Page 201 of Sins of the Hidden

For long moments, we stayed like that. Kneeling on broken glass, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air thick with the scent of what he'd done. His hands mapped my face with desperate reverence, fingertips tracing the curve of my jaw, the slope of my nose, the arch of my eyebrows. Learning me. Believing in me.

"Tell me what you need," I whispered against his forehead, fighting the nausea that rolled through me in waves. "Tell me what will make this stop."

"I need..." His voice cracked like a boy's. "I need you to stay real. I need you to not disappear when I blink. I need—" Hisfingers dug into my shirt with desperate force. "I need you to forgive me for what I am."

"There's nothing to forgive." But even as I said it, my stomach churned at the evidence surrounding us, at what devotion looked like when filtered through a monster's love.

He pulled back slightly, enough to meet my eyes. "I killed them because I thought they hurt you. I destroyed everything because my mind told me you were gone." His confession poured out like water from a broken dam.

The weight of it crushed into my chest. He'd done this—all of this carnage, this slaughter—because he thought I was in danger. The metallic scent seemed to grow stronger, coating my throat until I could barely breathe.

"You're n-not evil." I pressed my lips to his temple, tasting salt and copper and something darker. "You're just...d-devoted."

"Don't leave me alone with this," he whispered, and it wasn't a request. It was a plea. A desperate, broken thing that came from the deepest part of his soul. "I can't survive losing you again."

Slowly, carefully, he reached for me. His arms came around me like he was afraid I might shatter, might prove to be nothing more than wishful thinking. When I didn't disappear, when I remained solid and warm in his embrace, despite the scent of destruction that clung to him, something shifted in his posture.

His grip tightened. Arms crushing me against him with desperate force, pulling me so close my ribs protested. His massive frame unyielding as stone, his body trembling with the effort of holding on to something real. His fingers tangled in my hair, cradling my skull with devastating gentleness that contrasted with the violent force of his embrace.

Then his grip changed. Fingers curling into fists around the strands, pulling so tight I gasped. Heat bloomed across my scalp, sharp and sudden, roots straining against skin. But I didn'tpull away. Couldn't. His grip was possession, desperation, terror—physical proof that I couldn't leave, wouldn't leave, that he would tear himself apart before he let me disappear again.

"Found you," he whispered against my pulse, over and over like he was carving it into my skin with breath alone. "Found you, found you, found you." The words tumbled out in a broken litany, each word more desperate than the last.

A sound emerged from deep in his chest—not a growl, something more broken. More human. His hands moved over my back, my hair, my face, as if verifying I wasn't an illusion about to dissolve. Each touch left the scent of copper, the evidence of what he'd done, but I couldn't pull away. I wouldn't.

His entire body shook against mine, face buried against my neck, inhaling deeply. He breathed me in like a drowning man finally breaking the surface, each ragged inhale filling his lungs with proof that I was real.

"You're here," he repeated, rocking me in his arms with desperate force. "You're safe."

Minutes passed. Or hours. Time meant nothing in this space we'd carved from destruction. Eventually, his breathing steadied. His grip loosened just enough that I could pull back to look at him, though the metallic scent still clung to everything, made my stomach roll with each breath.

"V," I murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with trembling fingers slick with evidence of what he'd done. "Look at me."

Slowly, he lifted his face. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. But they saw me. Really saw me. Recognition dawning like a terrible sun—beautiful and deadly and inevitable.

Around us, Hellbound lay in ruins—testament to what happened when V's control slipped. All the club members and Nyla and Joslyn watched us, their faces pale with shock and horror at what they'd witnessed.

His gaze shifted past me, taking in the destruction he'd wrought. Club members pressed against walls, some slumped and bleeding, all watching him with a mixture of fear and wariness. Mitchell clutched his shoulder where glass had found its mark. Dad's face bore fresh bruises. The devastation spread like a crimson painting across every surface.

The silence stretched for about thirty seconds before Chet broke it with his signature timing.

"Well, that was fuckin' therapeutic," he drawled.

Tyrant shifted against the wall, wincing as he pressed a hand to his ribs. "Speak for yourself. I feel like I got hit by a goddamn truck. A psychotic truck with serious issues."

Knight snorted, wiping his split lip with the back of his hand. "You're all pussies. I've taken worse beatings from Faith when she's pissed about rent."

"That's because you like it when she hurts you," Husk pointed out, his voice muffled as he held a torn shirt to his nose. "You're into that kinky shit."

“Speaking of happy places,” Chet raised his fist in the air. "Here's to V finding his happy place. May we never be in the room when he loses his again."

"Amen to that," Mitchell agreed.

Tyrant grinned despite his swollen lip. "What, and miss the show?"

Joslyn laughed as Sarge pulled her into his good arm, blood dripping steadily down the other. “You need fuckin’ help.”

"Help?" Tyrant laughed. "We’re each other's support group."

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