Page 122 of Sins of the Hidden

I'd spent weeks mentally rehearsing all the things I wanted to tell him, accusations and questions that scorched my throat like swallowed embers. But each time he entered a room, the words calcified in my lungs, refusing to surface.

Even if I learned to forgive him—I feared what would come after. Trusting again. Letting him close enough to slip between my ribs and tear my heart out all over again, this time with my naive permission.

I shook my head. It was too early for my brain, heart, and people pleasing personality to be clashing. Instead, I slipped back into bed, wanting to ignore reality for just a while longer.

His newest note lay like confetti on the floor, forgotten.

He was there when I woke up.

His arm weighed me down across my chest, hot and unyielding as molten iron poured fresh from the crucible. He slept like he didn't destroy me nightly—breaths deep and rhythmic, face slack with a peace I'd forgotten existed. Like this was normal. Like I was his wife and not his hostage, the diamond wedding band cutting into my finger.

I tried to slide out before he woke up. Instead of getting farther away, he pulled me tighter to him—my back flush with his bare chest.

His arm tightened around my waist when I shifted, his body coiling possessively behind mine. Heat radiated from his chest against my back, his breath warm against my neck. The muscles in his forearm flexed when I tried to slip away.

"I-I need to get up," I whispered, my voice tight with discomfort.

V's response was to pull me closer, one leg hooking over mine, effectively trapping me against him. His palm splayed flat across my stomach, fingertips pressing just enough to make his reluctance clear. I stiffened against his grip, throat dry with familiar fear. He made a low sound deep in his throat. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of my hip, then slowly uncurled one by one.

The moment his hold loosened, I bolted from the bed, putting immediate distance between us, the cool air a relief after the suffocating heat of his embrace. His eyes tracked my movement, unblinking as I hurried to the dresser. His stare burned between my shoulder blades as I grabbed the first clothes I could find.

The bathroom door closed behind me with a satisfying click—the only barrier he allowed between us. Even that small freedom felt like borrowed time. I braided my hair with trembling fingers, the movements offering small comfort in their familiarity. No makeup today—it would take too long, and the thought of beingtrapped in here while he waited outside made my skin crawl. I dressed quickly, fumbling with buttons, the cheap fabric of my dress a shield too thin to offer real protection.

When I emerged, V was waiting in the hallway, shoulders pressed against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. He hadn't bothered with a shirt, the marriage certificate stark against his skin—a permanent reminder of what he'd taken. His head tilted as I approached.

I pressed myself against the opposite wall, inching past him in the narrow hallway, careful to avoid even the slightest contact. My breath caught when his hand moved, but he only adjusted his mask, black fabric hiding whatever expression might lurk beneath. The kitchen beckoned with its promise of escape—of flour and sugar and things that made sense in a life that no longer did.

My bare feet slapped against the tile as I darted around gathering bowls, measuring cups, ingredients—building a fortress of normality against his silent presence. Cabinet doors opened and closed in quick succession, each task a desperate attempt to focus on something other than him. The refrigerator hummed as I pulled out eggs and butter, nearly dropping them when I turned to find him closer than I expected.

V followed, silent as a shadow, positioning himself in the doorway where he could watch every move I made. I kept the island between us as I worked, a pathetic barrier we both knew meant nothing to him.

He moved in that unnatural way of his—too graceful for someone his size. His hands found my face—warm, familiar, calloused fingertips that traced my cheekbones, mapping territory he considered conquered. "Stay with me."

My body jerked away on its own before my brain could intervene. A reflex now, muscle memory deeper than consciousthought. The rapid thud of my heart against my ribs felt like morse code spelling out danger-danger-run.

"I'm busy." The words were clipped, cold, my tongue clicking against the roof of my mouth with each syllable.

"Let me come with you."

"Since when do you ask permission?" The words erupted before I could stop them, rage bubbling up from depths I'd forgotten existed. Heat flooded my chest, my hands shaking—not with fear, but fury.

His head tilted, studying me like I was an equation he couldn't solve.

"Don't you dare look at me like that." The strength in my voice was waning. "I’m already trapped in your sick fantasy. Don’t treat it like it’s real."

His thumb brushed my lower lip, cutting off my words. The gesture was intimate in a way that made bile rise in my throat.

I shoved him away, the heel of my palm connecting with his solid chest. Hard enough to send him back a step.

"Don't touch me!" The scream tore from somewhere deep, years of swallowed protests finally finding their voice.

Let him watch me walk away from him. I hoped it ruined him, hoped the sight of what he'd claimed and couldn't keep would haunt him like his hands haunted me—phantom touches that made me scrub my skin raw in the shower.

"Just leave me alone," I spat, pushing past him, walking out the front door, slamming it shut behind me.

I hesitated, back against the door, chest heaving, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing.

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