Page 113 of Sins of the Hidden

Oakley squeezed my hand once—so subtle I almost missed it. A silent plea or warning, maybe both. Warmth flooded my chest at the tiny, involuntary contact. She was trapped, desperate, and lying—but she was still mine. That silent, terrified squeeze was as close to devotion as she could offer, and it was more than enough.

As we moved toward the exit, Law stepped from the shadows, horror and confusion etched on his face as he watched his daughter walk hand-in-hand with me. Our eyes met over Oakley's head, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across his weathered features. Something passed between us—a promise, a threat, an understanding that only one of us would survive this.

Law stared at his daughter, expression hollowing into something lost and broken. His lips parted silently, as if he wanted to speak, plead, or scream—but the realization in his eyes spoke clearly enough: he had lost her completely, maybe forever.

His face paled, not from threat but from doubt, skin going ashen beneath his beard as sweat beaded along his hairline. The possibility that he'd never truly known his daughter at all. I could see the terrible question forming behind his eyes: Was she a victim, or had she chosen this path?

Oakley's steps were steady but wrong as we walked out—too stiff, too rehearsed. Her shoes made hollow sounds against the wooden floor, each footfall a small surrender. The cotton of her dress whispered against her skin as she moved, her breathing shallow and quick. There was an emptiness to her gait, the absence of her natural self evident in every calculated step. With each stride, she retreated further into herself, building walls I could almost see materializing around her.

Oakley's eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully vacant, a void she'd practiced for survival. Her breaths came too evenly,rehearsed, mechanical—a puppet mastering its own strings. Her lips were bloodless from being pressed together too hard, tiny crescents of tooth marks visible on the bottom one.

I saw it clearly—but I didn't care. My fingers tightened around hers, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, her pulse fluttering against my grip like a trapped bird. I felt the tension in her body, the resistance she fought to hide, the silent scream building behind her ribs that would never escape. And I savored it all.

She walked beside me like she was walking into a grave. Graves were permanent, unyielding—like us.

And I'd build it from our bones if that was what it took.

The ride back to our apartment was silent; the motorcycle ate up the night-slick streets. Oakley’s grip remained deliberately loose, her fingertips just grazing my sides—another small rebellion. The vibration of the engine beneath us both wasn't enough to bridge the distance between us.

At a stoplight, my hands reached back, fingers wrapping around both her wrists, pulling her arms forward, forcing them to wrap around me completely. Her chest pressed involuntarily against my back as her grip locked around my midsection. Her body stiffened, helmet briefly knocking against my neck as she tried to pull back, but the motion of the bike upon acceleration made her instinctively hold tighter.

Even with her body forced against mine, she made herself unreachable, her silence weaponized against me, a grief-laced rage that chose not to speak. She just watched the world blur by through the visor of her helmet as we moved farther from the clubhouse and closer to our apartment.

Her lack of words was all too familiar—the quiet before Mother's boyfriends exploded. She would go silent like thisbefore they hurt her, and she'd still thank them for the flowers they'd bring the next day. Love was pain followed by forgiveness. Giving Oakley the forever she had never experienced, the commitment Mother's men had never given her. Why couldn't she see that?

A memory surfaced of roses mingling with antiseptic, petals crushed beside Mother's bloodied tissues, her hands fumblingfumbled, struggling to arrange flowers from a man who promised never to hurt her again.

Upon reaching the apartment, my hand pressed firmly against the small of her back, guiding her through the door. Her shoulders slumped as soon as we were alone, as if the weight of her performance had been physically crushing her.

"You lied.”

She moved to the window, keeping her back to me. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I did."

Watching her reflection in the glass—vacant, like she’d left herself somewhere I couldn’t follow. Her lip trembled, bitten down hard, holding in something that wanted to break. "I'm not fighting to get away from you." Her voice wasn't flat or emotionless—it was controlled, the edges beginning to fray. "I don't want any blood on my hands, even if that means I sacrifice my freedom."

She turned, keeping exactly two arm-lengths of space between us didn't go unnoticed.

"I don’t understand why you’re not happy."

She stood like a storm trapped in glass, contained, but just barely.

“Happy?” Her voice cut low, tight with a fury I’d never heard from her before. "I only played along to keep everyone safe."

Wasn't this what commitment looked like? Another memory peeked through—Mother showing me her newest boyfriend's initials etched crudely on her hip. Her skin had been red,infected. But she'd smiled. Weeks later, he was gone, and she'd carved lines through his initials herself, crying that no one would ever really stay. Mine would never fade. I would never leave.

I reached out to touch her, making her recoil. My touch didn't bruise like theirs did to Mother. Why couldn't Oakley understand I was protecting her?

She grabbed a framed photo from the side table and hurled it against the wall. The glass shattered, fragments skittering across the floor. I didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't react as shards sliced through my skin. Her fury painted itself in my flesh, glass settling into my forearm, my shoulder, my neck. Dark drops fell to the floor, joining the broken pieces at my feet.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes tracking the glass as if she'd shattered something inside herself. Her breath hitched, chin lifting sharply in resistance. She expected pain. Reaction. Something to prove I was human beneath this skin.

"Does nothing hurt you?" she whispered, fingers trembling at her sides.

I looked down at the glass jutting from my arm. My fingers wrapped around the largest shard and pulled it free. No pain registered. No signal fired through nerves that had never functioned properly. The body remembered what to do—how to bleed, how to heal—but the message never arrived.

Her jade eyes widened, pupils expanding as she watched dark fluid slide down my wrist, dropping to the floor. I held the bloody shard between us, letting her see what I'd always known.

"No," I answered, the word as empty as the space where pain should live.

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