Page 102 of Sins of the Hidden

"I can't—" I backed away, my hip knocking into the side table, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. The shattering sound made me jump, but V didn't even blink.

He bent down in one fluid motion, fingers closing around the knife handle. As he straightened, he flipped the blade with practiced ease, never taking his eyes off me. I kept backing up until my spine hit the wall, trapping me.

His dark eyes watched me, the knife now pointing toward me. He closed the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps that made the floorboards groan. Without a word, he pressed the flat of the blade against my cheek. The metal was cold against my skin, and I could smell death on it, feel the sticky residue transferring to my face.

He dragged the blade down my cheek—not cutting, just applying enough pressure to leave a white line that quickly bloomed red. His eyes never left mine. His eyes were completely black now, consumed by the dilated pupils.

I shrank against the wall, understanding with horrifying clarity that this man would destroy himself to possess me—and he’d ruin me in the process. For him, there was no cost, nophysical suffering. He couldn't feel pain. But he could inflict it and seemed to understand its power over those who could feel it.

He stepped closer, eliminating what little space remained between us, towering over me.

I didn't know if I hated him more for what he did—or for what he made me feel before he did it. The thought that part of me had started to care for him was more terrifying than anything.

My phone rang from somewhere in the room. The ringtone wasn't mine—it was V's voice, low and possessive:

"I vow to never let you go—not in life, not in death. If your body leaves, your soul will stay. If your soul flees, I'll find it and drag it back."

The room tilted as I searched for my phone, desperate to silence his voice. When I finally located it on the coffee table, the screen showed V's contact picture—a photo of me sleeping that I'd never seen before. V snatched my phone away from me.

"Stop the call," I begged, but it didn’t matter. He wanted me to hear it. Wanted me to remember I was his—even now.

V ignored my plea. Instead, his eyes never leaving mine, his recorded voice filling the room:

"I vow to turn you into someone who never existed before me. And I'll make sure she never leaves."

His eyes shone with dark satisfaction above his surgical mask as the second vow played, as if savoring each word:

"I vow to ruin you so gently you'll thank me for it. And when you cry, I'll hold you through it—because no one else gets to watch you fall apart."

My throat tightened, eyes burning as I looked away. "I would have chosen you, V. I would have said yes." My voice broke softly, bitterly. "But you didn't give me that choice. You didn't trust me enough to let me love you on my own."

V's eyes narrowed to slits.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

That familiar voice sent a shiver down my spine when I turned my head to the doorway, "D-Dad?"

His eyes pinned to V, his face turning purple as a vein in his neck pulsated. "Don't Dad me," he snapped his eyes to me. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Don't be shy now. Repeat what you said." My mind drew a blank. My lips parted uselessly, silence strangling me as my dad barged into my apartment, slamming the door behind him.

V stood motionless. He didn't even glance at me, his attention locked entirely on my father, heavy and oppressive. The memory of his threat echoed relentlessly inside me.

The image of my father lying lifeless, V's bat dripping with blood, sent a shiver through me. My father was getting angrier by the second, my silence going on far too long. Dad rarely got mad, but when he did? He was scary.

He lashed out, snatching my wrist, his hold bruising. “What the fuck's on your finger?"

Pressure crushed my ribs the second he saw the ring. "Oakley—" Dad's voice shook with rage, composure shattering completely. "Tell me this is some sick fuckin’ prank."

"Watch yourself," V warned calmly.

Dad's grip tightened painfully as he whipped toward V, grabbing his wrist too, forcing both our hands into view. His breath hissed out, chest heaving. "What the fuck is this?"

"Our wedding rings," V said flatly, no emotion in his voice. He looked irritated at Dad's grip, but his stance was unbothered.

Dad threw down V's wrist with disgust, spinning fully toward me, fingers crushing mine harder. "Oakley, tell me I'm fucking dreaming," he demanded, voice frayed between rage and desperation.

I shrank under his stare, shame suffocating me. I dipped my head, unable to answer, unable to lie.

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