Page 167 of Sins of the Hidden

His thrusts grew harder, more demanding, his hands keeping my legs splayed wide as he drove into me without mercy. The wet sounds of our joining filled the room, obscene and primal. My body jolted with each powerful upward thrust, his strength making the entire bed creak beneath us. His masked face remained impassive in the mirror's reflection, observing me with cold calculation as he systematically took me apart.

"This is what you need," he stated, not a question but an assessment. His hips pistoned relentlessly, each stroke bottoming out inside me. "To be fucked until you can't remember anything but me."

His hand found my throat, thumb pressing just beneath my jaw, tipping my face toward the mirror. I caught glimpses of us in the fractured glass—my body pinned and helpless, his powerful form controlling every movement, using me with methodical intensity. His hand slid between us, finding my clit. He rubbed tight circles against the swollen bud.

The orgasm that tore through me was violent and consuming, my cunt clenching around his thick shaft as my body convulsed. I cried out, my voice breaking as pleasure crashed through every nerve ending. My pussy spasmed helplessly, walls fluttering and gripping him as a flood of wetness gushed around his cock. V continued thrusting upward relentlessly, his thick length splitting me open over and over, prolonging my release until it bordered on unbearable. Only when I was completely spent did he allow his own release, his cock pulsing inside me as he filled me with hot spurts of cum. His grip on my hips never gentled, fingers maintaining their bruising pressure until the final aftershock had passed through both of us.

My back arched sharply, body bowing as pleasure surged outward in blinding waves. My thighs trembled against his hands, still holding me open as he continued driving into me through another release. I cried out his name—not a plea but a recognition, an acknowledgment of the man who had somehow made me feel beautiful in a body I'd spent a lifetime apologizing for.

Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched our reflection—my fuller body accepting his, my curves highlighted in the dim light, his powerful frame controlling every inch of me. I came apart with a freedom I had never known before—unashamed, unhidden, unafraid.

With a harsh groan, he followed, burying himself deep as his release claimed him again. His grip maintained pressure beneath my thighs, keeping me spread wide as he filled me. When he withdrew, his release dripped down in thick rivulets. He turned my face toward the mirror, making me watch evidence of his claim, his eyes cold and possessive as he observed my reaction.

"Mine," he stated simply, voice flat yet somehow final.

What broke me wasn't just the physical pleasure. It was the realization that perhaps the most dangerous man I'd ever known was the only one who had ever truly seen me—all of me—and found beauty there. Not despite my body but because of it. Every curve, every mark, every soft place the world had taught me to despise, he had reclaimed as worthy of devotion.

For long moments, we remained joined, catching our breath as our heartbeats gradually slowed. V's forehead rested heavily against my shoulder, breath shaky and uneven, his heart pounding wildly against my back as if he'd given me every last piece of himself and still worried it wasn't enough. His arms encircled me completely, fingertips tracing idle patterns againstmy cooling skin, soothing without words, communicating through touch what language could never contain.

He held me afterward, each breath he took measured. His hands traced territorial patterns across my skin, deliberate and possessive, marking boundaries only he could see. There was nothing tender in his touch—only ownership. This was his way of maintaining his claim—not through emotion he couldn't feel, but through physical possession he understood.

When he finally withdrew from my body, his cum dripping down my thighs in thick rivulets, he turned me to face him, one hand gripping my jaw. "Kardia Pou Chtypa."

His thumb brushed across my lower lip, and I realized with a start that I was smiling. Not the full, unguarded smile he sought, but a genuine curve of lips that reached my eyes.

V's eyes remained cold, even as they fixed on my expression, his fingers maintaining their grip on my jaw. "There," he stated, emotionless calculation evident behind the mask, something like asset assessment in his voice. "There you are. I've missed you."

I reached up, touching the edge of his mask where it met his skin. When he whispered my name, it didn't sound like a name. It sounded like a vow.

In the fractured mirror across the room, our reflection lay in pieces—broken, distorted, but somehow whole. In the mirror's shattered surface, our reflection bled sorrow. Each crack was a silent eulogy for what we might have been, the innocence he'd shattered, the freedom I'd lost. Yet here we were, bound irrevocably, surviving only because we'd given up on being whole. Like us. Like the beginnings of my smile that V had fought so hard to reclaim.

In the fractured mirror, our brokenness was unmistakable—but for the first time, it didn't look like ruin. It looked like redemption. The shattered edges between us reflectedsomething fragile, precious—two souls who couldn't be whole apart but found purpose in mending each other's jagged pieces.

Before him, the mirror reflected punishment—flaws, failures, all the reasons I'd been taught to hate myself. Now, it reflected grief. Longing. Survival. And somehow, still, me.

He didn't say it. I didn't either. But it hung between us like a bruise—tender, ugly, impossible to ignore.

He didn't love me. Not the way normal people love. He possessed. Consumed. Claimed. And it should have ruined me. It should have destroyed every part of me that once dreamed of being cherished rather than owned. What did it say about me that I was beginning to find safety in his possession? That I'd started to mistake captivity for belonging?

The questions cut into me even as my body betrayed me with its satiated exhaustion. I wanted to hate him. I should hate him. But hatred required a fire I no longer had fuel for. Instead, I'd found myself in this twisted space—not Stockholm syndrome, not love—where his presence had become more necessary than oxygen, where the monster I knew felt safer than the world I'd lost. I should be fighting, should be running—instead I was sinking, drowning in something too dark and twisted to name.

My mother's words about forgiveness echoed through my mind. Was I forgiving him? Or just giving up? Was there even a difference anymore? Mom said forgiveness wasn't about who deserved it, but what holding onto pain did to you. But what if letting go of that pain just made space for something worse? What if forgiveness wasn't healing—it was surrender? The line between acceptance and defeat had blurred beyond recognition, leaving me adrift in waters too deep to navigate.

Later, long after the fire in our bodies faded, I lay tangled in his arms, tears silently tracking down my temples into my hair, each one a quiet accusation against my willingness to surrender to hands that had once hurt me. My tears fell silently,staining the pillow beneath us with hidden grief. He held me tighter, unaware that each tender touch was both comfort and condemnation. He wouldn't notice them in the darkness. My eyes found the mirror again. Still cracked. Still broken. But we were there—tangled and reflected in splinters, chaos bound by raw need and the quiet beauty of accepting our fractured selves.

For the first time, I didn't look away. I accepted what I saw. I accepted him. And maybe, finally, I accepted myself—not just my body with all its flaws, but the woman I was becoming. The one who could find warmth in the arms of the same man who'd once dragged me to a basement filled with death.

Sometimes, I think he sees me more clearly than I do. And I hate that. I hate that the person who destroyed me might also be the one who knows how to piece me back together. What if that means I was always meant to be broken?

Acceptance felt like burying the girl I used to be—the one who dreamed of love without pain, trust without betrayal. I mourned her quietly, even as I welcomed the woman born from wounds and ruin. That acceptance didn't feel like healing. It felt like giving in. But maybe that was the only way to survive someone like him, and someone like me.

In the fractured glass, our reflections lay tangled—but within those splinters, there was something fiercely beautiful. Perhaps our broken pieces didn't need mending after all. Perhaps, together, we could simply exist as fractured art, scarred yet undeniable.

In the broken mirror, our tangled bodies didn't form a happy ending. They were a tragic monument to all we'd lost—innocence, freedom, self-respect. But somehow, together in these shattered pieces, we'd found something more honest than hope: acceptance.

In accepting him, this dark, dangerous man who had forced his way into my life, I had somehow found a way to acceptmyself. The realization settled into my bones like a truth I'd been running from, our shattered edges fit together in ways wholeness never could.

We weren't healed. We were still bleeding. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the only way out of this hell was learning to live in the ruin together.

---