Page 178 of Sins of the Hidden

Her body strained beneath mine but held firm, her arms tightening around my waist as she absorbed my weight. She caught me, arms supporting my dead weight, pulling me impossibly closer, holding me like she could somehow absorb the agony carved into my skin. I felt her tears soaking through my shirt, hot against my skin. The shattered pieces of us ground together into something almost like home—jagged edges cutting as they tried to fit, both of us bleeding into each other where the broken parts connected.

I was losing the fragile humanity she'd uncovered.

I wish she'd never taught me how to feel.

I finally knew what it was like to love somebody.

But I also learned the pain of them not loving me back.

Moonlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting silver streaks across our bedroom. V lay on his stomach beside me, his massive frame taking up most of the mattress, back exposed in the dim light.

I still couldn't shake the image of his face when he removed his mask. Those scars at the corners of his mouth—ten small puncture marks where his mother had sewn his lips shut. The physical evidence of an unspeakable childhood that had shaped him into the man who terrified others. But not me. Not anymore.

Two days had passed since he showed me his face, since he told me about his mother's boyfriends using him, about her jealousy and cruelty, about being imprisoned in that basement for years.

My hand moved to his back, where the ornate carved lines of our marriage certificate spanned across his skin. The raised scars stood stark against his flesh, every detail meticulously cut—our names, the date, the signatures. Something occured to me that I'd never thought to ask before.

Mom and Dad had been texting me non-stop since I ran out of the apartment. I'd read every message, but I still didn't know how to respond. What did you say to the people who raised you when you discovered they'd been lying? Dad's last text said they had more to explain, that there was more to the story. Mom kept apologizing, saying she'd always loved me as her own. I loved her too, but that didn't erase the betrayal. Twenty years of thinking I knew who I was, all unraveled in a single moment.

"If you don't like being touched, how did you sit through getting this carved?" I asked, fingers tracing the raised edges.

His body shifted beneath my touch, and he rolled over to face me. Dark eyes found mine in the dim light. "Stared at your picture the whole time."

Such a simple answer, delivered without emotion, yet it made my heart twist in unexpected ways. Now that we were facing each other, I could see the arm scars more clearly in the moonlight. My hand slid from his back to his right forearm, fingertips finding the raised letters etched into his skin—Summer. Then to his left arm—Oakley. The scars are pink and puckered, rough beneath my fingertips. Most people would recoil at the thought of someone carving names into their own flesh, but when it came to V, these marks felt like the purest expression of devotion he was capable of.

My attention lingered on the scar that read Summer, the name of our child I couldn't give him. The name brought an ache to my chest, reminding me of another name, another loss: Anne.

Tears spilled suddenly, scorching paths down my face, each drop dragging out a hidden ache I'd buried too long. I tried to wipe them away, but even that small motion didn't escape V's notice. His eyes narrowed slightly—dark voids that missed nothing—watching as I struggled to compose myself.

"You're crying." Not a question. A fact, delivered without inflection. I turned away, but his hand was already there, fingers curling around my jaw, forcing me to face him. "Why?"

"Just... remembering someone." My voice cracked, breaking on a shame I could never escape.

V's head tilted slightly, that familiar assessment that categorized my pain as a problem to solve. His hand slid from my jaw to my throat, fingers resting there without pressure—not painful, but unmistakably possessive. "Who?"

The question was simple but felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. Four years of silence stretched behind me, a fortress I'd built around that night, that memory, that grief.

I opened my mouth to say her name, but it got stuck somewhere between my throat and my ribs, lodged like a shard of glass I'd swallowed years ago and never passed. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Her name was Anne." The words scraped my throat raw. "She was my best friend."

His expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened, a predator scenting weakness. He remained perfectly motionless, watching. The demand for more was unspoken but unmistakable. I lowered my gaze, biting my lip until the metallic taste filled my mouth, desperate to bury the pain back beneath the surface.

"I've never told anyone about what happened."

"Tell me." The command fell between us, heavy and absolute.

My fingers twisted the sheets between us, anchoring myself to something solid. I'd spent years carrying this alone—the weight of that night, the aftermath, the guilt. The thought of sharing it felt both impossible and desperately necessary. A promise etched into flesh. Most would find the gesture terrifying. I found it steadying.

"It's why I'm so..." My voice faltered as I searched for the right words. "Afraid."

V just watched, waiting with the patience of someone who was never rushed by the clock or anyone else's comfort.

"If someone fucking hurt you?—"

"It happened four years ago." I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "No one can change what happened."

V released my throat and shifted, sitting up against the headboard. His massive frame dwarfed everything in the room, making even our queen-sized bed feel small. He pulled me up and positioned me between his legs, my back to his chest—a position that allowed me to speak without meeting his eyes. Even now he understood what I needed.

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