Page 202 of Sins of the Hidden

"A support group that beats the shit out of each other," Mitchell grumbled as Nyla poked a cut making him hiss. “The fuck was that for, pretty girl?”

Their arguing was drowned out as I gathered him closer. His head rested heavy against me, eyes open, watching with thatunblinking focus that never let me look away. His heartbeat steadied against mine—matching my rhythm.

My fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbone, even as my stomach churned at what surrounded us. Our foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, breathing in air thick with the scent of what devotion looked like when it went mad.

They tell you monsters hide in closets. They never tell you that sometimes, when the monster kneels before you with its heart in its hands and the evidence of slaughter coating its skin, you become the darkness too.

And if loving him meant I became the monster too?

Then so be it.

He was worth the ruin.

Fresh paint and sawdust hung thick in the air. Oakley stood on the stepladder near the east wall, stretching toward the top corner with her brush heavy with pale green paint. Her shirt rode up as she reached, exposing skin above her jeans. When she caught me watching from where I worked on the shelving across the room, her free hand tugged the fabric down.

She glanced over her shoulder, paint brush dripping green. "Can you hand me the paint roller?" Her voice carried that breathless quality it got when I watched her work.

I set down the wood I'd been sanding, brushing sawdust from my palms as I straightened. My boots struck heavy against the concrete floor as I walked and paused behind her, letting my presence register before stepping closer. "Reach for it." Moving behind her, I positioned myself close enough that my chest nearly brushed her shoulder blades as she stayed perched on the second step.

She stretched her free hand toward where I held the roller just out of easy reach, forcing her to arch slightly. The paint roller passed between us, my fingers deliberately grazing hersas I transferred it. Her pulse jumped beneath my touch—a tiny flutter I felt through her wrist.

The bakery had transformed under our hands these past weeks. Copper fixtures caught the light, casting everything in amber. New countertops waited beneath protective plastic—marble I'd chosen specifically for its coolness. Perfect for pastry work. Perfect for other things.

She completed the final strokes of pale green, transforming the damaged wall. "Almost done with this wall." Her voice carried that bright anticipation that made something tighten in my chest. White flour handprints marked her jeans from her earlier baking. The industrial mixer still wore traces of vanilla batter on its paddle.

I'd handled the high sections myself—she stayed on lower ground where I could reach her if she fell.

Her hair escaped its tie, honey-colored strands framing flushed cheeks. She'd worked without stopping, alternating between painting and baking. Heavy lifting stayed mine. Always.

I stepped back as she climbed down the ladder, watching her feet find each rung carefully. Once on solid ground, she moved toward the corner where reclaimed wood waited to become shelving. I followed at a measured pace, trailing her by three steps, my gaze tracking her movement. Each piece I'd sanded smooth, every splinter removed. Nothing rough enough to catch her skin.

I pivoted and walked to the back counter where the final marble slab waited, my shoulders rolling as I lifted the heavy stone. Positioned myself directly in the narrow walkway between the prep area and storage room as I worked, blocking the passage with my frame.

She approached the walkway from the main floor, measuring cups in her hands, needing to reach the storage room behind me."Excuse me." Her voice was smaller when she had to ask me to move.

I turned slightly, registering her approach. Shifted my position—barely. My shoulder remained angled toward the wall, leaving minimal space. Not enough for her to pass easily. Her breast pressed against my arm as she squeezed through the gap. I didn't move to accommodate her. She pulled away quickly once through, busying herself with organizing supplies on the metal shelving unit.

She arranged measuring tools with nervous precision, her back to me. "I've been thinking about the opening. Maybe a soft launch first—friends and family." The words rushed together, betraying her awareness of my proximity.

I abandoned the marble, setting it down with controlled force. Turned and moved to where she stood at the shelving unit, my steps measured and quiet. Approached from behind until she was trapped between my body and the metal frame I'd installed that morning. "Family." My breath stirred the hair at her nape. "The club."

She nodded, the shelving solid against her back, her hands stilling on the measuring cups.

I stepped back, giving her space to turn around. I returned to the counter, bending to pick up my drill. The bit slipped, diving deeper than intended. Something warm trickled from torn knuckles.

She hurried over, hands gentle as she wrapped a towel around mine. "You need to be more careful."

"It doesn't matter." My voice was flat, but I didn't pull away from her touch.

Her fingers shook as she secured the fabric. "It matters to me." She must have felt my stare—her face flushed deeper. "B-Be more careful."

I tested the bandage with my other hand, flexing my fingers. The towel held. She stepped back, satisfied with her work, then moved to clean up the scattered tools and put away the first aid supplies. I watched her organize everything with that same careful attention she gave to her baking.

An hour later, I moved between the front display area and back prep station, installing cabinet hardware. My hands worked steadily, but my attention stayed fixed on her. She stood bent over the mixer in the far corner, twenty feet from where I worked, wrist flicking as she stirred something thick and golden. Her jeans clung to curves that made my hands flex involuntarily around the screwdriver. Flour dusted the back of her thigh like fingerprints waiting to be traced.

She finished stirring and walked toward the supply area, her movements unhurried. I straightened from my crouch beside the cabinets, setting down my tools. She reached for ingredients on the high shelf above the storage counter. Rising on her toes, stretching. The stepladder sat three feet away, but she tried to reach without it. The shelf wobbled under her grip.

I abandoned my tools in a single motion, pushing off from where I knelt. My boots hit the floor as I rose and crossed the room in five quick strides, closing the distance before she could fall. My hands found her waist before she could fall, steadying her from behind with firm pressure. She gasped, one palm flying forward to brace against the wall. Left a handprint in wet paint.

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