Page 135 of Sins of the Hidden

"You learn it," I finally said, voice quiet but steady. "The way you learned how to stalk me. Or tie knots. Or kill people." I glanced at him, and saw his jaw tighten beneath the mask.

"I don't want anyone's forgiveness but yours," V said, words rough as gravel.

My shoulders slumped, each breath feeling heavier than the last. "That's your problem." I looked directly at him now. "You want love to be a cage. Something you force until it surrenders. But forgiveness isn't another blade you wield, V. It's cutting yourself open and letting the poison bleed out."

His hands clenched into fists on his thighs. "I don't want to let go of you."

"I'm not the thing you have to let go of," I said quietly. "It's whatever made you like this."

V remained quiet for so long that I thought he might not speak again. When he did, his voice had lost its edge of certainty.

"Every time someone hurt me, I got even. That was fair. That made sense." He paused, examining his scarred hands. The knotted tissue across his knuckles caught the television's light, mapping a history of violence. His fists clenched and released rhythmically, like strangling ghosts. "I don't know how to do anything else. I don't know how to... not want them to suffer."

The truth settled between us. I reached out, not quite touching him. My hand hovered above his arm, neither connecting nor retreating—suspended in the space between desire and fear.

"Then I guess you'll never forgive yourself either."

He flinched as though struck. The realization rippled through him visibly, a physical blow that made his shoulders jerk backward. His entire body convulsed slightly, then went unnaturally quiet. Beneath the mask, his breath caught—a tiny, fractured sound that pierced deeper than any scream.

"I know how to protect you from everything but me," he admitted, barely audible. The confession hung between us, brutal in its honesty. Each word seemed torn from somewhere vital, leaving raw wounds behind.

The words built in my chest, heavy with truth. "You need to become someone who wouldn't do it again."

Breath wouldn't come. Just the pressure. Just the math of survival. Forgiveness felt impossibly heavy—like choosing to trust him not just today, but every day hereafter. The weight of that choice compressed my lungs.

V nodded, barely perceptible. His eyes met mine, and for once, I couldn't decipher them. The usual intensity had been replaced by something unfamiliar—something almost human. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. Fear.

"If you want a future with me," I whispered, uncertainty creeping into my voice, "maybe... maybe it starts by forgiving the boy who never got to be one."

He didn't respond verbally. Just absorbed my words quietly. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile. Just necessary. Like the space between lightning and thunder—inevitable, measured by the distance still separating us.

I studied his face, trying to read beyond the mask. His eyes—usually so certain—looked lost, haunted. His desperationtonight mirrored the violent despair I'd seen in his eyes before—only now, tempered by something terrifyingly vulnerable. I'd given him an impossible task, and we both recognized it. But impossible was all we had left.

V's hand moved across the couch toward mine, fingers extending slowly. I stared at his scarred knuckles, hands that had both protected and imprisoned me. Each ridge of scar tissue told stories of violence, discomfort inflicted and endured. These hands had broken bones and lives without hesitation. These hands had also dried my tears, held me through panic attacks, washed my hair with unexpected tenderness. The contradiction made my head spin.

My hand didn't reach for his—but my fingers curled anyway, betraying me, instinctively wanting connection even as my mind screamed warnings. I couldn't move beyond that small rebellion. Just left it there, useless in the space between us. V wanted to force it. Just once. Just grab and hold until I remembered I was his. A shadow of pure violence crossed his face, almost imperceptible had I not been watching closely. The struggle played out across his masked features—the need to assert ownership warring against his desperate attempt to mimic patience.

His stare branded my skin, raw and possessive. His hand hovered, frozen mid-air, before retreating, leaving empty space between us. The quietness swelled like a bruise.

"I can't lose you," he whispered fiercely, though I hadn't threatened departure. "I won't survive losing you."

The credits from the movie continued rolling, casting blue light across his mask—the mask that simultaneously concealed everything and revealed all. The black fabric moved subtly with each breath, the only indication something human existed beneath it. His obsession with me had been his compass. NowI'd removed it, leaving him to navigate a world where possession wasn't equivalent to love.

"I'll stay," I said quietly. "That's all I have left to give."

And I hated that even that wasn't a no.

I deliberately shifted deeper into my corner, tucking my legs underneath me and angling slightly away—creating physical distance to match the emotional divide. The space on the couch stretched between us—both an insignificant gap and an endless chasm.

He didn't reach for me. For once, he didn't. But I saw what it cost him. The rigid line of his shoulders, hands clenching against his thighs—how excruciating it was to remain quiet, not to eliminate the distance. His knuckles splayed against his thigh, then curled into a white-knuckled fist. Every muscle strained against my unspoken boundary. Sweat beaded at his temple, trailing down his face.

His eyes narrowed, possessive even in restraint. "I don't understand forgiveness," he rasped. "You belong to me. Even if you hate me, you're my wife. Even if you bury me. Even if you forget me. You're my wife."

The certainty in his voice chilled me—not because it was new, but because it was the truest thing he'd said all night. Yet beneath the possessiveness, something flickered in his eyes—a momentary bewilderment, genuine confusion from a man who'd never learned how to feel without breaking what he touched. For a heartbeat, the lost boy flickered behind the monster's mask, before the predator reclaimed its territory.

But he stayed where he was, learning to exist in the unbearable space of my uncertainty, even as everything within him rebelled against it.

He was learning patience the way I was learning fear—as something you live with long enough it starts to resemble love.

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