Page 148 of Sins of the Hidden

Mom's fingers brushed V's forearm, barely making contact as she guided him toward the kitchen. He went still at her touch, muscles coiling beneath his skin. "I could use a strong pair of hands with the roast." I threw her a questioning look, eyebrows climbing toward my hairline. She replied with that smile that had soothed childhood nightmares—the one that meant she knew exactly what she was doing.

V followed her into the kitchen, his massive frame menacing among the cheerful yellow walls and hanging copper pots that had defined my childhood. Through the doorway, I watched as Mom handed him a carving knife and cutting board, positioning them on the counter. The six-foot-four enforcer accepting kitchen instructions from my five-foot-four mother struck me as surreal.

"You hold it like this," she instructed, repositioning his hands on the knife handle with steady fingers. Her hands didn't hesitate over his scars, treating the ridged tissue and burned flesh as unremarkable as Dad's reading glasses or the freckles on my nose. "Perfect. Have you carved a roast before?"

V didn't move for a long moment, his attention fixed on her hands touching his. The silence stretched until it thinned, threatening to snap. "Only bodies."

My palm slapped against my forehead as Mom's laugh turned brittle, fracturing at the edges. But she didn't move away from him, didn't flinch. She simply nodded as if he'd commented on the weather.

"Well," she recovered admirably, her voice steady even as color drained from her face, "this is less... resistant."

V's gaze tracked every movement, unblinking, his head tilting subtly as he dissected her gestures. When she demonstrated the first cut, the blade sliced through the meat with ease, revealing the red center where blood-tinged juice pooled. His eyes fixed on the crimson liquid that seeped from the meat, a hunger igniting behind them that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with what the color represented.

"That's it," she said with a nod, seemingly oblivious to the darkness gathering behind his eyes. "The meat should be rare in the center—just warmed through."

V's entire demeanor transformed—shoulders squaring, fingers adjusting their grip. Each precise stroke revealed another slice, red juice pooling beneath the blade. Mom stepped back, watching with barely concealed surprise at his unexpected skill.

"There you go. You have good hands for this—steady."

V kept his eyes on the task, but I caught a flicker of something across his face—an expression I couldn't interpret, gone before I could analyze it. Mom chatted about cooking techniques, fillingthe silence without demanding a response, moving around him with practiced ease despite the danger he represented.

As they finished, Mom wiped a spot of juice from V's hand using her apron—a casual gesture she'd done countless times for Dad and me. One that acknowledged his humanity in a way few people ever bothered to. V froze at the contact, his entire body going rigid like he'd been electrocuted. He lifted the platter and held it steady as she garnished the roast with rosemary sprigs, the movement so gentle it seemed to belong to another man entirely.

"Relax, dear." Mom noticed his rigid posture as they moved toward the dining room. "The roast isn't armed."

His eyes tracked her movements, lingering on the casual confidence with which she navigated her domain.

As they emerged from the kitchen, V's attention shifted, catching on the family photos lining the hallway: me in a graduation cap with my parents standing proudly on either side; a younger version of myself at a spelling bee, Dad's arm draped around my shoulders; a Christmas morning with wrapping paper scattered around my feet. His pace slowed as he was confronted by pieces of a life that never included him.

Mom's wedding china sat on the dining room table—ivory with gold rims, catching crystal light in diamond patterns across the pristine white tablecloth. Fresh lilies and hydrangeas erupted from the crystal vase at the center, their perfume mingling with the aroma of roast beef. Four place settings waited, each fork and knife positioned perfectly.

Dad had already retreated to the head of the table. Amber liquid sloshed in the crystal tumbler clutched between white-knuckled fingers. The bottle of Macallan 18 stood sentinel at his elbow—cork discarded, a promising sign of just how badly he was handling this situation. Deep golden whiskey disappeareddown his throat in a single swallow as we entered, his Adam's apple bobbing as he reached for an immediate refill.

"Don't you have a mission tonight?" I asked, concern threading through my words as I watched him pour another drink.

"Don't remind me," he muttered. His eyes never left V, tracking every movement.

Mom reappeared seconds later, biceps straining beneath her cardigan as she balanced an oversized serving platter. V moved, reaching her side and taking the heavy dish from her hands before she could protest. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh! Thank you, V. Center of the table is fine."

The silver platter settled on the trivet with a muted clang that made everyone but V flinch. Condensation beaded along Mom's hairline despite her perfect composure, her smile fixed firmly in place. "Would you like some wine, V?"

V shook his head. His massive frame swallowed light as he followed me to the table, making the familiar house feel smaller, darker with each passing second. Each step reminded me of the vibrator still nestled secretly between my thighs, controlled by the phone resting in his pocket. My pulse quickened with something beyond anxiety, heat flooding my face at the mere thought of him turning it on.

Dad's face contorted into something ugly as V pulled out my chair, something he must've learned from all the romcoms he watched with me.

Mom returned carrying a second platter—garlic mashed potatoes and dinner rolls—setting them down before taking her seat across from Dad. V settled into the chair beside me, opposite Mom, his massive frame making the dining chair look like doll furniture. His plate remained empty except for the thick slices of the roast he'd carved earlier.

"It's my famous garlic mashed potatoes!" Mom announced with forced cheerfulness, proudly offering the bowl to V with both hands.

He stared at the contents like she'd offered him poison, pushing it away without a word, his focus unwavering on the bloody meat. "Carnivore."

Dad barely suppressed a bitter laugh at Mom's crestfallen expression. "Of course you only eat animal products."

"Trevor," Mom hissed, her eyes wide with warning. "V, honey," Mom's tone remained determinedly cheerful as she passed the basket of dinner rolls my way, "do you need a straw for your drink?"

"No," he replied flatly.

As I reached for a dinner roll, V's fingers brushed my shoulder. Dad's jaw tightened immediately, a muscle flickering beneath the skin as he eyed the contact.

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