Page 168 of Sins of the Hidden

They should teach girls that love isn't a light in the dark—it's the fire. And sometimes, no matter how long you stand in it, all it does is burn.

We lay in the darkness of our bedroom, the silence between us broken only by the steady rhythm of V's breathing. His body was tense beside me as he sat in black jeans and a long-sleeved shirt while I was still naked from a few hours ago.

The jagged mirror across the room caught fragments of our reflection, my head resting cautiously on his shoulder, his arm stretched protectively across my waist. Almost touching but not quite connecting. I traced the path of our bodies in the webbed glass, finding strange comfort in how the cracks transformed us, not hiding our flaws but making them into something almost beautiful.

A sudden knock at our front door shattered the quiet. V's head tilted, his attention shifting instantly toward the sound echoing from the living room.

"W-Who is it?" I called from the bedroom, scrambling off the bed, frantically searching for my clothes scattered across the floor.

"It's us, Oak." Dad's voice filtered through the apartment door from the hallway outside. What was he doing here?

I yanked on my jeans, confused. They hadn't shown up unannounced since the morning after my panic attack with V. I pulled my shirt over my head, trying to smooth my tousled hair as I hurried toward the front door.

V was already there, fully clothed since he'd worn them when we... did what we did. His movements were slow as he waited for me to be decent. When he opened the door, they stood in the building's hallway. Mom's fingers laced through Dad's, eyes rimmed with tears.

"Is everything okay?" I've only seen Mom cry a handful of times in my life.

Dad stepped across the threshold into our living room, his shoulders tense as he moved past V toward the center of the space. Mom followed close behind, her eyes fixed on the floor as she entered. V remained standing by the open door, watching them both.

I crossed to him, my fingers whispering against his sleeve. "Please sit down," I reminded him softly, closing the door behind my parents. "You need to rest."

He placed his massive hand in mine, allowing me to guide him across the living room to the couch. Not from any concern, but because I had asked. V obeyed no one except me.

Mom settled into the armchair across from us while Dad remained standing near the window. She tried to smile at V from her seat, but it cracked at the edges as she spoke. "Are you feeling okay, dear?"

V gave a single nod from beside me on the couch, his gaze never wavering from me. His hand extended toward me, fingers splayed wide. Wedding bands brushed together as I laced my fingers through his. His eyes tracked my every movement.

"I'm right here," I rubbed my thumb across his knuckles.

Dad paced between the window and coffee table, hands fidgeting in a way that seemed foreign on him. He kept glancingat Mom in her chair, whose tears had begun to fall freely. Her breathing stuttered audibly, small gasps that she couldn't quite control as she rocked slightly in the cushioned seat. "M-Mom?"

"We need to tell you something," Dad finally said, stopping his pacing to face us on the couch. "Something we should have told you years ago." Dad's eyes were on me—specifically, my hand resting in V's. "That ring on your finger." His voice had gone hollow, echoing as if from the bottom of a well. "You got it from Divine Diligence, didn't you?" A pause. "Were you born there?"

V's body became iron beneath my touch, every muscle rigid. "Mother was sent there," V answered, his voice flat, but his fingers dug into my hip with bruising force. "I was born there."

"You escaped?" V nodded. "How old were you?"

"Three."

"What's Divine Diligence?" The words came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the heavy atmosphere.

I reached for Mom instinctively, as I'd done thousands of times when scared or confused, but she flinched away—a tiny movement that gutted me. Security collapsed inward, a vacuum taking its place. My throat sealed shut, oxygen trapped painfully as if my body recognized the betrayal before my mind could process it. She'd never, not once in my life, pulled away from my touch.

"It's where I grew up," Dad ran his fingers through his hair before pointedly looking at me. "It's where you were born."

No one answered. Mom raised her eyes to mine, and what I saw there made my heart stutter.

Dad opened his mouth to speak, but Mom made a noise that stopped my heart—half-sob, half-scream, the sound of something splitting inside her chest. Her fist pressed against her mouth, knuckles whitening as she bit down hard enough to leave marks, trying to contain what couldn't be held back.

Anything would hurt less than the way she looked at me—as if she was already mourning something I hadn't even lost yet, memorizing my face for the last time, like each second cost her something vital she'd never get back.

"Claudia," Dad whispered, his hand covering hers.

"No." She jerked away, spine straightening. Tears marked paths down her face, washing away the careful mask she'd worn all my life. "I need to say it myself." Her voice splintered, steel bending until it cracked. "I'm not—" The words choked off abruptly, as if speaking them aloud would end her completely.

Mom's eyes finally met mine across the coffee table. Her features crumpled as she tried to find words for a truth too painful to speak.

"W-What's happening?" My eyes shifted from Mom to Dad, heart jerking uncontrollably.

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