Page 101 of Sins of the Hidden

"Please leave." The words were barely audible, a broken plea from a place of desperation.

"We're married. We're not allowed to be apart." The declaration was absurd, disconnected from any reality I recognized. As if marriage meant ownership, as if the certificate tattooed on his back gave him the right to my every breath.

I scoffed, flinging my arms wide in disbelief. "This isn't a marriage," I cried, the words tearing from my throat. "You drugged me and forced me to be your wife!"

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. I couldn't bring myself to look at him, afraid of what I'd see in those black eyes—or worse, afraid he'd see the hatred burning in mine and retaliate against my parents.

"That’s my ring." He spun the ring on my finger, the metal band cutting into my skin as he twisted it. "You. Are. My. Wife."

I fought back the tears, asking for the umpteenth time. "Why did you do this to me?" His brows furrowed, looking genuinely confused, as if my question made no sense—the reaction of a man so divorced from normal human understanding that he couldn't comprehend why I wouldn't want to be kidnapped and bound to him forever. "People in love get married."

That's right, they did.

But we weren't in love.

I felt my earlier descent into something like affection for V. But this betrayal had yanked me back from the edge of that abyss. My temper flared, heat rising in my cheeks.

"I. Don't. Love. You." I seethed through clenched teeth, each word a knife I hoped would cut him as deeply as he'd cut me.

"You said you were starting to love me."

Fingers clenched at my hairline, I pulled in frustration, the pain a welcome distraction. "You drugged me!" His confused look stared back at me, utterly unable to comprehend the concept of consent and free will. "Not so long ago, maybe I thought I could, but after this..." My throat burned with the intensity of my words, raw from his earlier grip. "I'll never love you, V."

Something sparked in his expression, a dangerous light igniting in those black depths. If eyes were windows to the soul, his showed nothing but an endless void, a black hole where humanity should be.

I might've well just put a bullet through his heart.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white with restraint.

"I don't want to be your wife." There is nothing I wanted less than to be stuck with him forever, chained to this monster who saw me as property to be owned and controlled. I cared about my parents more than myself. They've spent their whole lives protecting me, and now I would protect them from the Devil.

V's expression darkened as he stepped back, his hands going to the hem of his shirt. "You don't want to be my wife?" The look in his eyes shifted—pupils dilating until the black nearly swallowed the iris as he pulled his shirt over his head. "Then take it back."

"Take what back?" My voice trembled, barely audible even to my own ears.

"The marriage." He turned, showing me his back.

My knees threatened to buckle, and I had to grab the wall to keep from collapsing. Across his muscled back, spanning from shoulder to shoulder, was our marriage certificate—etched in excruciating detail, a grotesque devotion carved into flesh. Every word, every signature, permanently etched into his skin.

The ink rose off his back in welted strips, angry and red around the edges. Blood crusted in jagged trails, fresh streaks glistening wetly. Near the bottom, where our names were written, the skin was so raw it looked flayed. V Anson was written in letters so deep I could see the muscle tissue beneath, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

The date was yesterday—he must have gone straight from drugging me to getting this monstrosity etched into his skin. The thought made my stomach heave.

"You want a divorce?" His voice was deadly calm, the kind of calm that precedes mass destruction. "Cut it off."

He reached behind the couch and pulled out a knife, its serrated edge catching the light. It wasn't clean—dried blood and what looked like bits of flesh still clung to the handle and blade. Whose blood? His hand tightened on the blade, red leaking from where it made contact with his skin as he held it handle-first toward me, forcing my fingers to curl around it.

“I won't stop you." He turned his back to me again, spreading his arms wide in a crucifixion pose, offering himself for sacrifice. "Deep enough to reach muscle. You'll feel it when the blade snags."

The knife felt impossibly heavy in my hand. I saw exactly where I'd need to cut—shoulder to shoulder, deep enough to expose muscle. I'd have to peel it away from the flesh beneath, possibly scrape off remaining tissue to get it all. Blood would pour down his back in sheets, pooling on the floor around our feet.

One of the cuts on his back broke open as he stretched, sending a fresh trickle of blood snaking down his spine. The metallic smell hit my nostrils—copper and salt. A drop fell to the floor with an audible pat. He didn't flinch, didn't react to what would be excruciating pain for anyone else. I remembered then—V couldn't feel physical pain. This was nothing to him.

My gut twisted violently, bile rising. Black spots danced across my vision. He knew—he knew how much blood terrified me. How I'd fainted at sixteen when I'd cut my finger cooking. How I couldn't even look at a paper cut without feeling faint. How I'd thrown up when we'd watched a horror movie with a single bloody scene.

The knife slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor between us. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't control them. My stomach climbed into my chest, burning all the way up. The room spun around me as I stumbled backward.

V turned slowly, his eyes tracking me. He'd known I couldn't do it.

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