Page 132 of Sins of the Hidden

Law's eyes narrowed, but he nodded reluctantly. He understood the world we lived in. The rules we played by. He stood straight, turning to leave the small ensuite.

I leaned closer to Oakley, who'd gone silent again. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing. "I need to talk to your dad."

Her eyes dulled again—a small nod.

I rose reluctantly, every instinct screaming to stay by her side. The last time I'd walked away, she'd paid in what pooled around her now. But Law's grim expression told me this couldn't wait.

My eyes flickered back to her, reluctant, protective. She sank a little deeper into the cooling water, a silent signal she'd be okay. I stepped just outside the doorway, keeping it cracked open so I could hear her if she called. Close enough to reach her in seconds if needed.

Law handed me a folded piece of paper, his fingers lingering on it like he was passing a death sentence. "Found this on the ground."

His face alone made my stomach twist before I'd even read the note.

The paper quivered in my grasp, every fold awakening nightmares I'd buried so deep they'd infected my marrow. My pulse staggered, then froze. I wasn't V anymore—I was 6325 again, cold concrete grinding against raw flesh, doors slamming shut, every cell screaming with remembered torment.

Oxygen crystallized in my lungs, throat closing as if phantom fingers crushed my windpipe. My vision tunneled, heart hammering against my ribs as something fundamental ruptured inside me. My palm pressed against my abdomen, shielding old wounds that never truly healed.

I know you're alive, 6325.

"What the fuck is this?" Law hissed, his face inches from mine, voice low enough that Oakley couldn't hear.

I couldn't answer. I could barely fucking breathe as I looked at my childhood moniker—who I was before Prez named me.

Law leaned in closer, eyes blazing. "Whatever past you buried—it's coming for my daughter. Fix it or I'll bury you myself."

"V-V?" Oakley's fragile voice called from the bathroom, pulling me back from the edge of complete disassociation.

I shoved the paper into my pocket. Had to breathe. Had to move. Had to get back to her. Oakley needed me. Everything else—even the nightmare crawling out of my past—would have to wait.

If my past thought it could steal her from me, I'd drown it in every drop of blood I could spill until even memories died screaming.

My body refused to yield to the lukewarm water. I huddled with knees pressed to my chest, hands quaking beneath the surface. Every few heartbeats, my gaze darted to the splintered door—a testament to what had nearly become my tomb.

V stood in the doorway, watching me. The phantom sensation of fingers crushing my windpipe made me gasp, water splashing as my body jerked backward. Ghost hands tightened, choking reality from the edges of my vision.

I reached for the shampoo bottle, then froze. Last time we'd been here, his hands had worked across my scalp, taking every inch. I'd never had to reach for anything then. The distance between us stretched like a chasm despite him being mere feet away. Did I miss his touch or just the oblivion of not having to choose? The line between dependency and desire had blurred beyond recognition.

The bathwater lapped against my bruised throat, and suddenly, I was there again—fighting for air, the world shrinking to pinpricks of light. My lungs seized. The comb striking thewall. The door giving way. The fire in my chest as I tried to scream. I clutched the porcelain sides until my knuckles matched their color.

Heat rushed up my neck, burning beneath my skin. My stomach tightened painfully, bile rising in my throat at my weakness. V's image filled my mind, and a sick longing rose within me for the very monster, who owned my terror, to be the one who saved me. Then came the self-loathing. Then hatred for the loathing. My thoughts spiraled, fixating on the razor hitting the floor, the crack of wood surrendering.

V stepped further into the bathroom. His gaze fell on me, huddled in the tub, clothes plastered to my skin. Without hesitation, he knelt beside the tub and reached for the drain plug. The water—a medium shade of pink—began rushing out of sight. All I could do was sit in sodden fabric, teeth chattering.

"Arms up," he commanded quietly. My body obeyed before my mind could object, letting him peel the drenched shirt off me. Goosebumps raced across my chest as the air hit exposed skin. The wet shirt made a sickening slap against the floor. His fingers brushed my hips as he worked the pants down my legs, fabric stubbornly clinging to me. I lifted my hips, making it easier for him to remove them.

With my clothes off, he turned on the faucet, knowing exactly where to turn it for the temperature I liked. Steam rose between us, curling like the tendrils of something alive. His eyes met mine again.

Rising water enveloped me, gradually thawing my limbs. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The language between us had evolved beyond words into this perverse dance of care and control. As the water reached my chest, he shut it off. He knew what I needed before I did.

He took a cup from the floor and dipped it into the bathwater. He poured it over my head, warm water cascadingdown my skin, washing away invisible tears trapped deep beneath. His hand reached for the shampoo.

He didn't climb in this time, even though I knew he wanted to.

He lathered slowly, scars vanishing in foam before he applied it to my hair. My mind flashed back to our last time here—his grip sliding over my scalp, gentle yet possessive. His strong hands massaged my scalp, tension unwinding from my body despite myself, treacherous sighs escaping my lips. His movements were meticulous, ensuring every strand received his attention.

Each touch sent electric currents down my spine, activating nerves that screamed contradictions—Run. Stay. Fear him. Need him. My body couldn't reconcile these opposing signals. He poured water over me again to rinse away suds, and for a moment, I thought I might drown—not in the water, but in the crushing weight of everything between us.

When he set the cup down, his stare swept over me again. He reached for the body wash and a sponge. His touch on my shoulder guided me to turn, pressure barely there yet impossible to deny. The exfoliating sponge glided across my back, leaving trails of conflicting sensations. Soap stung unnoticed wounds, tiny burning reminders keeping me present.

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