Page 65

Y es.

That single word haunted me. Her last gift before the water dragged her down.

I didn't sleep anymore. Not since I pulled her from death. Three days at Hex's clinic. Three nights in our bed. When I closed my eyes, I saw her sinking. Felt her slipping through my fingers. Watched her mouth form that word as the water claimed her.

Yes.

Tonight she jerked upright, a strangled scream caught halfway between waking and drowning. Eyes wild, clawing at an invisible threat, desperate for breath that wouldn't come. I caught her wrists, pinned them, feeling her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips—each beat a reminder of the seconds I almost lost her. Another nightmare where she drowned and I didn't reach her in time.

Her eyes darted around the room, pupils blown wide, seeing lake water where there was only darkness. Her chest heaved with panicked, shallow breaths as she fought against my grip. Her teeth clamped down hard enough that I could hear the click of enamel, her jaw rigid with terror. She was still underwater in her mind, still sinking, still calling my name as the darkness took her.

"Oakley." I kept my voice low, steady. The opposite of what stormed inside me. "Look at me."

Recognition slowly seeped into her gaze. The water receded. Reality returned in pieces—our bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, my hands on her wrists. My face above hers. She went limp, the fight draining from her body all at once.

"I'm here." Two words. What they really meant—I tore apart three men for you. Let Prez sacrifice himself. Surrendered my bat to the water. Would do it again. Would do worse.

Mother still breathed somewhere. That problem wouldn't last.

Where her finger used to be, our hands met like a wound trying to close. She shuddered beneath me, body pulled so tight it felt like she’d snap if I let go. This was what wa left of us—ruin that only knew how to hold on.

Oakley’s breathing finally slowed. I eased back, watching bruises darken on her wrists where I held her too tightly. Mine layered over theirs. Sometimes I couldn’t tell who I was hurting anymore—her or the ghosts I never got to kill.

I was supposed to be the one who ended the pain, not added to it. But the bruises didn't know the difference. Not when they were mine.

Her eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep somehow. Better there than here sometimes, I thought. At least her demons couldn't leave new scars.

Dawn cut through blinds like a surgeon's scalpel. The pale morning light cruelly highlighted the brutal symmetry carved into her mouth—the grotesque echo of my mask, my mother's twisted sense of humor written permanently in Oakley's flesh. A part of her stolen, a part I'd never forgive myself for letting them take.

"Your phone," she whispered, voice rough from screaming in her sleep. Her fingers traced the edge of the blanket, avoiding my eyes. "Someone's been trying to–”

My fingers curled around the edge of the bed. "Don't give a fuck."

"V—"

"I was five seconds too late." The words tore from somewhere raw inside me. My hand hovered over her missing finger, the scars at her mouth. "Next time I might not–"

"There won't be a next time."

"You don't know that.," my voice dropped, something close to begging. "Every time I leave you, something takes another piece. I won't—I can't?—"

"Look at me." Her fingers found my jaw, trembling as they traced the edge of my mask. "I need you close," she whispered, her fingers curling into my shirt. The tremor in her voice betrayed the fear she was trying to hide.

"You were dead." Something inside me cracked, spilling things I'd kept buried since the lake. "I had to make you breathe again.” My voice broke, lungs locked. Air turned solid in my chest. The room blurred at the edges, darkening like I was back at that fucking lake, diving into the water, seconds too late again. My pulse hammered against my ribs, so hard it would hurt if I could feel pain. My fingers dug into my thighs, knuckles white, the pressure enough to crack bone.

"V?" Her voice came from far away. Underwater. Drowning.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. My jaw locked so tightly my teeth might shatter. My body betraying every bit of control I had. The memory of her weight in my arms—limp, cold, gone—punched through me with such force my vision whited out for a second.

I'd killed men with these hands. Tortured them. Broken them. But I couldn't put life back into her body. Couldn't force her heart to beat. For all my violence, all my power, I was fucking useless when it mattered most.

"V, breathe." Her hands framed my face, thumbs pressing into my cheekbones hard enough to anchor me. "I'm right here. Look at me."

My head jerked once in a nod, muscles rigid to the point of rupture. If I moved too much, I'd fly apart. Disintegrate like she did in that water. Like she might still if I looked away for even a second.

"Count with me," she said, pressing my hand flat against her chest so I could feel each heartbeat. "One. Two. Three."

I couldn't count. Couldn't think. There was only the thunder of her pulse beneath my palm and the certainty that I would burn down the world, kill every living soul, just to keep that rhythm going.

"Is this what your anxiety does?" The question scraped out of me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Those seconds that almost stole you forever. Her sinking in the water. Her bleeding out on Mother's floor. Her locked somewhere I couldn't reach. The same fucking ending every time—me standing over what was left of her because I wasn't fast enough.

Sometimes I found her smiling. But it was sewn into her face like Mother's gift. And when I touched her, she shattered—glass and thread and silence in my hands.

"Come here." She pulled me down until my head rested against her chest, her heartbeat in my ear. Alive. Here. "Listen. I'm still here."

Her fingers brushed my hair, soft in a way that threatened to undo me.

"I'll never let anyone else have you." I vowed.

Her hands continued their strokes. "I know."

No judgment. No fear. Just acceptance of what I was, what I'd always been.

I'd never stop watching. Never stop guarding. Never be more than a breath away. She'd never be alone again.

W hen we get to the clubhouse, the girls were on Oakley. Nyla held her too tight. Joslyn already started her yapping and Faith bitch face was already giving me the evil eye. Oakley gave me a smile before Joslyn whispered something in her ear. Libby tilted her head toward the hallway. The girls started to go, and my heart started to race until my wife mouthed she’d be right back.

My fingers were already twitching, nerves racing through my veins. Fuck this newfound anxiety shit.

My attention shifted to the seating area next to us Tyrant towered over Callista, his massive frame awkwardly shifted to one side like he was trying to make himself smaller. Didn't work. His shadow still swallowed her whole where she sat curled into herself on the couch.

Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt. Eyes darting around the room.

"You okay?" Tyrant asked, his usually gruff voice softened around the edges. When she nodded, he shot her a disapproving look. “You don’t look fine.”

"I-I promise I-I am." She wouldn't look directly at him, keeping her gaze lowered, submissive. "I-I am not used to this."

"Used to what?"

"Freedom." The word barely a whisper as she peered up at him through tangled hair.

Tyrant dropped to one knee, his massive frame still towering over her seated form, but trying to meet her at eye level. The gesture looked foreign on him, this monster of a man kneeling like he was approaching something fragile.

"No. Your body's yours now. Nobody here is gonna hurt you. Ever." His jaw tightened, a vein pulsing in his forehead. "If someone tries, I'll rip their fucking heart out."

My hand dropped to my side, reaching for a bat that wasn't there anymore. Fuck. Like missing a limb—worse, maybe. The bat was always there, solid and real when nothing else was.

The front doors crashed open, Victoria and her copper hair making a beeline for Grim sitting at the bar chewing on his water bottle cap. “Where the fuck is he?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“You know damn well who I’m talking about.”

"It's club business, Vic." Grim stood from the barstool. "Not your concern."

Victoria's hand shot out, grabbing his cut. "When it's about him it's my fucking business."

He smirked down at her because he was a foot taller than she was. Her copper colored hair matched the fire in her eyes. "Yeah? Why's that?"

Victoria's face twisted with rage. "You know why."

Grim grabbed her wrist, making her fingers let go of his leather. "You’re not a patched member."

Victoria's fist slammed into the bar, sending bottles tumbling. Her chest heaved, fury radiating from every inch of her frame. "If you useless bastards can't even hunt right I'll do it my fucking self," she snarled, her voice cutting through the sudden silence. "And when I find him, I want my fucking patch."

His grin spread slow and dangerous as he stepped forward, like he was waiting for her to lose her temper. "Whatever you want, Vicious."

"I'll show you fucking vicious when I rip your dick off and shove it down your fucking throat." Victoria took Tyrant's whiskey from his hand and downed it while looking Grim in the eye. "Assuming you've got enough dick to choke on."

"Ask Nyla," he laughed, not threatened at all. "I'm sure she'd tell you I do."

I heard whimpering, Callista shaking and folding in visibility on herself as Tyrant gave her a sad look, but not leaving her side. He must’ve felt my stare, turning his attention to me briefly.

"I'm sorry about your bat," Tyrant said when his eyes flicked to me. “I know you loved that thing.”

My fingers curled into a fist. Hard to explain what that bat meant. Not just a weapon. Part of me. An extension of every fucked up impulse I'd ever had. The only thing I could trust when my inability to feel pain meant I couldn't even trust my own body.

Oakley appeared from the hallway, hair loose around her shoulders, catching copper highlights from the setting sun. Her hands behind her back, hiding something. A long, wrapped package emerged. Held out toward me like an offering.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

My fingers tore at the wrapping, revealing what was inside. My lungs forgot how to work.

A new bat.

Perfectly weighted, the handle intricately carved with subtle etchings—our story together, embedded in wood and metal. As dark as a starless night. Beautiful as a broken bone. I ran my thumb over the engravings: an infinity symbol, a small bakery, the club's emblem. Along the barrel, two names stood out in stark relief against the wood: Oakley and Summer.

She watched me, eyes hopeful, terrified that somehow this wouldn't be enough. But this was everything—my past, my redemption, carved by her hand. It was more than a replacement. It was resurrection.

Oakley gently traced the bat's carvings.

No one had ever replaced something I'd lost. Always just left me with the aftermath.

"I can't wait to make people bleed with this."

Her laughter broke the tension, gentle and familiar.

From somewhere in the clubhouse, the sound of glass breaking, followed by raucous laughter. Knight's voice booming over the others, telling some bullshit story.

“We’re gonna figure out what to do with Chet’s body today.”

Oakley’s bottom lip jutted out, jade turning to glass. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.” I tilted my head at her, waiting for her to explain why. She took a deep breath before explaining, “Chet had kids.”

I almost dropped my new bat. She reached in her pocket, pulling out a rustic pocket watch, opening it to reveal Chet with two kids. “Rurik. He told me to give this to Rurik… maybe once we find them, they can decide what to do with his body.”

“We’ll find him.” I took it from her. Chet’s shit eating grin constricting my blood flow. Fucking bastard. “And we’ll find Daphne.” She slammed her eyes shut when she heard that bitches name and I tried to shake off the weird feeling I got. I had my fucking chance to kill her.

I just couldn’t fucking do it.

The front door burst open, and Claudia rushed in, face streaked with tears and makeup. Her eyes found Oakley instantly, and something between relief and anguish crossed her features.

Claudia pulled Oakley so fiercely into her arms that, for a heartbeat, I thought she was trying to fuse them back together, terrified that even a breath of space could mean losing her again. "My baby girl," she choked out, crossing the room in seconds. "I would've died if I lost you." She pulled Oakley into her arms, crushing her daughter against her chest like she might vanish if she let go.

Claudia was across the country when Oakley was kidnapped. She couldn’t get a flight out here and drove straight through. Oakley's arms circled her mother's waist, face buried in her shoulder as Claudia rocked her gently. "I'm okay, Mom," she whispered, but didn't try to break free.

"When they told me—" Claudia's voice caught, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. Her fingers threaded through Oakley's hair, checking for injuries that weren't visible. "What they did to you—I couldn't breathe."

The scent of Claudia's perfume filled the air between them, mixing with salt and grief. Her shoulders shook with sobs she'd been holding back. "I thought I'd lost you."

The room went quiet, giving them space for their reunion. Law watched from the bar, throat working as he swallowed hard.

After a long moment, Claudia pulled back enough to cup Oakley's face between her palms. Her thumbs brushed away tears neither of them realized Oakley had shed. Her gaze shifted over her daughter's shoulder, landing on me.

"I'm so glad you're okay, son," she said, voice warm despite the tremor running through it.

Something twisted in my chest. Being called son more times recently than I had in my twenty-six years of life was fucking weird.

I nodded once, unable to find my voice.

Pulling my gaze from Claudia, I saw Tyrant as he watched Callista from across the room where Joslyn and Nyla had dragged her away, a softness in his eyes that seemed foreign on his brutal face.

The people we never wanted became the people we couldn't live without. Monsters could learn to love. And sometimes, destruction was the only path to peace.

We survived. Scarred, broken, but whole. That was all we had ever really wanted.

And if peace didn't last—it never did in our world—we'd face whatever came next. Together. My bat in one hand, Oakley’s fingers laced through the other.

On our way home, the night wrapped around us, dark and quiet except for the distant sounds from inside. Oakley squeezed me tight, reminding me of the night I wanted her to teach me how to love her. I felt her cheek snuggle, the faint sigh as I could hear a smile in her voice. I felt a raindrop against my hand looking to my left. I swore I saw a lanky boy broken with only a bloody baseball bat against the world standing beside someone who looked a lot like Chet. His shit eating grin lit up as he winked at me.

That wasn’t me anymore.

Eleven years ago in the rain, I asked if someone would see the monster I was becoming and still choose to stay.

And now the boy who never survived that basement finally found something worth living for—and the girl who once ran from him now hid in the wreckage they built together.