Page 171 of Sins of the Hidden

V didn't cry. V would never cry. His eyes remained dry as bone, yet somehow they conveyed a desolation so absolute it was worse than tears could ever express. It wasn't emotion that undid me but the complete absence of it—the way his entire body seemed to vibrate with the effort of containing any human reaction at all.

This wasn't V.

This was a little boy waiting for someone to save him and never did.

My nails bit crescents into my palms as he stared past me, trapped behind eyes that saw nothing but memories of being quieted. A ghost haunting the shell of the monster who'd become my sanctuary.

The most terrifying man I'd ever known had given me his darkest truth, and in doing so, had trusted me with his soul. The man who had threatened to end worlds for me had allowed himself to be vulnerable. The predator had willingly become prey to give me the gift of his trust.

"How could anyone look at you and hurt you?" The words escaped as an agonized whisper, barely audible above the shattering of my heart. My fingers trembled against his face, unable to offer comfort for something so incomprehensible.

The world tilted on its axis. The floor beneath me seemed to liquefy, reality warping around this confession that changed everything and nothing at once. V—my monster, my nightmare turned sanctuary—had just ripped himself open and laid his most guarded wound at my feet. A trust so profound it left me breathless.

My chest constricted so hard, each breath stabbed like shards in my lungs. A sound tore from my throat—part scream, part sob—ripped from somewhere primal and wounded. I crumbled against him, my forehead finding his shoulder as my body convulsed uncontrollably. Tears soaked his shirt as I shattered against him, unable to hold myself upright under the weight of his confession. Bile rose, scorching my esophagus as visions flooded my mind: a little boy with midnight eyes, men's hands holding him down, his mother watching with cold resentment.

My fists clenched fabric like a lifeline. I could feel my nails breaking skin, but the pain was distant, unimportant compared to the hemorrhaging wound he'd just exposed. He remained motionless, this man who never looked away, as if by confessing this one awful truth, he'd exposed a weakness he didn't understand and couldn't name.

My hands rose to his face, fingertips hovering millimeters from his skin, not quite touching. The space between us charged with something beyond fear, beyond grief—sacred and terrible. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, muscles tensing beneath me like a cornered animal preparing for pain. How many times had he relived this exact fear? How many nightmares had begun with hands reaching for his face?

I waited, suspended in this moment that felt like standing on the edge of a precipice—one movement would send us plummeting into a depth we couldn't return from. My fingers visibly trembled, suddenly clumsy with the weight of what I was asking. His eyes fluttered shut, impossibly long lashes casting spider-leg shadows on hollow cheeks. A single, barely perceptible nod.

My fingers found the straps of his mask first, the elastic worn thin from constant use. My breath hitched audibly, fingers shaking violently as they trembled against his hair. These hands that had always been steady now betraying the earthquake inside me. This felt sacred and excruciating all at once—like stripping armor from a wounded warrior, reverent yet raw. My knuckles brushed against his temples, against skin too cold, too damp. The surgical mask had become such a part of him that removing it felt like an act of violence, a desecration.

The mask caught briefly on the shell of his ear, and his entire frame remained motionless beneath me, a living tombstone. His breathing never faltered—controlled, even, unaffected. Each breath measured, as if counting seconds between inhalations. His eyes remained open, unflinching, watching me with that same hollow intensity. The black fabric slipped away, revealing the face I'd only glimpsed in fragments before.

For the first time, I saw him—truly saw him.

His face was sculpted brutality—all sharp angles and unforgiving planes. High cheekbones cut like blades beneath skin stretched taut over bone. His jawline was carved granite, masculine and unyielding, dusted with dark stubble that couldn't quite hide the scars. A crooked, aristocratic nose that had been shattered many times. His lips were fuller than I'd imagined, the bottom one slightly more pronounced, oddly sensual against the harshness of his other features—a single touch of softness in a landscape built for war.

Those eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—were framed by lashes so thick and dark they looked like ink smudges, an artist's afterthought. His brows arched, one bisected by a thin white scar I'd never seen before. Everything about his face was a contradiction—beauty carved from cruelty, symmetry forged through suffering.

I memorized each line and hollow, cataloging the face I'd dreamed of but never truly known. This was V—my monster, my protector, my executioner, my salvation—exposed at last. My breath caught at the strange intimacy of it, more naked than if he'd shed every piece of clothing. More vulnerable than any physical exposure could ever be.

But there, where the crisp edges of his beard should have continued their path, lay the truth he'd hidden.

The dim lights were merciless, exposing what he'd concealed for so long.

What if I hadn't asked? What if I never saw this? Would he have carried it to the grave, one stitch at a time, while I lived beside a ghost I never truly knew? Small, puckered divots carved into the corners of his mouth—starburst scars where beard couldn't grow. Not random. Deliberate. Symmetrical. Needle puncture wounds, healed years ago but etched into his lips. Ten little grave markers carved into skin no one had ever mourned properly. Ten tiny funerals stitched into his mouth. The kind of marks that could only come from being held open. Used. The physical evidence of the horror he'd just confessed.

My vision blurred as bile rose violently in my throat. My breathing stuttered painfully, lungs refusing to fill. I wanted to erase each scar, to rewind time, to scream until my throat tore—but I could only stare helplessly at the evidence of his stolen voice. Each divot marked not just physical damage but a monument to stolen innocence, childhood ripped away by hands that should have protected.

The scars said everything he'd never spoken. Screamed where he'd been forced to be quiet. Ten punctures. Ten times someone decided his voice didn't matter. How many screams had he buried behind this mask?

My stomach convulsed. My throat locked. I wanted to kiss every scar. To burn the world that put them there. The room tilted, oxygen suddenly scarce. My vision tunneled down to those ten small scars, each one a chapter in a horror story written on the face of the man I loved.

His jaw set in a rigid line, not a single muscle twitching beneath his skin. He remained perfectly motionless, allowing me to witness this most guarded secret with unnatural control. His skin remained dry despite the chill in the atmosphere, his complexion unchanging—no color, no reaction, nothing that might suggest humanity beneath that exterior.

The mask dangled from my fingers, this simple piece of fabric that had been armor, sanctuary, prison. With terrible clarity, I understood everything—the quiet that had defined him, the rage that lived beneath his skin, the way he sometimes flinched when I reached for his face too quickly. Not quirks. Not personality. Survival mechanisms forged in agony.

A tear slipped down my cheek, then another, and another, a quiet flood I couldn't control. They dripped onto his shirt, spreading dark circles on the fabric.

My arms came around him with desperate strength as if I could shield him from the past, as if my body could absorb the horror that had shaped him. I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, tears soaking his skin, my voice catching and cracking as I tried to whisper reassurances I had no right to give.

"Tell me you survived it," I whispered against his throat. "Tell me there's something left of you."

He said nothing.

He was the only piece of truth I had left. I couldn't let him disappear back into the shadows—not when I'd finally seen what they did to him. The movement drew my gaze to the scars again, to the physical proof of betrayal so profound it had shaped his entire existence.

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