Page 160 of Sins of the Hidden

V's hand shot up with startling speed, catching Mom's wrist before she could touch him. His grip wasn't hard, but the message was clear—don't touch him. Not even my mother. He released her instantly as he swayed on his feet.

Silence stretched between us, interrupted only by the soft tick of the kitchen clock and my uneven breathing. V's eyes found mine through the tangle of his hair. "Home."

Dad's breath hissed through his teeth, face hardening. For a moment, I thought he'd object—that the familiar battle lines would reappear between them. Instead, he glanced at me with an expression I couldn't decipher, then at V, lingering on the visible injuries. Something passed across his face. "Oak, are you sure?—"

"I-It's fine." The words spilled out automatically. I wasn't sure who I was convincing—Dad or myself. "He'll rest better there."

Mom touched my arm, her fingers pressing deeper than necessary. Something lurked in her eyes—a warning, maybe, or a question she couldn't voice with the others present. "I'll be over in the morning and make a big breakfast for him," she said softly, her eyes drifting to V. "And we'll do what he enjoys..." she smiled, a knowing look passing between us. "Just being with you."

Dad looked between V and me, internal conflict visible in the tightening around his eyes, the way one hand kept clenching and unclenching at his side. "I can take you both home," he offered, keys already in hand.

"I'll drive them." Chet pushed away from the counter, setting down his glass with a sharp click. His usual easy demeanor hadhardened into something else—focused, alert. "Route's on my way home."

Dad's entire body stiffened, muscles coiling beneath his cut. His eyes drilled into Chet with the kind of scrutiny I'd only seen him use on potential threats.

"You sure?" Dad's voice dropped an octave, weighted with threat. He gave up that quickly?

"Scout's honor." He raised three fingers in mock salute.

Dad's jaw worked, a vein pulsing in his temple. He shot a glance at V, who stood unsteadily but with eyes still fixed on me. Dad's shoulders dropped a fraction, decision visibly made. "Straight there. No stops."

Chet rolled his eyes. "You wanna put a tracker in my ass to make sure?"

But beneath the flippant response, something else passed between the two men—a current of understanding I'd never witnessed before. The hair on my arms rose. Dad was trusting Chet—someone other than him and V—with my safety.

"I've got her, Trevor." Chet's voice shed its sarcasm, replaced with something that sounded like a vow. "You have my word."

Dad nodded once, the movement sharp enough to hurt my own neck. "Call me when you get there."

"Will do." Chet's hand found V's shoulder, not quite touching.

As we headed for the door, I caught the look that passed between Dad and Chet—not just understanding, but a passing of responsibility. Dad's hand gripped Chet's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Take care of them both."

Chet's nod was almost imperceptible.

The night swallowed us as we stepped off the porch, V's weight a constant presence against my side.

His face tipped toward my neck, inhaling deeply despite the pain it must have caused him. Even now—broken, bleeding, barely conscious—he sought comfort in my scent.

I'd grown used to him appearing from shadows, invincible and unyielding. Tonight, reality revealed a painful truth: he was mortal.

And I wasn't ready to lose him.

The drive was mostly silent. I sat in the back with V, his massive frame taking up more than his share of the seat. His body radiated heat that I could feel through my clothes, but the cold intensity of his eyes remained unchanged. His hand found mine, fingers curling around my smaller ones with possessive certainty.

When we arrived at our building, Chet helped V from the car, though "helped" wasn't the right word. V barely tolerated the support, his body rigid with rejection. He couldn't feel the damage he was doing to himself with each stubborn step, risking tearing open his freshly stitched wounds.

"Ease up, big guy," Chet muttered as they navigated the porch stairs. "Your body doesn't know it's hurt, but those stitches can still tear. Oakley, get the door please."

V's weight shifted unexpectedly, nearly sending both men stumbling. Chet grunted, readjusting his grip. "Son of a bitch, lose some weight would ya?"

I hurried ahead, unlocking the apartment and flipping on lights. The familiar space felt strange tonight, the shadows deeper, the air heavier with the scent of V's blood and somethingmedicinal—antiseptic, maybe, or whatever Hex had used to clean his wounds.

Inside, we guided V down the hall to the bedroom. He sank onto the mattress, eyes growing heavy but still fixed on me. I helped him lie back, careful of his bandaged torso as I arranged the pillows. The black mask still covered the lower half of his face, a stark contrast against his unusually pale skin.

"You can't feel it, but that doesn't mean you aren't hurt. Your body is still—" I cut myself off, breath catching. "You could have died tonight," I choked, panic clawing up my throat. "You wouldn't have even known until it was too late."

His eyes stayed fixed on mine, that intensity never wavering even as the sedatives continued to take hold. The black depths of his pupils seemed to expand, consuming the thin ring of gray around them. His massive frame sank deeper into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders gradually melting away. He fought it. I could see the struggle as his eyelids grew heavy, then half-closed, then flickered with the effort to stay open. His fingers found mine, squeezing once with surprising gentleness before his hand went slack. His breathing deepened, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as the medication finally dragged him under. The mask covering the lower half of his face shifted slightly with each exhale, the only movement in his otherwise still form.

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