Page 115 of Sins of the Hidden

Lamplight cast long shadows across the living room. Oakley's book rested open in her hands, its spine creaking with each turned page. I memorized every word from my position across the room, watching, learning what kept her attention fixed on the paper instead of me.

The morning's trip to the store replayed through my mind—she had to get new supplies for her orders this week. I tagged along to carry her bags before she went to the bookstore. Part of me thought it was to get rid of me. Ten new books, and I grabbed and bought every one she touched, now sitting in a neat stack on the coffee table. She turned another page, unaware of how completely I tracked each movement.

I was halfway through the first book when she got up and went to the kitchen. When she disappeared from my sight, I glanced back at the page. Whenever the main male character messed up, he crawled his way back to redemption. Groveling. Expressed regret that bled from every pore. Did whatever it took—whatever it cost—to make someone forgive him. Was this what Oakley wanted?

I abandoned the page, my eyes drifting toward the kitchen. Only half remained visible, the other half hidden behind the wall separating us—a physical manifestation of our growing distance. I heard scraping in a metal bowl, her movements were sluggish compared to how she usually prepped.

We'd barely spoken since yesterday. She had withdrawn deeper into herself, the light in her eyes extinguished like a candle snuffed by one cruel breath. Two days ago, happiness radiated from her—genuine happiness. We were learning how to love each other, awkward and new.

I remembered giving her the oven mitts, her happiness etched like an addictive drug. That smile, a lifeline I replayed whenever darkness threatened to consume everything. She had liked that gift. The second gift was more significant—the only thing Mother ever gave me: her gold ring.

The book found its place on the armrest. I rose from the couch, my steps leading toward the kitchen. Oakley heard me approaching—she always did. "Need help?"

She shook her head, silence between us thick enough to choke on. The kitchen revealed its chaos: dirty iced cakes with perfect frosting swirls, multiple piping bags arranged like surgical tools. Marble counters overflowed with too much of everything—bowls, ingredients, spatulas. She barely had any room to work.

I turned away, hearing her soft sigh of relief as my attention shifted to the living room. Gathering her new books, setting them aside before gripping the table's edges, lifting it, and heading back toward the kitchen.

I pressed close behind her, my chest nearly touching her back as I lifted the table overhead, then dragged it across the floor toward the kitchen. Wood scraped loudly against wood, the harsh sound slicing through silence, demanding attention.

Her jade eyes were wide. "W-What are you doing?"

I didn’t answer, moving the assortment of cakes, my hands clearing space on the counter. Matching piping bags to cakes, organizing them by color and size, giving her enough room to work without the chaos pressing in from all sides.

She liked when given things—space, order, quiet. So that was what I offered, the only gifts I knew how to give.

My eyes tracked her movements as she placed the bowl down, the mixture inside now a light pink. A car horn from outside drew both our gazes to the door.

"I'll be home tonight," my words falling flat between us.

She didn't respond, her vacant stare fixed on the door. I bent at the waist, my hands resting on my knees, bringing my eyes level with hers, staring until the weight of my gaze forced her to speak.

"…Dad hates me." Her confession emerged as a low whisper, but my tactic had worked. "H-He hasn't checked up on me. He wouldn't come near me at the club yesterday."

The quiver in her voice pissed me off. I knew what I was going to do, but it might make her hate me more. Standing at full height, I grabbed my bat before looking over my shoulder at her, "Lock the door."

She thought her father hated her. And that made something unfamiliar twist in my gut, a serpent coiling tighter with each passing second. Men had died for looking at her wrong, their blood painting my knuckles,but this was different. This pain came from the anxiety inside her. No way for me to beat it away with a bat.

I waited for the sound of the lock before making my way down the path to Law, gravel crunching beneath my heavy boots. He sat in his car, window down, the interior light casting harsh shadows across his face as he started his annoying yapping. "Our bikes are too loud, we'll need to take my car." Ignoring his words,I yanked open his door fists twisting in his shirt, "What the fuck!!"

Face inches from his, close enough to count the lines around his eyes I debated bashing my head into his to give him some fucking common sense. "Go inside."

He shook his head, defiant even now. "We have a time frame. We need to?—"

Shaking him like a rag doll, voice rising with each word. "Oakley's sad."

"Probably because she's married to you." I sneer, shoving him back in his seat with enough force to make the car rock.

"She told me you hate her."

His eyes shut, jaws clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "I don't hate my daughter." Releasing him then, stepping back, pointing up to her apartment where soft light spilled from the windows.

The temptation rose to smash his head through the windshield. "Tell her that."

Running hands down his face, fingers catching on the stubble that lined his jaw. "I know my girl." Law shook his head, deflating slightly. "She needs space to sort out her feelings. You do know she has anxiety and depression, yeah?" Of course, I did. I know everything about her. "She's hyper-independent, just needs constant reassurance."

My eyes narrowed to slits. If she needed reassurance, why wasn't he talking to her? "Talk to her."

"After we get back," he promised. His face softened, the hard lines of anger melting into something that might have been regret. He looked at the front door of our apartment, his gaze lingering. "Let's just get this shit over with." The longer we stalled, the longer it would take to get back to Oakley. Pick and choose my battles even when every cell in my body screamed to drag him inside by his throat, pin him to the floor, and carve theapology into his skin until he meant it. Until he understood what happened to people who upset her.

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