Page 67

T he tie fought me like everything else in this world—slipping between my fingers, refusing to hold the shape I needed. Silk whispered against itself as I yanked it free for the fourth time, the fabric landing on the unmade bed with the other failures. Maybe Oakley wouldn’t care if I didn’t wear one.

My hands didn't shake. They never had. But the material kept sliding away like water, like it knew what these fingers had done and rejected the pretense of civilization.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Familiar. Law appeared in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, watching me pace like a caged animal. His own tie sat perfectly knotted, the black silk a stark contrast against his white dress shirt.

"You gonna let me fix that before you strangle yourself with it?"

I stopped pacing. Studied his face for mockery, for the hatred that had lived there for so long, but I found something else instead—resignation mixed with something that might have been acceptance.

"You remember the first time we met?" Law pushed off the doorframe, moving toward me with deliberate calm. No sudden movements. Like approaching something that might bite. "Darrell dragged you in, skinny as a rail, clutching that fucking bat."

I remembered—fifteen years old, shoulders too narrow for the rage I carried, fingers white-knuckled around wood that had already tasted blood. Law had been sitting behind his desk, papers spread like battle plans, looking up as I'd been shoved through his door.

"Thought you were gonna crack my skull open before I could get a word out." His hands found the tie around my neck. The silk settled against my collar. In the mirror across the room, we looked like father and son preparing for something sacred instead of what we really were—lawyer and killer, bound together by the most important woman in our lives.

"Never learned how to tie one of these." The admission came easier than it should have.

The silence stretched between us, filled with everything we'd never said. Law's fingers resumed their work, creating loops and folds that would hold this time.

"Oakley comes with luggage," he said. "Me and Claudia. The whole fucking package deal."

The knot took shape under his touch, perfect and secure. In the mirror, I could see his face—concentrated, careful, like he was doing something that mattered.

"Can I call you Dad?"

The words hung in the air like smoke from a gun barrel. Law's hands went completely still, his eyes finding mine in the reflection. Something flickered across his features—surprise, then something softer, more dangerous.

Then his mouth twisted into that familiar snarl, and he jerked the tie tight enough to cut off my air before loosening it. "Don't push it, you psychotic fuck. I'm already letting you marry my daughter. Again."

But there was no real venom in it. Just the comfortable hostility of men who'd found their way to understanding through mutual threat and grudging respect.

"We have the same last name."

"Don't fucking remind me." He stepped back, checking his work. The tie hung straight and proper, transforming me into something that belonged at an altar instead of in a basement. "Chet would've loved this shit. Probably would've insisted on being your best man just to watch me suffer through the whole thing."

Chet's face flashed in my mind—that permanent smirk, the way he'd lean against walls like he owned them, arms crossed and eyes dancing with whatever scheme he was cooking up. How he'd talk his way into and out of situations that should have killed him ten times over.

How he should have been here, making jokes about my tie, offering commentary that would get him punched.

Law adjusted the knot one final time, then reached for the tuxedo jacket draped over the chair. Black fabric, pressed and formal, waiting to complete the transformation from monster to groom.

"Can't have you looking like shit on my daughter's wedding day." He held the jacket up, waiting for me to slip my arms through. "She deserves better than that." The cuff of my shirt lifted, Law grabbed it to adjust it but saw the scars instead. He pushed it up to read the name. "Who the hell is Summer?"

"Your grandchild."

His hands went still on the fabric. "Oakley's pregnant?"

"I’m trying."

Law blanched as he shoved the sleeve back down, almost making me lose my balance. He grabbed the jacket, smoothing it across my shoulders, then stepped back to examine his work. He turned to leave, he paused at the door. His hand gripped the knob, shoulders tense with whatever he was working through in his head. When he looked back, something had shifted in his face.

"See you at the end of the aisle, son."

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with my reflection and the weight of what was coming.

A n hour later, I stood at the altar with my hands at my sides, willing the doors to open. The bat rested against the wall behind me—close enough to reach, hidden from the guests but there if needed. Old habits.

The clubhouse had been transformed. White fabric draped across steel beams, softening edges without hiding what this place really was. Folding chairs in uneven rows held brothers who'd scrubbed blood from under their fingernails and tucked weapons away for one sacred afternoon.

The formal clothes felt like a costume, like playing at being something I wasn't. But this was what she wanted. What she deserved. A real, legit wedding.

The first notes filled the air—"Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls. Oakley had said it reminded her of us, of everything we'd been and become. Each note settled into spaces between my ribs, filling cracks I'd forgotten existed. When I played with my toys at Hellbound, I listened to it. When I waited outside her apartment, these notes kept me company.

The Souls shifted in their seats, all of them wearing their usual attire besides Law, Tyrant, and me. I didn’t want to talk about what Tyrant was fucking wearing. He had whole fucking priest robes on that he decided to wear today with his role play glasses. When Law got onto him about it he said, “Oakley wants a proper wedding. I will play a proper priest even though I bought this outfit for sin.”

The doors opened.

She appeared, and everything else ceased to exist.

White fabric embraced every curve like worship, the princess-style ballgown cascading in voluminous layers that caught light and transformed it. The fitted bodice hugged her torso, accentuating the fullness of her breasts before the skirt billowed dramatically from her natural waist. Multiple layers of tulle and organza created a magnificent silhouette that moved like liquid moonlight with each step. Lace traced her shoulders and arms in intricate patterns, the long sleeves delicate as spun sugar. The sweetheart neckline revealed the gentle slope of her collarbones and the silver necklace I'd given her was nestled in the hollow of her throat.

The cathedral train swept behind her, yards of pristine fabric pooling like spilled cream, scattered with hand-sewn pearls that caught the light. The voluminous skirt celebrated every soft curve of her hips and thighs, the princess cut designed to make her look like royalty—which she was, at least to me.

Her chestnut hair swept up in an elaborate arrangement, twisted and pinned with pearl-tipped pins that caught the lights. Loose curls framed her face, soft waves brushing against cheeks that flushed with color I'd memorized a thousand times.

The veil couldn't hide those eyes. Jade green, impossible and luminous, holding mine with intensity that made my chest constrict. They'd once watched me with terror, tracked my movements like prey calculating escape. Now they held certainty where there had been doubt.

The dress celebrated her body instead of hiding it, the structured bodice providing support while the flowing skirt embraced her soft curves. She was Venus carved in flesh and bone, a goddess who'd chosen to love a monster.

Law walked beside her, rigid in his tuxedo but steady. His arm linked with hers, the man who'd once threatened to skin me alive now delivering his daughter to my hands. Our eyes met across the distance—his filled with warning, mine with a promise I couldn't voice: I would die before letting anything touch her.

They took the first step together. Her dress whispered against the floor, layers of fabric creating a symphony of movement that nearly drowned the roar in my ears. As they moved down the aisle, Oakley's eyes never left mine. Not when guests murmured appreciation. Not when Joslyn wiped tears. Not when Faith smoothed her train.

Those jade eyes that had once watched me with terror now held something else entirely—certainty where there had previously been doubt.

Every step brought her closer until she stood before me, close enough that the air between us vibrated with shared breath. She didn't flinch. The monster stilled for her.

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"

Law's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "Her mother and I do."

He lifted her veil with hands that trembled slightly, kissed her forehead with concentrated tenderness. When he pulled away, his lips moved with words meant only for her—something that made a single tear trace down her cheek.

Then he placed her hand in mine. His fingers lingered against her skin before he retreated to Claudia's side, eyes never leaving his daughter.

Oakley's hand felt small in mine, warm and soft against calloused skin that had known nothing but violence until her. My thumb found the space where her finger should have been, brushing over scar tissue that mirrored my own.

She was beautiful. Impossibly, devastatingly beautiful.

Tyrant cleared his throat, straightening the cheap collar of what looked like a priest costume. "Dearly beloved, we're gathered here today to witness some truly fucked up shit." His grin was infectious as snickers rippled through the clubhouse. "And by that, I mean the beautiful union of V and the only woman brave enough—or crazy enough—to marry his psychotic ass. Twice."

More laughter. Even Oakley cracked a smile.

"Do you, V, take Oakley to be your wife, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and for when you inevitably terrify the shit out of everyone at family dinners?"

I swore to fuck I was gonna kill this idiot.

But when I looked at Oakley’s shining face, it didn’t look like it bothered her. She tilted her head, waiting for me to answer. A lump formed in my throat, growing inside until swallowing became impossible. “Yeah.” The clubhouse had gone silent. I shot my head at them. “What?”

Tyrant sighed. “Can take the man out of the murders but not the murders out the man.” The fuck did that mean? "Do you, Oakley—who clearly has questionable taste in men but excellent taste in everything else—take V to be your husband?"

Her hands trembled as she reached up to frame my masked face, thumbs tracing the edges where fabric met skin. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of every moment that had brought us here. “I do.”

"By the power vested in me by the internet," Tyrant continued, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. V, you may kiss your bride."

She stepped onto my shoes. Her body pressed against mine as she balanced with one hand on my shoulder, the other reaching for my mask.

Her fingers found the elastic behind my right ear. She lifted the black fabric slowly, drawing it away from my face with the solemnity of unveiling something sacred.

Instead of dropping it, she tucked the mask behind her own ear, the black fabric stark against her white veil. The motion created a tent of privacy as she leaned into me, veil and mask combining to shield our lips from watching eyes.

Then our lips met. Her mouth was soft against mine, tasting like promises and forever. Her fingers tightened in my jacket as she drew herself closer, like she was trying to fuse us together.

Mine. Finally, completely, publicly mine.

This kiss was ours alone—witnessed by fabric and shadow, blessed by choice instead of force. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with tears and something that looked dangerously close to joy.

I've never done anything right except falling in love with you.

T he reception hall filled with the usual chaos that followed the Souls everywhere—laughter too loud, Oakley requested no alcohol because of Joslyn and Mitchell, but Knight and Tyrant didn’t need alcohol to be dumbasses.

Oakley pressed close to my side, her hand finding mine as we moved through the crowd accepting congratulations that felt surreal after a lifetime of being feared.

Knight had cornered Faith again, this time blocking her path to the bathroom. "Come on, one dance. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could knee you in the balls again."

"Worth the risk." He waggled his eyebrows. "Besides, you missed last time."

"I wasn't aiming for your balls, dipshit. I was aiming for your kidney."

He grinned at her. “I could just give you one if you really wanted it.”

She was going to take his soul if he didn’t shut the fuck up.

For an hour, it stayed relatively civilized. Then Tyrant started getting creative.

"You know what this boring-ass party needs?" He grabbed a dinner plate from the nearest table, weighing it in his palm like he was calculating trajectory. "Some real entertainment. Anyone remember that scene from Ghost?"

Knight looked up from harassing Faith. "The pottery scene? Dude, that's romantic as shit. Wrong fucking vibe."

"Not that scene, you uncultured fuck. The part where Patrick Swayze throws shit at the other ghost."

"That's not how physics works," Law called out. "Ghosts can't actually?—"

His explanation was cut short as Tyrant's plate exploded against the brick wall six inches from his head.

"Physics that, asshole!"

Knight immediately snatched his own plate. "Now we're talking. Think you can hit Sarge's ugly mug from here?"

"Fucking watch me."

The second plate sailed across the room, missing Sarge by a mile and shattering against the bar. Faith popped up from behind it like a jack-in-the-box. "Are you dumbasses seriously doing this?”

Tyrant shrugged. “Why the fuck not?”

Within seconds, every brother in the hall was armed with dinnerware, hurling plates with the enthusiasm of children who'd never been told no. Grim nailed Knight in the back of the head with surgical precision. Knight retaliated by launching his plate toward Sarge. Joslyn was sitting beside him laughing and clapping when her boyfriend caught the plate and crushed it with one hand.

"Idiots," Nyla muttered from her safe position by the wall, arms crossed as she watched her husband duck flying ceramics. She made no move to join the chaos, just shook her head with the long-suffering patience of a woman who'd married into this madness.

I stood beside Oakley, watching grown ass men behave like fucking teenagers.

Then Tyrant got careless.

His aim went wide, the plate spinning end over end toward the head table where we stood. I caught it before it could crash into her.

My vision tunneled. The bat was in my hands before conscious thought took over, wood connecting with Tyrant's kneecap. He crumpled hard to the floor, clutching it.

“Well you got my fucking other one.” He groaned on his curled up position on the floor. “Least I fucking deserved it that time."

Knight laughed at him, the other brothers besides Sarge joining in. Oakley's hand found my arm, fingers gentle against the tension coiled beneath my sleeve. "V." Her voice was soft, calm, like she was talking to something wild that might bolt. "Let's go home."

Oakley's fingers intertwined with mine, anchoring me to something beyond the rage that always simmered just beneath my skin. She stepped closer, her wedding dress brushing against my legs as she positioned herself between me and the room full of witnesses.

"Come on," she murmured, tugging gently toward the exit. "Take me home."

The word hit different now. Home. Not her apartment where I'd lurked outside windows, not the basement where I'd dragged her against her will. Home—a place we'd built together, where she chose to sleep beside a monster and call it love.

I let her lead me out, ceramic crunching under our feet like shattered promises. Behind us, voices rose in low conversation as brothers dealt with the aftermath, but their words faded as we stepped into the night air.

The ride back was quiet, city lights blurring past windows as Oakley's forehead rested on the middle of my back, her wedding dress whipping in the wind.

T he apartment felt different when we walked through the door—smaller somehow, like it was struggling to contain what we'd become. Oakley kicked off her heels, toes flexing against hardwood as she sighed with relief. The formal dress transformed her into something otherworldly.

I worked the tie loose from my throat, silk sliding free with a whisper. The tuxedo jacket followed, draped over the couch like discarded armor. Damn fucking thing.

“I have something else for you.” She went to our bedroom while I still fumbled with my tie. “Come on!”

She was standing by the full length mirror, the one we still hadn’t fixed since her panic attack. Something rectangular was clutched against her chest, hidden by her arms. The glass reflected us in fractured pieces, our images broken but somehow still recognizable. Dozens of cracks spider-webbed across the surface, held together by her careful hands and endless patience. The notes she ripped to shreds now taped together around the edges—fragments of the letters I'd left her, torn and reassembled like puzzle pieces she'd refused to throw away.

She pressed the new paper against the glass with the reverence of someone hanging scripture. Her fingers smoothed the tape along the edges, securing it beside the remnants of my threats, my promises, my desperate attempts to explain what she meant to me.

The handwriting was hers.

Agapimenos.

Loved.

My reflection stared back from the broken mirror—scarred face, hollow eyes, hands that had never touched anything without destroying it. Beside me, she glowed like something holy, white dress cascading around her feet like spilled starlight. I shredded my mask off of her, her laughter filling the air when I began to fumble with the zipper on the back of her dress while her lips were on mine.

I was finally loved.