Page 146 of Sins of the Hidden

My fingers brushed dampened hair from her forehead. I peeled damp strands from her skin. Let the touch linger longer than it should. I told her I wouldn't touch her, but I couldn't help myself. Not when she was fucking hurting. Her skin burned fever-hot beneath my palm as I traced the outline of her face.

Her body convulsed with another wave, muscles contracting visibly through her thin T-shirt.

I moved to the dresser where I'd dropped the pharmacy bag. The bag emptied under my hands, contents scattering across the surface. The plastic tore wrong under my hands. The cord tangled like it knew I was on edge. Even the outlet beside the bed resisted, the plug slipping once, twice, before it clicked in.

Cursing under my breath as the button blinked, refusing to yield to my thumb's insistent pressure. Three presses. Four. I couldn't feel the warmth of the pad, but I just hoped it wasn't too hot for her. I couldn't tell if it was.

Her hand reached out, trembling, grasping at air.

I kicked off my boots, letting them hit the floor with twin thuds. The mattress dipped under my weight as I knelt beside her, placing the warmth against an unseen enemy. Her fragility struck me anew—her softness contradicting her strength, the paradox of her.

She guided my hand, positioning the heat where pain concentrated most. Even this small movement cost her, face contorting as another cramp tore through. Her grip tightened suddenly around my wrist, a silent request for grounding. I answered instinctively, pressing the heating pad more firmly against her abdomen. Her body curled tighter, instinctively protecting itself.

Making space beside her—her body shifting despite the pain, creating a hollow for mine—she drew me in without words. The invitation more binding than any demand.

The bed accepted my weight as I aligned myself behind her—chest to back, knees tucked behind knees, arm sliding beneath her head. I positioned the heating pad firm against her lower abdomen, my hand holding it in place over the curve of her stomach. Her body quaked. Muscles drawn tight. Fighting something I couldn't kill.

I adjusted the blankets. Nothing exposed. Nothing left to the cold.

She pressed back, seeking more contact, more pressure. The small sound that escaped her throat wasn't pain but relief—a controlled exhale, the first easing of a vise.

Her touch found mine, fingers interlacing with mine atop the heating pad, grip tightening with each wave that rolled throughher. My thumb brushed small, soothing circles against the back of her hand, the rhythm slow and steady, silently acknowledging the depth of her pain while reinforcing my unwavering presence. Her pulse thrummed beneath my palm, quick and frightened, gradually slowing as heat penetrated deep.

Minutes stretched, measured in her ragged exhales and subtle shifts. Her trembling continued—not the violent shaking of before, but constant micro-tremors as her body fought through the pain. Each shudder softened incrementally against me.

She trembled but refused to cry out, holding herself rigid against the agony as though her quiet defiance might lessen my worry. Even in her deepest pain, she was protecting me from the full weight of her suffering. The restraint in her body—deliberate control despite chaos raging inside—struck me as a different kind of strength than I possessed.

My hand moved in slow, firm circles, countering the internal spasms with external pressure. I carefully adjusted the heating pad's placement, silently tracking her responses, refining the pressure and warmth until I noticed the slight relaxation in the lines etched by pain around her eyes. Each breath came slower, less ragged. Her hand remained locked with mine, anchoring herself to the pressure point.

A shift in her body language—slight but unmistakable—as the heating pad's warmth penetrated layers of hurt. She melted backward into me by fractions, surrender disguised as acquiescence. Her shoulders eased, like she'd tuned into my heartbeat and decided it was safe.

The curve where her neck met shoulder invited contact. My masked lips pressed there, not in demand but acknowledgment. I pressed my face gently into the crook of her neck, inhaling slowly, grounding myself in her presence. Words weren't mylanguage. Action was. This quiet attendance to pain—this was my dialect of devotion.

She pressed deeper into the hollow of my body, trust more dangerous than any threat I'd ever issued. Her head tilted slightly, seeking the warmth of my touch as an anchor through the waves of pain. Her knuckles traced the scars on my free hand, a tender exploration that spoke volumes about acceptance and closeness. For once, my hands weren't instruments of ruin. Just support. Just for her.

As her breathing deepened with sleep, I carefully began to extract myself from behind her. The mattress creaked as I shifted my weight, preparing to go to sleep on the floor?—

Her eyes snapped open—cloudy with near-sleep but suddenly focused. Small fingers wrapped around my wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd been trembling minutes before.

"Stay." I paused, making sure it was what she wanted. "P-Please."

Wordlessly, I settled back into position behind her, arm wrapping around her waist, chest pressed to her back. She curved into me, fitting perfectly against the hollow of my body. Her hand found mine again, pulling our joined hands against the heating pad on her stomach.

There would never be enough distance to keep her safe from me, and never enough proximity to satisfy the hunger her presence ignited in me.

But in this moment, in this bed, her pain gradually subsided beneath our joined hands. For one breath, balance existed. That in this moment, I wasn't a monster wearing a man's skin. That I deserved the trust she placed in my hands.

I'd burn the world if it touched her. Tear apart reality itself if it threatened what was mine. Become the villain in everyone's story but hers.

And everyone fucking knew it.

The stranger in the mirror wore my face like an ill-fitting mask—vacant-eyed, skin bleached of color beneath harsh light. My fingers trembled as I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear for the fourth time. I couldn't get it right. Nothing was right. The mascara wand slipped in my sweating palm, leaving a black streak across my cheek.

Family dinner. With V. And my parents. Because why experience ordinary trauma when you could engineer your own special hell?

The soft pink sweater I'd chosen hung loose at my collar. The bruises along my jawline still bloomed yellow-purple despite my careful application of concealer. One week since that night, but my body refused to forget what my mind couldn't process.

Tonight, after dinner, V and Dad were heading out on club business. Some mission that required both of them, apparently. Mom had insisted I stay with her—their house had a security system. I'd wanted to argue, but the devastation in Mom's eyes when she first saw the bruises had changed my mind.

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