Page 60

E leven years.

A distorted mirror reflection stared back at me. My features mirrored hers grotesquely—a poisoned inheritance. Her eyes, her jawline, the hollows beneath her cheeks—all of her imprinted in me, inescapable until death.

Her eyes hadn't changed. Dead, washed-out black that watched while they held me down. The same flat stare that studied the ceiling while begging made no difference. The vacant expression that never blinked when her fingers tangled in my hair, dragging me to the basement, when she cracked my head against the wall.

She tilted her head, a sickly sweet tone twisting her lips. "Hey, V was it? Nice to know you finally have a name."

Her voice—that exact pitch and cadence—made my muscles tense. My fingers numbed around the bat, a weapon that had first tasted her boyfriends' flesh over a decade ago. Because of her. Because of the men who'd treated my body as currency she'd already spent.

Rain pelted the space between us. My tongue traced the ridged scar tissue inside my mouth. This woman, this shell of a human, had dictated every corner of my existence even in her absence.

"My parents sent me to this place—Divine Diligence." Her expression flickered, hatred dulled momentarily by something else. "Because I got pregnant with you."

Lightning flashed, and I saw myself on the basement floor writhing, drowning in my own blood with nowhere for it to go, eyes wide while her hands moved. Lips sealed together with blue thread.

"Even though your father could've been any of their friends—I stopped counting after ten." Her words carved through the rain. "But it was my fault for being sixteen and not being able to fight men twice my age."

I could see through her—venom set so deep it became her.

"You ruined my fucking life!" she spat.

The violence I'd learned howled for release, coiling in my gut—the urge to end her, end it, end all the years she carved into me. My vision tunneled, edges bleeding to darker shades. One movement and this agony would stop forever.

But I'd never be free of her.

"What are you waiting for?" she screamed, spittle flying from her lips. "Finish it! Kill me! That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?" Her voice cracked. "Isn't it?!"

Something inside me snapped. All the rage, all the suffering—it exploded through my body at once. I charged at her, boots splashing through puddles, closing the distance between us in three long strides, my hands ready to end this forever.

She screamed, high and terrified, stumbling backward before her feet gave out. She hit the muddy ground hard, immediately curling into herself, arms protecting her head, body shaking violently as she made herself small—the way I once had beneath her shadow.

And I just... stopped. My feet planted in the mud barely two feet from where she cowered.

I looked down at her huddled form, my bat raised above her head. How many times had I been in her position? How many times had I curled into myself, trying to disappear under the shadow of someone bigger, stronger? How many times had I flinched from raised hands, waiting for the hurt that always followed? The bat in my hand felt heavier than it ever had. One swing. That was all it would take.

I wasn't that seven year old kid who didn't understand why a man three times my age wanted to come into my room at night.

I wasn't that nine year old boy who thought childhood was supposed to be like it was.

I wasn't that eleven year old boy who couldn't open his mouth due to her stitches for the first time.

… But I was that fifteen year old kid who finally fought back. The one who killed her boyfriends with a bat. The one who survived after she ran.

I drove it down beside her head instead, the wooden barrel sinking into the muddy earth inches from her face. She recoiled violently, rolling away from the embedded weapon, a whimper escaping her that sounded exactly like mine used to.

I straightened slowly, towering over her prone form as she stared up at me from the mud.

"... No." Her eyes snapped open as she looked at me. "I wanted you to come back for me."

I stood over her, the wooden barrel still embedded in the ground, and looked down at her with an expression I'd never worn before—not anger, not hatred. Just the shape of something that never got to exist.

"Why?" The word barely made it past my lips. "Why wasn't I enough for you to love?"

She stared up at me, her dread fading slightly, something unreadable flickering across her features.

The wetness soaked through her thin jacket, plastering her graying hair to her skull. She was shivering, arms wrapped around herself where she lay in the mud, and something twisted in my chest. Without thinking, I started to shrug off my suit jacket—the automatic response of a child who'd learned to take care of everyone but himself.

"I was your son." My words broke on ragged gasps as I stood over her. "All I wanted was for you to love me."

The fight drained away. I was exhausted—tired of hating, tired of hurting, tired of begging for love that was never coming. My chest heaved with each intake, lungs struggling against the weight of a heart that couldn't decide whether to race or stop entirely.

"You didn't deserve what happened to you," I said quietly, watching her face twist with confusion at my calm. "But neither did I."

The words weren't for her. They were for the boy who'd died in her care. The one who spent his childhood believing he was too broken to love.

The worst damage wasn't what they did—it was what you kept. One whisper of want. One breath of maybe. That was what killed you. Because it was the only part still alive.

I spent years believing if I broke enough bodies for the club, took enough lives, emptied myself of anything resembling weakness, I'd forget that touch. That I'd finally kill the part of me that still longed for it. But here she was, and that tiny speck of emotion I couldn't excise burned hotter than all my rage.

I wanted her broken—but I also wanted her arms around me, whispering she finally loved me. Even after all these years I just wanted my Mother to love me.

How fucking pathetic. The man who felt nothing still felt this.

Now, with her huddled form below me, the memory splintered like bone under a surgeon's saw. Meaningless to her. Probably forgotten entirely.

Then, something changed in Mother's expression. Her features softened, the harsh lines of hatred momentarily smoothing out. Still lying in the mud, she reached up with a shaking hand toward my face, fingers outstretched.

My resolve shattered at the hesitant scrape of her fingertips, my body betraying every lesson beaten into it. The child inside—the one who'd waited by windows and cried himself to sleep—surged forward desperately, starving for a touch that had always been withheld.

They brushed my cheek, feather-light. I leaned into it without meaning to, muscles tensed to strike, even as my body leaned imperceptibly forward, craving a touch I'd never had. Her palm cupped my jaw.

My eyes closed. Just for a second my entire body slumped like I was six again, sick and exhausted and stupid enough to think she might stay this time. I breathed her in like she was air and not arsenic.

"Come here, baby..." she whispered, voice suddenly maternal, gentle.

My throat closed. Muscles calcified. Every scar on my body burned with memory—soft words always preceded new wounds, gentle touches always gave way to destruction. The pattern existed in my flesh, written there by her hand.

Yet, I leaned forward anyway, one halting inch at a time, dropping to one knee in the mud to bring my face closer to hers.

"Closer," she coaxed. She guided my face down until we were inches apart, her stare dissecting mine. For a wild, desperate moment, something like regret surfaced there. Love, even.

My eyes closed.

She jerked forward, slamming her forehead against mine with savage force. Agony exploded through my skull, vision blurring as I staggered backward and fell onto my ass in the mud.

"You were supposed to choke on your own blood and save me the trouble," she snarled. "I gave you peace. You should've stayed fucking quiet."

Every cell in my body finally accepted what my mind had always resisted—she would never love me.

Had never loved me.

Could never love me.

She was never going to say it. Not now. Not ever. Not even if I bled out at her feet, spelling out "I love you" in my own guts. She'd never say it back. And the part of me that waited all these years finally died in that mud beside her.

"I just wanted to be your son."

Her face hardened.

She pushed herself to her feet, backing away from me through the mud. "I never wanted to be your fucking mom," she spat before turning and running into trees.

I watched her go, rain flowing into my eyes, unable to follow as she disappeared into the downpour. The child in me still wanted to call after her, still stupidly hoped she'd turn around, that she'd say my name one last time with love instead of hatred.

Only then did I try to stand, but my knees gave way and I fell back into the mud, the gash on my forehead throbbing in time with my pulse.

Footsteps approached from behind. My hand automatically reached for the bat that lay embedded in the earth beside me, but I couldn't summon the strength to pull it free.

"V!" Law's voice cut through the storm. I couldn't turn to face him, couldn't let him see me like this—shattered, wounded, ruined by a woman who should have protected me.

His hands found my shoulders from behind, unexpectedly gentle for a man his size. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, moving around to face me. His eyes widened at the gash on my forehead, fingers carefully probing the wound. "What happened?"

My eyes met his, the jade that looked so much like my wife's giving me the strength to confess, "Mother."

Law dropped to his knees in the mud beside me, the downpour plastering his gray hair to his skull. His eyes were swollen with grief as he took both my shoulders firmly in his hands.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice rough. "I don't know what the fuck she did to you. Honestly don't want to fucking know." His grip tightened, the pressure anchoring me to the present moment. He pulled me forward then, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace I couldn't remember ever receiving from a man who wasn't trying to hurt me. My body seized like I was being choked. It took a second to realize I wasn't. He was trying to hold me together. Not control me. Not hurt me. Just… hold me.

I didn't know how to be held. I didn't know how to be a son. But I let him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember I was alive.

"You're my son now." His voice dropped to a fierce whisper against my ear. "You fucking hear me? Not hers. Mine. You're mine, V."

Something cracked inside my chest—not breaking, but opening. Like a door I'd nailed shut years ago suddenly swinging wide. I tensed, every muscle locked against the foreign sensation of being wanted instead of used. My throat closed around words that had never existed, sounds that belonged to the boy who died in her basement.

He pulled back, rain cascading down his weathered face, and I saw tears mixing with the storm. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, something worth saving. "I should've found you sooner. Should've gotten you out of there."

The words hit like fists to places that had never healed. All those years, someone could have cared. Someone could have looked.

"I'm gonna look for Oakley in a few secret spots. Tyrant took that girl back to Hellbound, but the others are looking too." His voice cracked as he stood, hands lingering on my shoulders like he was afraid to let go. Like I might disappear if he wasn't touching me. "Stay safe, V. You hear me? You stay fucking safe."

He ran off into the storm, leaving me kneeling in the mud. I heard movement down the hill, my gaze snapped toward the dock.

The confrontation had left me hollow, but there was no time to process it—not with Oakley still in danger. The cost of this mercy was steep. No catharsis. No revenge. Just clarity that ached worse than rage ever could.

I forced myself to my feet, legs unsteady. The bat lay embedded in the earth where I'd driven it beside my mother's head. I pulled it free with both hands, mud clinging to the splintered wood.

Rushing down the hill, I spotted figures at its far end. Three men. And behind them, I could see her.

Oakley was bound at the wrists and ankles. A cement block rested by her feet, thick rope coiled around it and tied to her legs. They were preparing to drown her, to let the water swallow every trace of her existence. One man had a gun trained on her head while the other two secured the final knots.

I moved without thought. Each blow shattered another chain from my past, each broken bone erased a memory of my mother's cruelty. Their bodies fell beneath my bat like the men who'd paid to use me, their screams no different from the ones that had filled my childhood bedroom. Bones snapped like dry branches, their flow hot against my skin as I carved a path toward Oakley.

If Oakley died, I wouldn't just break—I'd become something worse than the monster I'd spent my life being. I'd peel the world apart layer by layer until nothing remained. I'd hunt down every person who ever looked at her and carve her name into their flesh before feeding them their own organs. I'd burn everything to ash and choke on the remains. Her death wouldn't just end me—it would unleash something that even Hell wouldn't recognize.

The storm eased just enough to reveal the rickety dock stretching over water as black and endless as my fear. She was at the end of it, her body slumped forward, head lolling. Even from this distance, I saw what they'd done to her—her flesh torn, marks carved into skin that was mine to protect.

I couldn't breathe. Not again. Not after everything. I dropped to my knees in the mud, the bat falling from my nerveless fingers. My scream tore through the storm—wordless, helpless, the sound a man made when he was about to lose the only thing that ever made him human.

But even from this distance, I saw the way her ribs struggled against torn fabric. I saw the way she refused to surrender, even broken, even bleeding.

I forced myself back to my feet, snatched up the bat, and ran toward the dock.

"OAKLEY!"