Page 129 of Sins of the Hidden

The engine beneath me screamed, but all I could hear was the ghost of her voice calling my name—a prayer I was too late to answer.

Her name tore through my lips, ricocheting like gunfire as the bathroom door flew open under my shoulder. The scent hit first—blood.

Oakley's blood.

There she sat perfectly still, folded into herself in the tub, face expressionless. A deep gash on her hand painted bright trails across her ivory flesh. Violet marks bloomed across her jawline, throat, along the ridge of her collarbone—finger-shaped bruises that matched the sounds of her being strangled that I'd heard through the phone. Her eyes—her green-glass eyes—vacant, distant. Like someone had turned out the lights and left the body behind.

Every sound I'd been forced to listen to was written on her skin. Every choked breath I'd heard was now bruised flesh around her throat. Every impact I'd listened to helplessly was now a cut, a bruise, a mark on the woman I'd sworn to protect. I'd heard her almost die and done nothing but listen.

Pink tinge mingled with bathwater, threads spreading like ink through the murk around her motionless form. A razor laid discarded at the tub's edge, its blade stained—her desperate attempt at self-defense. Her chest barely moved with shallow, irregular breaths. Not panic—something worse. Complete shutdown. Her body stayed stiff under my touch, empty of everything that once made her mine.

"Oakley" her name a growl. Then louder, desperation clawing up my throat. "Fucking look at me."

No response. Just that lifeless stare, fixed on empty air. Every instinct screaming to break something, to find the motherfucker responsible and tear them limb from limb.

I turn the water off before grabbing a clean towel from the rack, tendons taut with the urge to rip it in half as I climbed into the tub beside her. Water sloshed against the porcelain as the towel pressed against the deepest gash on her shoulder. The things I killed with—attempting to patch up what some other bastard had torn open.

She stayed mannequin-stiff beneath my touch.

"Need to clean this," my voice rough, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Still in the tub with her, I stretched to reach the first aid kit under the sink, water splashing as I moved. Her eyes never tracked the movement. Antiseptic, gauze, tape—hands fumbling with items never used to heal, only to maim. The irony cut deep. These hands—weapons, not tools. No knowledge of soothing, only destroying.

Fingertips steady while dabbing the gash with antiseptic. No wince from her. No reaction to what should have been searing pain. Two fingers against her throat—counting five beats in one second. Pulse racing while her mind remained somewhere else entirely.

The flow mostly stopped, but her eyes—fuck, her eyes still hollow, locked behind walls I couldn't reach. I'd made her this way. Even now, even after she’d called me, she'd retreated so completely. Visible injuries were patchable. But the damage inside her? If she disappeared behind those dulled eyes again, I'd drag her screaming back if I had to.

"Don't leave me here alone," I choked out, voice torn raw like barbed wire pulled through my ribs. She stared through me, unseeing, empty. Wet fingers finishing the bandaging, white gauze stark against her pale skin. The cut was not deep enoughfor stitches, but it would scar. Another mark she'd wear because I wasn't here to fucking end the bastard who touched her.

Moving closer, gripping her face hard between both palms, thumbs digging into her cheekbones. Nothing.

"Five things," snarling the words, throat raw like swallowing glass. Her pulse thrashing against my fingertips—too fast. "Five fucking things you can see, Oakley."

Unfamiliar territory. These hands knew death, not healing. My thumbs traced her cheekbones, like I was learning braille. No way to smash through the walls her mind built around itself.

"Dammit, Oakley—just name something. Anything." The words harsh, commanding. Fists aching to punch through plaster. "Please."

No response. Just that empty gaze staring at nothing.

"The tile," desperation thick in my voice, pointing at the wall, knuckles white with tension. "You see the tile? It's cracked right there." Grasping at anything, fighting the urge to drag her back from wherever she'd gone. "The water. Look at the water, baby."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Teeth sinking into my tongue until copper flooded my mouth. Control slipping. Rage building not at her—God, never at her—but at the world for ever touching her. At myself for letting it happen. For not being there to slit the throat of whoever did this.

Her hand in mine, squeezing too hard, guiding her fingertips to the smooth edge of the tub. "Feel that? It's real. You're here. With me."

A tiny flicker in her eyes. The smallest contraction of her pupils. Not much, but something.

"That's it," urging her, voice still rough. "Come back to me."

I searched her face for any sign of returning awareness. "You feel my hand?" I guided her limp fingers to my face. "Feel that? I'm right here."

Her fingertips trembled slightly against my cheek. The smallest awareness flickering back into her vacant stare.

"Four things you can touch," I continued, desperate to keep that tiny spark alive. I moved her hand to my chest. "My cut. Feel the leather."

Her fingers twitched against the material, the first voluntary movement since I'd found her.

---