Page 13 of Sins of the Hidden

Maybe I would learn to pretend to love myself.

"So glad everyone could join us." Faith's voice twisted, honeyed words edged sharp enough to cut. Her sights set on the two shirtless men commanding the front row.

The lights cast stark shadows across the studio. Bass thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating through my shoes and up my legs as I pressed against the back wall.

Ink and silver scattered across Tyrant's skin, a chaotic mural of stories and scars. All of him was marked—except for the small, bare space above his heart.

Beside him, Knight moved with ease, muscles flexing beneath tattoos that curled along his ribs and shoulders. "Nowhere I'd rather be, babe."

We huddled in the back of the room—Nyla, Joslyn, and me. I tugged at the oversized T-shirt, wishing it would swallow me whole. The damp cotton outlined every unwanted curve, the blazing overhead lights spotlighting each flaw I desperately wanted hidden.

"In my youth, I was an exotic dancer." Tyrant couldn't be more than thirty. He executed a perfect body roll that had Joslyngiggling and Nyla rolling her eyes. "So if I move better than you, it's okay to feel jealous."

"I'll try not to be," Faith drawled, dragging her attention off the men to focus on us. "Victoria's not coming?"

"She said she was busy tonight," Joslyn offered, reaching skyward in a stretch that emphasized her dancer's build, her blonde ponytail swaying gently with the movement. The pale yellow of her sports bra caught the studio lights, making her glow like moonlight trapped in motion. "The three of us haven't done this before, but I'm excited! Sarge and I exercise but..." A knowing smile played on her lips.

"Gross," Knight's face contorted. "Don't want to hear about your sex life, Jos."

Tyrant couldn't help himself, "Yeah, we've heard what he does to you. Twice."

Joslyn's face flamed red; her mouth opened and snapped shut. Nyla snickered beside her.

"You're no better, Ny," Tyrant grunted, sinking deeper into a hamstring stretch. "Prez had to replace his whole office set after you two defiled the damn armchair."

"It was the desk," Nyla corrected without missing a beat, bending forward gracefully. "The armchair just watched."

Tyrant snorted. "Next time they get inked, I'll pierce their dicks for you. Every woman deserves a pierced dick at least once."

Heat prickled along my hairline, humiliation tightening my skin as I stared at the floor, tracing the wood grain.

"Jesus, dude," Knight laughed. "Sarge would slaughter you."

Tyrant looked genuinely puzzled. "How's that different from any other day? Are you even bros if you don't pierce each other's dicks?"

"I don't think that's a bro requirement, no."

Tyrant's gaze shifted abruptly, landing squarely on me. "You good there, Oak? Your face is all red."

Knight joined in, his voice carrying a warning beneath the teasing. "It's okay to fantasize, but I don't feel like getting whacked by that psycho's bat. So cool the thoughts down, okay?"

My muscles tightened instinctively, my pulse thundering louder than the music.

"I'd appreciate it if you stopped talking about your tiny limp cocks now," Faith interrupted, approaching the speaker system. "Try to keep up, boys." She shrugged off her black hoodie, the movement carrying a dancer's poise that highlighted my ungainly posture, tugging the hoodie free from her ponytail.

The studio lighting revealed a delicate script that curled along her bicep: "one day at a time." The inked script seemed to shimmer under the lights, each letter breathing with memory, a mantra written in ink and scar tissue.

Tyrant stopped mid-step, eyes fixed on the script on her arm. The sprawling artwork across his chest rose and fell with shallow, controlled movements—a man trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. "That tattoo..."

"One day at a time?" Faith's fingers found the script unconsciously, tracing each letter as if absorbing strength from the ink. "My father used to say it." The words carried weight, heavy with memories she seemed reluctant to disturb. "When things got really bad, he'd just..." Her touch lingered on the final word, a caress that spoke of loss and remembrance. "One day at a time, baby girl. That's all we can do."

Tyrant's hand crept to the back of his neck, rubbing with an anxiety that seemed foreign to his otherwise confident self. Beneath the sprawling artwork that consumed his skin, I caught a glimpse of familiar words peeking from his shoulder blade.

One day at a time.

"Well, shit." Tyrant's laugh carried none of its usual bravado. His fingers rubbed harder at his neck. "Guess great minds think alike, yeah?"

The music continued to play in the background, filling the awkward silence between them.

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