Page 134 of Sins of the Hidden

"I don't want to stay this broken." I shook my head. My eyes met his, willing him to understand. "I don't want to be miserable in my marriage for the rest of my life. If you want me to be your wife, you're going to have to earn my forgiveness."

He tilted his head. The movement was mechanical, bird-like. I could almost hear his mind processing behind that mask, struggling like it was an alien concept. As I shifted slightly deeper into the corner, he unconsciously leaned forward, maintaining the exact distance between us—desperate to preserve our invisible connection. The concept of earning seemed foreign to him. V took. Owned. He didn't earn.

"What do you need?" he asked stiffly, uncertainty threading through his voice. His posture adjusted again when I pulled my knees closer. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"It doesn't work like that, V."

"Then how does it work?" His hands flexed and unflexed, slow and controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay put. As I drew further into myself, he shifted forward slightly, preserving the distance between us.

"You can't build forgiveness like you build doors," I explained quietly. "You can't fix what you broke unless you understand why it shattered." I sat up straighter, creating morespace between us. The blanket dragged against my skin as I established boundaries. I needed space to breathe, to think. V's presence consumed all available oxygen. "That's something I can't help you with."

My hand lifted slowly, hesitated mid-air, then rested against his masked cheek. The fabric was warm beneath my palm, damp from his breath. I wondered what his face truly looked like beneath it. I'd never seen him unmasked. Not once. "I've taught you how to feel, now teach yourself how to understand." The word forgiveness felt premature—I wasn't ready to offer it, and he wasn't prepared to receive it.

His hand shot up to cover mine, not gently but with desperate pressure, as though he could force deeper connection through sheer will. He leaned into my touch too eagerly, like a starving man offered sustenance. The desperation in his gesture constricted my throat. "I don't know how."

"If I forgive you," I asked quietly, "would you even know how not to hurt me again?" And I hated that I had to ask. That fear and need could breathe in the same ribcage.

I leaned back and pulled my hand away, aware of his unwavering gaze. He needed time to process this. If he genuinely wanted this marriage, he would find a way.

I shifted further into the corner, and his chest expanded like he was suppressing a scream. His shoulders strained against invisible restraints. He stared at the gap between us like it was a physical wound. He despised this distance—despised anything suggesting I wasn't permanently bound to him. The void between us deepened with each inch I created. His jaw tightened rhythmically. One hand moved toward me instinctively, then stopped, hovering before retreating.

The physical distance between us felt bottomless—simultaneously terrifying and liberating. Curling into myself,back partially turned away, I eventually succumbed to uneasy sleep.

The door closing jolted me awake. My heart launched into my throat, my breath catching sharply—had he left me? Permanently?

I sat up disoriented, blanket falling to my waist. My pulse thundered in my ears, momentarily unable to recognize my surroundings. My throat burned with each breath, a persistent reminder of how close I'd come to never breathing again. The room spun slightly as I attempted to focus.

V was gone from his place on the couch. My stomach plummeted, nausea washing over me. Had he finally abandoned me?

Before I could process my reaction, the front door opened. I straightened, pulse hammering as V entered. He moved deliberately across the room and sat on the edge of the couch near my feet—close enough to touch but maintaining the distance I'd established.

"Where did you go?" My voice emerged hoarse from sleep. He turned toward me.

"Nowhere." His voice was low and absolute. He loomed at the edge like a shadow stitched into the room. His eyes glowed in the dim light from the screen, predatory and vigilant. The thought of him patrolling outside, scanning for threats, sent chills down my spine. His protection felt simultaneously comforting and suffocating.

"When you're here, nothing else can touch me," I admitted quietly, hating the truth of it. Another surrender I wasn't prepared to examine.

Without breaking eye contact, V slowly reached toward where my hand rested on the blanket. I didn't pull away. His palm enclosed mine, the heat overwhelming me, consuming my smaller hand completely. His touch was both prison andsanctuary. He lifted our joined hands, pressing his mask to my skin, his lips pressing against my knuckles through fabric, warmth seeping beneath the barrier. The barrier somehow made the gesture more intimate—an acknowledgment of boundaries, however temporary. Raising his head, his eyes locked with mine, stealing my breath. My heart hammered painfully, reminding me how closely love and terror resided. The intensity behind that gaze could have reduced cities to ash.

Still perched on the couch's edge, he turned my hand palm up. His fingers found the wedding ring, rotating it gently. The metal felt heavier. A weight I wasn't ready to remove—or own. It caught the television's light, mockingly reflective.

V slid from the couch to kneel on the floor directly in front of me. Leaning forward, he pressed his mask against my mouth. Through the fabric, I felt the pressure of his lips, breath hot against my skin. My heart raced treacherously.

I didn't move.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, eyes locked on mine with breath-stealing intensity. He remained kneeling, studying my face in the dim light before rising and settling back onto the couch, this time only one cushion away.

"I don't get it," he finally said, voice low and rough-edged.

I kept my gaze on the screen. "What?"

"Forgiveness." He pronounced it slowly, as if tasting something foreign.

His pupils constricted, then swelled again—like he couldn't focus through the panic. I'd never witnessed genuine fear in V before. But this—the concept of something he couldn't conquer through force or obsession—terrified him. His breath rasped beneath the fabric, uneven and strained. Sweat beaded at his temple, tracking down his face beneath the mask. His pupils expanded and contracted rapidly, unfocused.

"How do you even do it?" His voice had lost its characteristic certainty, replaced by something raw and unfamiliar. A tremor ran through his words—something I'd never heard from him before.

I didn't answer immediately. My fingers twisted the blanket's edge, feeling soft fabric on my fingertips. The question hung between us, honest in a way V rarely permitted himself to be. In the background, water dripped steadily from the bathroom faucet, marking time in our suspended moment. Each drop echoed like a countdown to something inevitable.

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