Page 137 of Sins of the Hidden

"You could have just left," I whispered, the words barely making it past my constricted throat.

His head moved slightly—maybe a shake, maybe just the drugs. "Can't." A long pause. "You're... all I have."

The admission hit me. I stumbled backward a few steps, but then stopped myself. My knees trembled, threatening to give out, but I remained standing near him.

"You threatened to kill my parents." The words spilled out before I could stop them, voice cracking with accusation and fear.

V's eyes found mine with effort. "Would it... hurt you?"

I recoiled at the question. "Of course it would!"

"Then... wouldn't." The words came broken, disconnected.

"Then why did you say it?" My voice broke somewhere halfway through, dissolving into a sob I couldn't contain.

V's head tilted slightly, that familiar gesture now sluggish and uncoordinated. "Didn't know... how else..."

"How else to what?" My arms wrapped around myself, trying to hold myself together.

"Keep you." The admission came out barely above a whisper.

The twisted simplicity of it hit me like a sledgehammer. He didn't care about right or wrong. Only my pain mattered to him. My parents' lives only had value because hurting them would hurt me.

His pupils were now fully dilated, black almost completely swallowing the gray. His body swayed noticeably, the medication taking stronger hold. He had to catch himself from tilting several times.

My whole body trembled as I processed his words. Cautiously, I dropped to my knees beside him. My shaking hand reached toward him, fingertips barely grazing his cheek, the contact electric and terrifying.

His eyes widened fractionally, the only sign of surprise he allowed himself. His skin felt warm beneath my touch, human in a way I sometimes forgot he was. As my fingers made contact, he flinched—a tiny, involuntary movement that spoke volumes.

"What happened to you?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, my voice small and broken.

V went utterly still, not even breathing. His eyes, usually so empty, filled with something dark and vast, an ocean of pain I couldn't begin to fathom.

"Doesn't matter." His voice was rough—almost human.

But it did matter. It mattered because it made him who he was—the man who thought drugging me into marriage was love, who kept his body covered at all times, who now lay before me offering his body as penance.

The drugs were making his eyes increasingly heavy, his reactions noticeably slower. His massive frame swayed more dramatically now, no longer able to fully disguise how the chemicals were affecting him.

"Did you think this would fix us?" I asked softly, my voice still shaking. "That I'd hurt you and then we'd be even?"

"I was giving you a… choice." His words were becoming harder to understand.

Terror and something else—something I couldn't name—welled in my chest. My hand closed around the knife handle, metal so cold it burned. My wrist ached as I lifted it with trembling fingers. V's gaze followed the blade's approach without fear. He didn't move as I held it over his chest, just above his heart.

The weight of it made my arm shake violently. I could barely hold it steady, the blade wavering in the air like a dying thing.

"I could kill you," my voice barely audible, breaking on every word. "Right now. And you wouldn't stop me?"

"Yes."

My hand trembled so violently the knife shook like a leaf in a hurricane. This was my chance—my opportunity to make him feel a fraction of the pain he'd caused me. But my whole body rebelled against the idea. Nausea rolled through me in waves, my stomach cramping with the thought of breaking skin, of causing pain, of becoming something I'd never wanted to be.

The blade clattered to the floor as I released it, the sound making me jump. "I can't," my voice cracked completely, dissolving into sobs. "I can't hurt you."

His fist suddenly lashed out. My body scraped the floor as I scrambled back, pulse jackhammering. I didn't stop until my shoulder blades slammed against the wall, my knees giving out as I slid down to the floor, arms wrapped protectively around myself.

My fingers found my throat instinctively, tracing the phantom pain where bruises had bloomed like dark flowers. The memory of my attack lived deep inside—ghost hands that tightened whenever shadows moved wrong.

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