Page 6

" S o glad everyone could join us." Faith's voice twisted, honeyed words edged sharp enough to cut. Her sights set on the two shirtless men commanding the front row.

The lights cast stark shadows across the studio. Bass thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating through my shoes and up my legs as I pressed against the back wall.

Ink and silver scattered across Tyrant's skin, a chaotic mural of stories and scars. All of him was marked—except for the small, bare space above his heart.

Beside him, Knight moved with ease, muscles flexing beneath tattoos that curled along his ribs and shoulders. "Nowhere I'd rather be, babe."

We huddled in the back of the room—Nyla, Joslyn, and me. I tugged at the oversized T-shirt, wishing it would swallow me whole. The damp cotton outlined every unwanted curve, the blazing overhead lights spotlighting each flaw I desperately wanted hidden.

"In my youth, I was an exotic dancer." Tyrant couldn't be more than thirty. He executed a perfect body roll that had Joslyn giggling and Nyla rolling her eyes. "So if I move better than you, it's okay to feel jealous."

"I'll try not to be," Faith drawled, dragging her attention off the men to focus on us. "Victoria's not coming?"

"She said she was busy tonight," Joslyn offered, reaching skyward in a stretch that emphasized her dancer's build, her blonde ponytail swaying gently with the movement. The pale yellow of her sports bra caught the studio lights, making her glow like moonlight trapped in motion. "The three of us haven't done this before, but I'm excited! Sarge and I exercise but..." A knowing smile played on her lips.

"Gross," Knight's face contorted. "Don't want to hear about your sex life, Jos."

Tyrant couldn't help himself, "Yeah, we've heard what he does to you. Twice."

Joslyn's face flamed red; her mouth opened and snapped shut. Nyla snickered beside her.

"You're no better, Ny," Tyrant grunted, sinking deeper into a hamstring stretch. "Prez had to replace his whole office set after you two defiled the damn armchair."

"It was the desk," Nyla corrected without missing a beat, bending forward gracefully. "The armchair just watched."

Tyrant snorted. "Next time they get inked, I'll pierce their dicks for you. Every woman deserves a pierced dick at least once."

Heat prickled along my hairline, humiliation tightening my skin as I stared at the floor, tracing the wood grain.

"Jesus, dude," Knight laughed. "Sarge would slaughter you."

Tyrant looked genuinely puzzled. "How's that different from any other day? Are you even bros if you don't pierce each other's dicks?"

"I don't think that's a bro requirement, no."

Tyrant's gaze shifted abruptly, landing squarely on me. "You good there, Oak? Your face is all red."

Knight joined in, his voice carrying a warning beneath the teasing. "It's okay to fantasize, but I don't feel like getting whacked by that psycho's bat. So cool the thoughts down, okay?"

My muscles tightened instinctively, my pulse thundering louder than the music.

"I'd appreciate it if you stopped talking about your tiny limp cocks now," Faith interrupted, approaching the speaker system. "Try to keep up, boys." She shrugged off her black hoodie, the movement carrying a dancer's poise that highlighted my ungainly posture, tugging the hoodie free from her ponytail.

The studio lighting revealed a delicate script that curled along her bicep: "one day at a time." The inked script seemed to shimmer under the lights, each letter breathing with memory, a mantra written in ink and scar tissue.

Tyrant stopped mid-step, eyes fixed on the script on her arm. The sprawling artwork across his chest rose and fell with shallow, controlled movements—a man trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. "That tattoo..."

"One day at a time?" Faith's fingers found the script unconsciously, tracing each letter as if absorbing strength from the ink. "My father used to say it." The words carried weight, heavy with memories she seemed reluctant to disturb. "When things got really bad, he'd just..." Her touch lingered on the final word, a caress that spoke of loss and remembrance. "One day at a time, baby girl. That's all we can do."

Tyrant's hand crept to the back of his neck, rubbing with an anxiety that seemed foreign to his otherwise confident self. Beneath the sprawling artwork that consumed his skin, I caught a glimpse of familiar words peeking from his shoulder blade.

One day at a time.

"Well, shit." Tyrant's laugh carried none of its usual bravado. His fingers rubbed harder at his neck. "Guess great minds think alike, yeah?"

The music continued to play in the background, filling the awkward silence between them.

"Let's begin." Faith spun fiercely, eyes locked with Tyrant's as she descended into a low crouch before rising with fluid control that made my attempts feel clumsy by comparison.

I tried to follow along, my movements wooden and disconnected. Every graceful movement from Faith highlighted my clumsy attempts. Her lithe form carved clean lines through the air while my body betrayed me again, stumbling awkwardly under scrutiny, each misstep tightening the knot in my chest.

Nyla nudged me gently, whispering, "You're doing fine," but her reassurance only heightened my awareness of how untrue it was. I wasn't fine. I wasn't graceful. I wasn't them.

The music continued its relentless rhythm, but the easy atmosphere had evaporated. Faith's movements became sharper, more controlled. Her body flowed like liquid fire, hips pulsing with the beat, arms carving through the air with devastation. Sweat beaded along her spine, darkening the fabric of her sports bra as she demonstrated a complicated sequence. Beside me, Nyla matched her effortlessly, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity.

"Feel the music," Faith instructed, demonstrating a body roll that made Knight whistle appreciatively. "Let it pull you. Don't think, just move."

Easy for her to say. My feet tangled through steps like I was wading through mud, following Faith's lead while my mind wandered to dark places. My reflection exposed every misstep, magnifying the gulf between their grace and my awkwardness. A bitter envy took root, deepening with each flawless spin they executed.

Knight caught my eye in the mirror, offering an encouraging nod. "You're getting it, Oak." The lie was kind but transparent.

I stumbled through a turn, nearly colliding with Joslyn, who steadied me with a gentle hand on my elbow. My skin prickled hot beneath their stares, stomach twisting tighter with each missed step.

Tyrant moved with surprising grace for his size, his tattooed body transforming each step into living art. The ink across his skin animated with each movement, telling stories with each flex and extension. Knight matched his rhythm, both men creating a lethal sort of poetry that magnetized everyone in the room. Their muscles gleamed under the spotlights, their confidence contagious, highlighting the hollowness beneath my ribs with each movement they executed.

The low light at the back became my refuge as I attempted to follow along, shrinking with each beat. The space between my shoulder blades burned. The music shifted into something faster, more demanding, forcing me to move closer to Nyla and Joslyn as the choreography changed. Sweat gathered beneath my shirt as I struggled to keep pace.

My breath came in short, painful gasps that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the crushing weight of self-consciousness. The large mirror at the front of the studio reflected all six of us. Their bodies glided effortlessly while my reflection mocked every misstep, magnifying each awkward move.

Heat twisted in my stomach, my breath catching painfully at their effortless confidence. They inhabited their bodies with an ease I couldn't comprehend, wearing themselves without apology while I spent every moment trying to disappear. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, blurring the unforgiving fluorescents into starbursts.

I pulled nervously at the shirt hem, the damp cloth clinging stubbornly like a second skin. The movement threw me off rhythm, and I stumbled, foot catching on nothing, body lurching forward. My pulse skittered, each heartbeat hammering painfully. Heat rose up my neck into my face. My shoulders curved inward beneath a weight no one else could see, a companion that choked the air from my lungs. The lights pierced down relentlessly, baring my discomfort, spotlighting my mistake as though determined to expose every reason I didn't belong.

"You okay?" Tyrant called out, genuine concern in his voice that somehow made everything worse. Several heads turned my way, multiplying my humiliation with each pair of eyes.

Nyla caught my eye, offering an encouraging smile. "Everyone falls sometimes," she whispered, kindness radiating from her in waves that somehow cut deeper than any cruelty could. I ducked my head, throat tightening. Her kindness was a spotlight, illuminating everything I tried to hide. I pulled my lips upward, muscles stiff, corners of my mouth trembling with the effort.

Each step dragged heavier, the mirror reflecting every graceless stumble like accusations. I retreated further into the darkness at the back of the studio, attempting once again to vanish into myself. If I could just become small enough, invisible enough, maybe the vice grip around my lungs would release.

Joslyn flowed effortlessly, her precise spins and graceful steps embodying the music in ways I couldn't mimic. Her body transformed sound into movement without conscious thought. Even in the dim back corner, I couldn't escape the sight of myself. Different. Exposed. Inadequate. The jealousy twisted deeper, morphing into a self-hatred so consuming I recognized it as an old friend.

"Don't think about it so much," Faith instructed the class, but her eyes found mine. "Let your body remember instead of your head."

But my body remembered only how to hide, how to make itself small, how to disappear. It didn't know how to claim space, how to move with confidence, how to be seen. The music surged, pulsing through the wooden floorboards and buzzing beneath my skin, claiming everyone but me.

The door exploded inward with a deafening crack, wood splintering like bone beneath a sledgehammer. Shards sprayed across the studio floor, some skittering all the way to the mirrors.

Sarge stormed through the wreckage like a wrecking ball in black—hood pulled low, his scarred face half-shadowed and monstrous in the light.

And behind him, V emerged like a demon wearing skin. His footsteps were quiet, too quiet, slicing through the silence with an unnatural calm. His eyes swept over the room, stopping when they found me. Dried blood flaked from his bat onto the polished floor, and his shadow stretched long across the hardwood—reaching for my feet like it already owned me.

The scent hit me first—leather, gunpowder, and stale blood. My knees locked, heartbeat hammering violently as my senses snapped back to that basement, the crematorium's gaping mouth, heat shimmering above scorched metal. His eyes, void-black beneath the mask, watched me again, cataloging every flinch, every panicked breath. I could almost feel my back scraping against brick, trapped in a room designed to erase lives. My vision blurred, reality fracturing, until the studio mirror rippled like the darkened walls of Hellbound itself.

My body stiffened instinctively, recognizing danger before my mind did—heart seizing, ears ringing, palms suddenly clammy. Through the mirror, his eyes pinned mine, unblinking, owning every inhale until my chest burned. My limbs turned heavy as stone, leaden as that night when he'd carried me effortlessly over gravel and dirt, toward a house where nightmares became flesh. My skin remembered every inch of him, every bruise his grip had etched onto my waist. The blood-crusted wood in his hand wasn't just a weapon—it was a promise and reminder, the splintered echo of basement floorboards beneath my trembling fingers.

"Well shit," Knight muttered, stepping forward slightly. The movement drew V's attention for a fraction of a second—enough time for me to press myself against the mirror, wishing I could melt through it.

The room felt twenty degrees colder. V took another step inside, boots crunching over remnants of the destroyed door. The studio door lay shattered behind him, splintered wood a jagged echo of that basement door he'd once dragged me through, dust and fragments raining down like judgment. It reminded me of the other day when Dad had stormed through, desperate and bleeding, fighting a battle he couldn't win. Now, Knight and Tyrant shifted, creating a barrier that would crumble like paper if V decided to reach me. We all knew it wouldn't matter. Nothing could stop him when he wanted something. He swallowed the studio's light, leaving me trapped in darkness. I craned my neck, memories flooding of how he'd stood in the basement, his massive shoulders blotting out escape, every muscle coiled beneath my skin that had never bruised, never yielded. Nothing had changed. His form eclipsed everything, erasing escape routes.

Faith’s voice cracked through the shock. “That’s my fucking door! Do you assholes have to destroy everything you touch?”

Sarge didn't spare her a glance, his attention laser-focused on Joslyn. "Buy a fuckin' new one." The words rumbled from his chest like distant thunder, the scarred side of his face catching light as he turned. The mangled tissue stretched from his jaw down his neck, a roadmap of survival that made most people flinch away.

Tyrant shifted his weight, muscles bunched tight, tension thrumming beneath his skin as he watched the scene unfold. His easy smirk faltered when V's bottomless eyes swept past him. "Shit's about to get real interesting," he quipped, earning a sharp elbow from Knight.

"Not helping, brother." The words hung in the air like a challenge, Faith fighting against him tooth and nail.

Knight's arms wrapped around Faith's waist before she could move, restraining her from what would certainly be a fatal confrontation. "Let me go! I swear to God, if you Neanderthals think you can just?—"

V's head turned, the mask catching the light in a way that made him look otherworldly. Knight's hands tightened on Faith's waist as she lunged forward. "Whoa, babe. Sarge ain't the one you wanna fuck with."

"I'm not the one Sarge should fuck with," she spat, struggling against Knight's hold. Her leg swung back, and something dark flashed across Faith's face when his hand pressed against her thigh. The fight drained from her instantly, replaced by something haunted, something distant. He immediately pulled back.

Across the room, the hood of Sarge's sweatshirt hung low, obscuring the left side of his face—a habit born from the need to hide the brutal landscape of scars that mapped his skin like frozen lightning. His arms encircled Joslyn with desperation, pressing her against his chest as if trying to absorb her into himself, to keep her safe in the cage of his scarred body.

Most people flinched away from those scars, but Joslyn leaned into his scarred chest, fingertips tracing the rough, healed wounds tenderly—like navigating scars only she knew the map to.

The fire had broken something fundamental in him, leaving behind a need to constantly reassure himself of her presence. She'd told me about finding him tearing their cabin apart in a blind panic when she'd stepped out to watch the sunrise one morning.

Now she left notes by his pillow: "On the porch with my coffee" or "In the garden" —paper lifelines to quiet the panic of waking up alone.

I couldn't imagine needing someone like that. Or letting them hold me like that. Not without shaking. The way he touched her like she was salvation—what would that feel like?

"What are you doing here?" Joslyn asked, sinking into his embrace.

"You said the class ended at six thirty." His voice carried an edge of barely contained panic.

She glanced at the clock, confusion evident in her furrowed brow. "It's six thirty-one."

"Still late." His attention dropped to her exposed skin, and a growl vibrated through his chest. "Where's your fuckin' shirt?"

"I don't wear one when I work out with you."

"Yeah, me." The word came out like a threat as his eyes cut to Tyrant and Knight. He shrugged off his cut, wrapping it around her dominantly. "And me only."

The air turned arctic as V approached. My body tensed, responding automatically to his presence. The top of my head barely reached his collarbone, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him. One hand rested in the pocket of his black hoodie while the other gripped the bat with familiarity.

"W-What are you doing here?" The question was pointless—I already knew.

He didn't answer. Just took a step. Then another. A slight tightening at the corner of his masked mouth, barely noticeable, gave away more than words ever could. I kept stepping back until my back hit the mirror. He lifted the bat again, poised like an executioner, then drove it down, cracking the floor inches from my toes. Message received: my question didn't deserve a response.

His presence erased mine, dominating every inch of space around us, trapping my breath in my throat until my vision swam. The mask flexed subtly with his breath, reminding me of calculated patience before a strike.

"Who are you?" Faith's challenge shattered the moment. My heart stuttered. She had no idea what he was capable of, what that bat had done to those who defied him.

"That's V." Knight cautioned as if trying not to spook a cornered animal. "He's the enforcer for our club."

"Enforcer, huh?" Faith's head peeked around V's massive frame, only to be blocked as he shifted again. A rumble built in his chest—the kind of sound that led up to violence. "Why are you so close to Oakley?"

Sheer terror clawed up my throat as V's attention fixed on me with laser focus. His hand advanced in slow motion, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The scent of charred wood overwhelmed me, making my head spin.

"I-It doesn't bother me." The lie tasted like ash.

V raised the heavy weapon, eyes locked on mine as he drove it into the floor. The impact cracked the wood, leaving a crater behind. Without hesitation, he swung again, precisely hooking and snapping Faith's necklace from her throat. He stared at her impassively, as if she were already dead, alive only because he allowed it—for me.

Faith's fingers scrabbled at her throat, eyes widening, breath hitching sharply in disbelief. "You son of a bitch?—"

Knight and Tyrant exploded into motion, side by side, all brute force and blind urgency, grabbing Faith's arms as she kicked out at V. Her screams echoed off the walls, each one a potential death sentence.

I moved before my brain could process the danger. I stepped between them, hands raised toward V like I could somehow hold back an avalanche with bare palms. "V..." My voice fractured, words brittle as that night he'd dragged me across splintered wood and broken doors. "I-It's okay."

Something shifted in his eyes—not softening, but recalculating. The bat lowered slightly. I seized the moment. "L-Let's go?"

The signature head tilt followed my stammered suggestion. His grasp flexed around the bat, wood creaking, then relaxed slightly as his eyes met mine. I headed for the door, shame burning in my chest as I caught Faith's devastated expression. I'm so sorry.

The evening air hit my face like a slap as I fled the studio. I stumbled along beside him, my obedience burning shame deep into my chest. I walked quietly—compliant, passive—like the fight had drained out through Hellbound's cracks in the walls, leaving nothing behind but hollow fear and quiet submission.

Cars rushed past on the street, their headlights creating long shadows that seemed to reach for me like grasping fingers. V's grip found my arm, yanking me away from the curb. He positioned himself between me and traffic like he could shield me from danger, but my mind screamed: the only threat here was him. Hadn't he promised that once? Claimed he was protecting me even as he carried me to a basement full of ash and burnt remains? The contradiction threatened to snap my sanity, each gentle touch erasing the lines between captivity and care.

We walked in strained silence, tension winding tighter with every step until it felt ready to snap. I couldn't breathe without tasting smoke, ashes, decay. I couldn't look at him without seeing the crematorium behind him—industrial ovens yawning wide, metal glowing faintly like a mouth that devoured secrets. Had he dragged another body down there tonight? Or was the next one waiting, trembling, trapped in their own reflection? My mind scrambled desperately for something safe to say—something soft enough to slip past his defenses—but the words tumbled out raw, fractured by nerves and uncertainty.

"Just... let me breathe. I promise I'm not going anywhere." It's not like you'd let me.

He stopped walking, grabbing my wrist. Then he bent, lowering his face inches from mine. Eyes empty. He stared. And stared. He lingered so near it felt like the air between us didn't belong to me anymore. "No."

Then he walked again, dragging me behind him like the conversation never happened.

I wrapped my free arm around myself, the sweat-soaked cotton clinging like an accusation. V's gaze swept over me, lingering on my clothes.

"Dance class." It wasn't a question. Of course he knew—he always knew everything about me.

"Faith invited me," I whispered, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.

A dangerous sound emerged from behind his mask. "With them watching."

Heat flooded my face as I thought of Knight and Tyrant. "They... they weren't... I mean, it wasn't like..." Words failed me, and I clamped my mouth shut before I could make it worse.

"You were the only one wearing a shirt." My heart stopped. V loomed behind me, his shadow stretching ominously across the concrete.

"Y-Yeah."

"Why?"

I couldn't meet his gaze. "I-I don't look like them."

He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just waited—like he already knew the answer and wanted to hear me say it wrong. I clenched the hem of my shirt like it could hide me. "I'm not..." I swallowed hard. "I'm not skinny like they are."

V crowded me against the wall, his enormous frame blocking out the rest of the world. My hands found his cut instinctively. Blood and leather filled my nose, leaving me lightheaded.

"Never." The word tore out of his throat as a growl, his eyes blackening to something frightening. "Never talk about yourself like that."

I released his cut but remained trapped between him and the wall. "It's true?—"

"No."

"That's how everyone sees me." It was no more than a whisper, but that truth carried the weight of years spent trying to change myself, hiding.

Something shifted in V's stance—alert to vulnerability—and I forced myself to maintain eye contact. Despite every instinct screaming at me to look away from those hollow eyes, I was tired of hiding. Tired of feeling hunted.

His free hand lifted, hovering near my face without touching, and I watched his fingers curl into a fist before dropping back to his side. It shouldn't have felt tender, but it did—like danger pretending it knew how to be soft.

The brick scraped my back through my shirt, grounding me in a moment that felt increasingly unreal. "You don't know what it's like." My voice cracked on the last word, betraying everything I tried to keep locked away. "You don't know how they look at me, what they say?—"

"I know." His fingers flexed on the bat, the wood creaking under his grip. Blood flaked from the surface like rusted stars, too dead to shine.

The admission settled into my marrow like ice water. Of course he did. He was always there, materializing from shadows, appearing in reflections—a dark guardian I never asked for but couldn't seem to escape.

Each breath felt like swallowing glass. Every sideways glance, every whispered comment, every moment I thought I was alone with my shame—he'd witnessed it all. Warmth burned a humiliating trail up my neck. Or maybe just embarrassment.

His head tilted, studying my face with that unnerving focus. The bat tapped once against the ground, an oddly gentle sound that still made me flinch.

"Scared?"

The question carried layers—was I scared of him? Of being seen? Of what it meant that part of me had grown used to his constant presence?

"If..." My fingers twisted in my shirt, the cold fabric pressing to my skin like a bruise. "If I ask you to leave, will you?"

He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

The walk home stretched before us, each step measured by the rhythmic tap of V's bat from him dragging it against the concrete. Streetlights cast our shadows in distorted shapes—his form dwarfing mine entirely. The evening air hung heavy with the promise of rain, mixing with the leather-and-blood smell that clung to him like a second skin.

Fear prickled icy needles down my spine, vertebrae locking one by one. The bat hung at his side, a reminder of what those hands were capable of. Yet those same hands had never left a mark on my skin.

"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, heavy with all the fear and confusion that haunted my sleepless nights. "Why me?"

He stepped closer, positioning his body between me and the street, shielding me from the headlights of passing cars. "I protect you." The words rumbled from behind that mask like distant thunder, his posture saying what his sparse words didn't.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces that threatened to scatter under his intense focus. "I don't need?—"

"Yes." His free hand rose, hovering near my face without touching. "You do."

My breath hitched as his fingers traced the air along my jaw, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"You don't understand," I whispered, hating how my voice trembled. "People like you don't... you wouldn't want..."

One tear betrayed me, sliding down without permission. Turning away, furiously trying to wipe it away before he saw it.

Yeah, that was stupid. His fingers caught my chin, forcing me to face him. The weight of his tender caress crushed my soul more thoroughly than any blow ever could. My throat closed around unspoken words as tears fell, betraying everything I tried to hide.

"No one else sees you." His fingers dragged down my chin before pulling away, leaving a pressure that lingered long after the contact ended. "No one else keeps you safe."

The bat hit the pavement with a violent crack, sending a shockwave through my chest. In the next heartbeat, he was everywhere—palms slamming into the wall on either side of me, caging me in heat and quiet threat. My breath vanished. I couldn't move, couldn't think—pinned by a man who handled death as naturally as breathing, yet touched me with devastating restraint.

When he finally spoke, the words were low, dredged up from some dark place inside him I hadn't known existed. "No one touches what's mine."

His silhouette swallowed the streetlights, leaving me trapped in his shadow, inhaling nothing but the bitter scent of blood and him. His hand slid down from the wall, fingertips brushing my jaw, tracing lower until they reached my shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, they moved down my arms, leaving trails of fire along my skin. My heart thundered as he settled his grip on my waist, neither pulling me closer nor pushing me away—just holding me there, branding me.

"I'm the only thing that gets to scare you." His voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be—it filled every inch of space between us. He tilted my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his. "No one touches you. No one looks at you. No one breathes near you unless I allow it. If they do, I'll make sure they never do it again. I see everything, Oakley. And I forget nothing."

He watched me closely, cataloging every shiver, every unsteady breath.

"Home," he ordered simply, pulling back just enough for me to move.

We walked in silence toward my apartment, his hand returning firmly to my elbow, steering me away from the curb and positioning himself between me and the passing cars. I felt numb, hollowed out. By the time we reached my apartment, exhaustion had sunk into every muscle.

Inside, I collapsed onto the couch. The reality of the evening crashed into me all at once, making my eyes sting with tears I refused to let fall. Through the window, I could just barely see him standing outside, watching and waiting.

From the window, V didn't just watch. He stood motionless, so quiet I wondered if he was even breathing. Then two fingers lifted. Tap. Tap. Against the glass. Not a knock. Not affection. Just a reminder. He was there. And he always would be.

The curtain fell from my trembling fingers, but it didn't matter. He'd seen my tears, my weakness, my truth. He saw everything.

The truth cut deeper than any knife could: in Hellbound, he'd stolen my freedom by force. Now I feared something worse—that somewhere between his hands branding my skin and the cold bite of the basement brick, I'd started handing it to him willingly.

And maybe that was what terrified me most of all—not that he saw me, but that a part of me didn't want to be hidden.