Page 106 of Sins of the Hidden

"All I ever wanted was a happily ever after." She breathed, the words barely audible. "My dream wedding. A loving husband…" Tears pooled in her eyes as she glared at me, jade irises swallowed by the red-rimmed whites. "You ruined everything."

I stood there not knowing what to say. She'd never been like this with me before. I didn't understand how I ruined everything if it was her dream to get married. I made it come true. She should be happy. In the movies, the woman always cried happy tears when the man proposed. Oakley hadn't even smiled whenI slipped the ring on her unconscious finger. The metal sliding over her knuckle had sent a thrill of possession through me—like closing a lock with a satisfying click.

Oakley sat herself up and I could see now how swollen her eyes were, cheeks streaked with black residue from her makeup the previous day. Mascara streaked her cheeks like ink blots. Chestnut strands of hair sticking up at random places. How was it possible for her to still look beautiful like this? Even in her misery, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I wanted to hold her together. To be the one she broke in front of—and still came back to.

"We need to go to the club."

"Not today." Her shoulders sagged, head dipping forward like a marionette whose strings had been sliced. Her voice laced with a quiver, "Can you just leave me alone?"

Alone.

The word was a locked door, a dark closet, a punishment.

"You deserve to be alone," Mother's voice beckoned from the past, soft and merciless. I'd counted shadows under the door, footsteps that never paused—proof I could disappear, proof nobody would come looking.

Alone meant forgotten. Alone meant erased.

Leaving her alone was the worst thing I could do. "Get up. It wasn't a request."

She made a growling sound before throwing the blanket off of her, still dressed in her baggy clothes from last night. I watched as she went to the dresser, angrily taking out a pair of light gray leggings before going to her closet for a light red shirt with the Poppy Oak's logo.

"You want a lesson?" I'd never seen Oakley look at me the way she was right now. Her eyes wide, teeth gritted, she had fire within her. A feral animal backed into a corner. Beautiful. I wanted to bottle that look, preserve it forever. "Hopelessness."

I tilted my head, waiting for her to continue, savoring the way her chest heaved with each breath, the slight tremor in her lower lip. The tiny muscles in her jaw working beneath her skin.

"When you kill people." Her voice hushed to a murmur, like she was sharing a forbidden secret. "The look on their faces. The impending doom that makes their heart almost give out in fear that their life is no longer theirs to control…" Her voice sounded more choked, a vein pulsing in her throat. "That's how you make me feel."

I didn't respond, just tilted my head. She saw me clearly.

Oakley's voice broke, just a fractured whisper, eyes hollow with devastation. "This isn't love," she whispered. "This is prison."

The words punched into my chest. For half a breath, her words echoed too loudly—'This isn't love'—and a sliver of something sharp twisted inside me. Then I shook it off, knowing it was just confusion. She'd see clearly soon. A momentary crack in my certainty. But only momentary.

I didn't watch as she slammed the bathroom door. My attention was elsewhere.

But as the lock clicked into place, I found myself drawn to it, palm flat against the painted wood. Through the door, she counted quietly: "One... two... three..." The same pattern she used during anxiety attacks. Her breaths were measured, controlled—fighting to stay calm.

I could catalog every sound with perfect clarity—the initial gag, the splash of bile hitting water, the gasping breath between heaves, the soft whimper that followed. Each noise was a note in a symphony of distress I'd conducted. My palm flattened against the door, sensing her fragile shudders through the wood.

When she turned on the faucet, I knew she was trying to mask the sound of her crying. I'd memorized the specific timbre of her sobs—the way her breath hitched on the inhale, the barelyaudible whine on the exhale. Each sound tugged something in me. She was purging the confusion, the fear. Soon she'd feel clearer—safer.

Through the bathroom door, her voice ghosted between quiet sobs. I exhaled slowly, touched that she was finally releasing her fear. She was accepting us, at last.

I remained there, listening to her process the change between us, until I heard her slide down against the tile wall, the soft thud of her body meeting the floor. Only then did I pull away, certainty humming through my veins.

Shredded paper lay scattered beneath the mirror. I crouched down, gathering fragments between my fingers, inked words staring up like quiet accusations.

Hopelessness. Something that you didn't think would end. Instead of the light at the end of the tunnel, it was shrouded in a never-ending darkness you feel like you'd never crawl out of.

I looked at the closed bathroom door.

I already understand what it meant.

I straightened the collar of her shirt as we prepared to leave.

As I opened the door to the clubhouse, Oakley stepped through reluctantly.

"Oakley!" Joslyn's voice carried through the now silent room before charging toward her, stopping when she didn't respond. "Oak?"

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