, I'd already got the only one worth keeping. The rest would just clutter the basement. Too many voices, too much noise.

"Let's get this shit done." Law's voice hardened, each word sharp enough to cut. If he made a move against Chet, I'd let it play out. Might be entertaining to watch someone else's blood paint the asphalt. I hadn't seen a skull cave since Tuesday. The sound was always different—sometimes a wet crack, sometimes more like an eggshell breaking.

"Pissed princess off already," Chet whistled, making his way to the back seat of Law's car. "Good thing V can't feel pain. The emotional kind, I mean. Though I guess that whole CIPA thing means you can't feel the physical kind either, huh? Must make jerking off a real challenge—like fucking a corpse with your own dick."

I stared at him, unblinking. The unicorns on my bandaid probably showed more emotion than my face.

"What?" Chet grinned, blood still staining his teeth. "Too far? You literally collect body parts in that basement, but a masturbation joke crosses the line?"

It'd be a fucking miracle if we didn't kill each other tonight.

M oxley's house squatted in the darkness, sprawling two-story at the end of a cul-de-sac. Too many windows. Too many entry points. Too much security. Yet somehow not enough.

"Doesn't look like much," Law muttered, peering through binoculars from our position across the street. His breath fogged the night air, betraying our position with every exhale.

Chet snorted, unpacking equipment from a black duffle bag that reeked of gun oil and chemicals. Metal clinked against metal as his fingers worked with practiced efficiency. "That's the point. Don't let the suburban dad vibe fool you. House is a fucking fortress." He handed Law what looked like night vision goggles. Law fumbled them, nearly dropping the expensive equipment onto wet grass.

I gripped my bat tighter, the worn wood pressing familiar grooves into my palm. Blood from yesterday's work had dried into the grain, turning the surface rough in places. "I'll go through the front."

"Jesus Christ," Chet hissed, yanking me back down behind the bushes. His grip left immediately when he caught my stare, fingers retreating like he'd touched hot metal. Smart man. "No, you fucking won't. Place is rigged to hell and back."

"How bad?" Law asked, trying to focus the goggles and failing. His pupils dilated in the dark, the scent of fear rolling off him in waves that crashed against my senses.

Chet's face went grim, mouth flattening into a hard line. "Motion sensors, pressure plates, trip wires—probably enough C-4 to level the block. We need to?—"

I was already moving before he finished. The night air felt clean in my lungs, washing away the stench of Law's fear. My bat swung gently at my side, balanced and ready.

"V!" Chet's harsh whisper chased after me as I cut across the neighbor's yard, keeping low beneath decorative shrubs and garden lights.

The side of the house had a small window—probably a bathroom. Perfect. Small space to contain an explosion if things went wrong. I'd barely reached it when Chet appeared beside me, equipment jangling softly at his belt like warning bells.

"You dumbass," he panted, pulling out what looked like a scanner. Red lights blinked across its surface, illuminating his face from below in bloody hues. "At least let me check for?—"

My hand moved toward the glass, but Chet grabbed my wrist. A mistake. My muscles coiled instinctively, ready to break every finger that dared touch me. Only Oakley was allowed that privilege. Only her hands could claim my skin without consequences.

"Wait." He released me quickly, pulling out a small canister from his belt. He sprayed something at the window, and instantly, a grid of red laser beams appeared, crisscrossing the glass like veins. "Motion triggers," he explained, pointing to small black boxes mounted on the interior frame. "Break the window wrong, and boom—you're painting the walls with whatever's left of your internal organs."

Death didn't scare me. Never had. Losing her did. Not seeing her face again, not hearing her voice, not watching her smile slowly return. "How do we get through?"

A slow grin spread across Chet's face, blood from his split lip making it look more feral than friendly. "Very, very carefully."

Chet pulled out a thin metal tool, carefully working at the window's edge. "I can disable the sensors, but it'll take a few minutes. One wrong move and we're all dead."

"Too long." I propped my bat against the house wall and examined the laser pattern more closely. The beams formed a tight grid, but there was a gap near the bottom corner—barely large enough for a body, but possible.

"Don't even think about it," Chet muttered, sweat beading despite the cold. "That gap is maybe two feet by one foot. You're too big."

"We'll see." I studied the opening, calculating angles and clearance.

After several tense minutes, Chet's device beeped softly. "Got it. Sensors are down for exactly sixty seconds before backup systems kick in."

I grabbed a heavy stone from the landscaping. "Move back."

The rock shattered the glass in a controlled break—jagged shards falling away cleanly. No alarms. No explosions. The laser grid flickered and died with the disabled sensors.

"Clock's ticking," Chet warned, checking his device. "Fifty seconds."

I cleared the remaining glass from the frame with my elbow, creating a clean opening. The bathroom window was narrow but manageable without the laser grid. I went through first, landing silently on the tile floor.

"Clear," I called softly, turning the manual latch to open the window wider for the others.

Chet came through next, agile despite his bulk, followed by Law who stumbled slightly on the tile.

"Backup sensors just came online," Chet whispered, consulting his scanner. "We're committed now."

Standing in Moxley's pristine bathroom, my gaze cataloged every corner, every shadow, every potential threat. White marble tile. Glass shower. Chrome fixtures polished to a mirror shine. I recognized the careful cleaning of someone who enjoyed their work too much to be sloppy. Someone like me. Someone who understood that the greatest art happened in the darkest places.

I retrieved my bat from where I'd left it outside, pulling it through the window before Chet could object.

Navigating through the house felt like moving through a living organism. With each careful step, I mapped motion sensors and pressure plates, avoiding them with an instinct born from years of watching how people died. The air grew thicker with each step, the hallway narrowing like a throat tightening around prey. Behind us, walls shifted—panels gliding silently into new positions. The house was changing its layout, erasing the path I'd taken, swallowing my trail like it had never existed.

I reached the office door at the end of the winding hallway. No light showed beneath it, but something hummed behind the wood—machinery waiting to spring. My hand closed around the handle, testing its resistance. Locked. My foot connected with the door, wood splintering as I dove aside. Steel spikes slammed into the floor where I'd stood, tearing through carpet and floorboards.

Before I straightened, a panel opened above the bookshelf. A single dart whizzed past my ear, embedding into the leather chair with a soft thwack. Close. Too close.

The office preserved its pristine appearance despite our violent entry. Glass desk, leather chair, bookshelves lining the walls like soldiers at attention. I crossed to the desk, scanning for anything useful. The drawers were locked, but that didn't matter to us. I drove my elbow into the expensive wood, splintering it open and exposing the contents hidden within.

Inside the bottom drawer was a leather-bound book. Too plain, too ordinary compared to the sleek modernity of everything else. I grabbed it, flipping it open.

Names. Dates. Locations. And at the top of the latest page: Cruorcrux ledger.

"Give me that." Chet snatched the book from where I'd set it on the desk, brows knitting as he studied it with growing unease. "A Cruorcrux ledger? Shit."

"Cruorcrux?" Law echoed, frowning as he approached the desk with cautious steps.

"I've heard rumors about it. Old prison, middle of bum fuck nowhere. Supposedly built by a man who lost his shit and buried his best friend and his fiancée beneath the foundation. Built the cells right on top of their bodies." Chet laid the book on the desk like it might bite, fingers retreating from the pages with unusual reverence. "No court dates. No sentencing. You don't go there for committing crimes. You get sold there."

"Trafficking?"

"Not like that. Not sex rings or slave labor. Just... punishment. Like if you piss off the wrong family with too much money and nowhere to bury a grudge, that's where they send you. You just... disappear."

I remained silent, calculating. A place where people disappeared, where bodies became currency. Almost admirable. In another life, I might have run such a place, keeping ledgers of my own, precise records of the suffering inflicted. But Oakley... she would shatter in a place like that. Her softness would crumple under that kind of pressure. In this life, all that mattered was making sure Oakley never saw the inside of such a place. Never experienced the despair of captivity.

"I miss when life didn't involve this bullshit," Law muttered, hand running through his hair.

"It's always been happening," Chet's eyes never left the ledger. "It just involves you now."

A soft click froze us all in place.

I heard it before I saw it—boots on hardwood, the subtle shift in air pressure as the office door we'd destroyed swung wider. Heavy footsteps approached from the hallway beyond. Chet froze mid-sentence, his eyes locking with mine in silent communication.

"Someone's coming," Law whispered, his hand already moving to the gun that wasn't there. Panic tightened his features, sweat beading at his temple. "We need to?—"

A man in tactical gear filled the doorway like a shadow that had come to life, stance wide, weapon already drawn. "Don't fucking move!" His voice carried authority and barely controlled violence. "Mr. Moxley, we have intruders in the?—"

I was across the room before his finger could twitch on the radio.

The guard's training kicked in—his knife emerging from its sheath in one fluid motion, air parting with a whistle as the blade sliced toward my throat. I twisted, but not fast enough. We collided with enough force to splinter the bookcase behind us, volumes raining down as his shoulder drove me backward. His momentum carried us both into the desk, glass cracking beneath our weight. The blade found my side, slipping between ribs, sinking deep enough to scrape bone. Cold steel carved a path through flesh, blood immediately soaking my shirt, running hot down my hip.

I felt the impact but not the cut—my body registering damage without the accompanying pain. My shirt turned dark with wetness, sticky against my skin as I drove forward into him instead of away.

His eyes widened, pupils dilating with shock when I didn't drop. Confusion flashed across his face—that crucial half-second hesitation when someone realized I wasn't human.

If I knew how to smile, I would at his pathetic response.

"What the fu?—"

I seized that moment of disbelief, lunging toward him instead of retreating. My forehead connected with the bridge of his nose, cartilage giving way with a wet crunch that echoed in the small space. Blood erupted between us like a geyser, painting both our faces in violent strokes. I grabbed his wrist, twisting until tendons strained and bones ground together. The knife remained lodged in my side, handle protruding from my ribs as I spun him, using his own momentum against him.

The guard's knee shot up toward my groin, a desperate countermove that would have doubled most men over. I caught his leg, lifting until his balance failed. We crashed into the wall, plaster cracking under the impact. His elbow caught me across the temple, vision sparking white for an instant before I drove my palm up under his jaw. His teeth clicked together, biting through his own tongue.

I seized the distraction, driving my elbow into his exposed throat with enough force to crush his windpipe. Something gave beneath the blow—soft tissue collapsing, sending him reeling backward. His fingers clawed desperately at his neck, fighting for air that wouldn't come. Panicked sounds escaped him—wet, desperate gurgles as he dropped to his knees. His eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting as oxygen deprivation turned his face purple. His hands reached for me even as his body surrendered, fingers grasping at empty air.

The guard collapsed forward, his weight carrying him face-first into the hardwood with a wet thud.

Chet whistled low. "Jesus Christ."

I yanked the knife from my side, blood pouring freely down my leg. No pain, just wetness and the distant awareness of damage. Law stared, face drained of color. "V, you're?—"

"Fine." I stepped over the body, heading toward the door. "We need to move."

Law examined the corpse with the detached calculation of someone who'd cleaned up enough messes to know what came next. "Can't leave him here. Too much evidence." His gaze swept the room, searching for solutions. "We need to get him out of the house."

"Living room," I decided. "More space to work."

They hauled the dead guard between them, Chet taking the shoulders while Law grabbed the feet. Carrying him as we maneuvered down the hallway.

The living room sprawled before us—a showcase of wealth that reeked of insecurity. Leather furniture arranged in perfect symmetry, original artwork hanging at precisely calculated intervals, crystal decanters catching light from recessed fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, offering an unobstructed view of meticulously landscaped grounds. Perfect escape route.

"What are we gonna do with him?" Chet asked, dropping the guard's shoulders with a grunt. The body hit the expensive rug with a dull thump.

Law kept his distance, eyeing the corpse with the same calculation he'd use on any legal problem. "Leave him. Make it look like a break-in gone wrong." His gaze swept the room, cataloging what needed to be disturbed. "We need to get the hell out of here before someone realizes the comms are down."

"Should we stage it better?" Chet gestured at the relatively undisturbed room. "Looks too clean for a robbery."

"No time," Law's jaw tightened. "We've been here too long already."

Chet was already moving toward the windows, examining the latch mechanism. "Looks like these might open manually. No electronic locks."

Law joined him, both with their backs to the room, focused on our potential exit. Neither of them noticed the small device clipped to the guard's belt, its red light blinking steadily.

I saw it. The beacon. The guard's final insurance policy.

Fuck.

My body moved without thought, instinct overriding everything else. I lunged forward, grabbed Chet by his shirt, spinning him toward the window.

"What the—" Chet didn't finish as I slammed my shoulder into his chest, sending him crashing through the glass. The impact shattered the reinforced pane, sending him tumbling onto the lawn outside with a surprised shout.

I turned to Law next, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him toward the window with enough force to make him stumble. His eyes widened in confusion and anger. "What the fuck are you?—"

I pushed him through the opening before he could finish. His lawyer's reflexes were shit, but surprise and momentum carried him through after Chet.

The beeping erupted from the device on the guard's belt, accelerating rapidly. I grabbed my bat from where I'd leaned it against the wall and dove for the window.

The world detonated—a searing wave slammed into my spine, stealing my breath, filling my ears with static. The blast launched me through the window, my body airborne for a suspended moment before gravity reclaimed me. I crashed onto the manicured lawn, momentum rolling me across wet grass and decorative stones. Glass and debris rained down, slicing through leather and skin as flames erupted from the shattered windows behind me. The concussive force had knocked the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping as the world tilted on its axis.

As darkness edged my vision, Oakley's face filled my mind, jade eyes haunted and unreadable. Had she smiled at me since our wedding, or were they all fragile half-lies I stole from her lips? The memory of her surrender earlier tasted bitter—acceptance given out of necessity rather than desire. I'd forced her into my world, chained her life to mine. If tonight was the night that finally broke that chain, would she be free, or would she carry its ghost forever?

My chest tightened. If I died here, Law would take her back. He'd give her a life I never could—sunlit mornings, easy laughter, soft words instead of silent terrors. Maybe she wouldn't mourn me. Maybe she'd celebrate my end, finally able to breathe again. And maybe, for once, I'd done something worthy of forgiveness.

Part of me wanted to stay in the flames. Let her have the peace of my absence. But the thought of never seeing her again cut deeper than any knife could. I couldn't die. Not until I knew she was truly safe.

Rough hands dragged me, scraping skin over stones and grass, the sharp scent of smoke stinging my lungs. My brain lagged behind my body—pictures snapping into place out of order. A cheek. A mouth. Eyes I'd die for.

Her lips moved like she was begging. I pretended it was my name. I pretended she gave a fuck.

"Oakley," I rasped, fingers lifting, desperate to touch her just once, to feel the reality of her skin against mine. But the image shattered, replaced by Law's scowl. I sank into bitter disappointment, the illusion more cruel than comforting.

The hallucination faded, replaced by Law's grimace as he hauled me farther from the blast zone. Blood streaked his forehead, his expensive jacket torn and smoking at the edges. His mouth moved, forming curses I couldn't hear as he collapsed beside me once we'd reached what he deemed a safe distance.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Law wheezed, his face streaked with soot and blood. "You almost didn't make it."

Behind us, Moxley's house remained standing, but flames now licked from the shattered windows. No explosion. No collapse. Just a contained inferno that devoured everything inside without spreading to neighboring properties.

The vibration of my own coughing finally broke through the silence in my ears. Sound rushed back in waves—the crackle of flames, Chet's labored breathing as he crawled over to us, Law's frantic cursing as he checked us both for serious injuries.

Chet struggled to his feet, eyes blinking against smoke. Law stumbled sideways, one sleeve scorched, muttering curses as he steadied himself.

Law's voice was stripped of anger, raw with something closer to gratitude. "You fucking idiot," he rasped. "You nearly died."

Chet staggered close, blood dripping from a cut above his eye, his gaze sharp but absent the usual mocking edge. "You threw us both out first," he said, disbelief coloring every word. "Didn't see that coming from you."

"You're welcome."

For a moment, Chet stared blankly, then exhaled a bitter laugh. "Careful, V. Start acting human, and people might expect it."

Ignoring him, my shoulder throbbed where glass had cut through leather and skin. The burn on my arm pulsed. A reminder that even death houses could bleed you if you weren't careful. When I tried to stand, my leg buckled. Chet was at my side instantly, sliding his shoulder under my arm. "Get the fuck off me."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, blood still trickling down his temple. "Least you still have your personality."

"Don't need help." My words slurred slightly, throat raw from smoke. I dragged myself upright, ignoring the unsteady rhythm of my own breathing, the way my vision threatened to tunnel.

"Sure you don't, tough guy." Chet's smirk returned, but something softer lingered beneath it. "You just decided the ground looked comfortable."

Law stood motionless, watching me struggle with an intensity that made my fist clench. His eyes held something worse than pity—understanding. Like he'd figured out a piece of me I couldn't afford to have seen.

"Stop fucking staring," I growled, blood seeping through my sleeve as I forced my body forward.

Behind us, the house continued its controlled burn, consuming the evidence of our intrusion. The fire cast long shadows across the perfect suburban lawns, but no alarms sounded. No sirens approached.

As we drove away, I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Moxley's house dissolve into the darkness. One step closer to understanding what we were up against. One step closer to keeping Oakley safe from whatever was coming.

My fingertips brushed the unicorn band-aid—still clinging stubbornly, absurd and childish, yet somehow perfect. Claudia's tenderness marked me, a quiet promise that I'd broken my own vow of violence.

Oakley’s almost-smile flashed vividly, bright against the darkness in my mind, taunting me with something I'd never truly earn. I'd chase that fragile curve of her lips until it broke me. I'd tear myself apart if it meant holding her even a second longer.

Leaving Oakley felt like ripping my heart out, but her safety was everything. Her face flashed through my mind—crumpled on her bathroom floor, trembling after a panic attack. I'd stood above her, useless, while she gasped for air. I wouldn't leave her like that again.

Because Oakley wasn't just safety or sanity, she was redemption, something too precious for bloodied hands like mine. I'd rip apart worlds for another smile. Another breath. Another stolen heartbeat where I felt more human than monster.

She was the only human part of me I had left.