Page 210 of Sins of the Hidden

Instead of answering, I lifted onto my tip toes and brushed my lips against the mask where he would be beneath. His arms encircled me, strong and sure.

When I pulled back slightly, he leaned down not wanting to relinquish contact, our foreheads still touching, I could feel howrigidly he held himself, the way his gaze never wavered from my face.

"I'll tell you on Sunday," I told him, my words soft between us, hardly more than a breath.

His eyes narrowed slightly, confusion evident in the subtle shift of his posture. "Why not now?"

The silence between us expanded, filling with all the things neither of us knew how to say. In that quiet, I heard my heartbeat, his controlled breathing, the distant sounds of the world continuing outside this bubble we'd created. The weight of the moment pressed down, making each second stretch painfully as he waited for an explanation I wasn't sure I could give. The silence felt tangible, a living thing between us that carried more meaning than either of us could articulate.

I smiled, tracing the edge of his mask with my fingertips. "Prove to me you can wait," I whispered, pressing another soft kiss where his lips would be, "and I'll prove to you I won't leave."

If he could wait until Sunday, it meant he truly understood what he was asking—what forgiveness would cost us both.

His hands tightened slightly at my waist, fingers pressing into the flesh there—a reminder of the restraint it took for him to accept my terms.

"Sunday," he agreed, his voice roughened with something I couldn't name. "Here. Seven o'clock." His eyes searched mine, endless and unreadable.

He shifted slightly, his body so close to mine I could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes remained fixed on me, studying my face with that singular focus that still made my heart race—in fear or anticipation, sometimes I couldn't tell the difference.

I breathed in the moment—the scent of paint and wood and him, the warmth of his body against mine, the roughness of his hands as they held me. Between us, the empty space on thesign pressed into my consciousness, a constellation of possibility that somehow contained my entire past and possibly my future. The slight pressure of his fingers against my waist anchored me to this unbelievable moment. The taste of dust and possibility coated my tongue, mingling with the lingering sweetness of the memory he'd returned to me.

"Don't make me wait too long," he murmured, his voice carrying an edge I'd never heard before—not quite vulnerability, but something adjacent to it.

"If you want this, you'll do this for me," I whispered back, surprised by the steadiness in my voice when everything inside me trembled.

His eyes met mine, obsidian and fathomless as ever, yet somehow different. "I've never wanted anything more." The words rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against my skin where we touched. "Not once in my entire fucking life."

No poetry, no practiced lines—just raw truth delivered with the same unflinching intensity he brought to everything. His certainty should have frightened me. Perhaps it still did. But it also made something flutter dangerously in my chest, something I wasn't ready to name.

In that moment, with sunlight painting us gold and hope pressed between our palms, I felt something shift between us. The man who had once taken everything without permission was now waiting, patient and still. The enormity of that change washed over me like a tide, leaving me breathless.

I thought of the girl I used to be—the one who dreamed of a white dress and a first dance, of cake tastings and flower arrangements, of a gentle man who would love her softly. That girl had imagined a very different future than the one standing before me now. Her dreams had been innocent, untouched by the horrors we'd survived. She couldn't have imagined falling fora man like V, couldn't have comprehended the twisted path that led me here.

Mom used to say love was a choice you made every day. I never believed her. Until now.

There was heartbreak in recognizing how far I'd strayed from her dreams, a mourning for the normal life that had been stolen from both of us. Yet alongside that grief bloomed something unexpected—acceptance of this new reality, this strange and broken love that somehow fit the person I'd become. Perhaps we were both too damaged for the kind of love others took for granted. Perhaps this was exactly what we deserved—finding beauty in the wreckage we'd made of each other.

And I already knew what my answer would be.

Icouldn't wipe the grin off my face as I walked up Daphne's porch steps, fingers absently twisting the ring on my left hand. I almost told Daphne no when she called and asked me to come over. But her voice was dejected over the phone, and Daphne was usually always happy.

The tray of her favorite pastries balanced awkwardly in one arm as I reached her door, shifting weight from one foot to the other. This morning V watched me from across the kitchen, impossibly still, his attention fixed on my hands as I'd prepared these. Even when he wasn't physically present, the weight of his expectation pressed against my skin.

I knocked on the door, waiting for Daphne's call to come in.

But there was nothing.

The silence raised goosebumps along my arms despite the warm spring air. I knocked louder, knuckles stinging against the solid wood. She knew I was coming over—she was the one who called me.

I stepped back, scanning the windows for movement. Nothing but the lights turned off in her house. That was weird; she always had the lights on. She'd never done this before.

My stomach twisted. Something was wrong.

The door handle turned beneath my palm. No sign of her in the room as I walked to the dining room table, footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet. I set the tray down. The container clicked against the wood. "D-Daphne?"

"I've been waiting, Oakley."

Daphne now stood by the front door, steel clutched in her white-knuckled grip, a demented twist of her lips turning her once-beautiful features into something unrecognizable and inhuman. The knife dripped steadily onto the hardwood. A ragged gash opened her arm from wrist to elbow, the wound yawning obscenely to reveal glistening muscle beneath separated flesh, yet she showed no awareness of her own mutilation. Her dark hair hung in greasy clumps, sticky strands plastered to her cheeks, stained a deep, crusted rust as if she'd dragged herself through decay. Something rotten beneath her expensive perfume made my stomach lurch. But those flat obsidian discs like doll's eyes paralyzed me—reflecting nothing—empty sockets in a porcelain mask.

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