Page 221 of Sins of the Hidden

She'd made it. She was free.

More footsteps thundered down the hallway. The leader's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "What's happening here?"

The door stood open wide now. Father Sal appeared in the frame, flanked by half a dozen men, their expressions morphing from confusion to horror as they took in their fallen comrade's mangled remains, the piece of wood, and the open window.

"He's dead," one of the men reported, his voice hollow with shock. "She beat his head in with that board."

Father Sal's eyes moved from the corpse to me, his expression darkening with each detail he absorbed. "And the other girl?"

"Escaped through the window. The witch helped her."

"I-I'm not—" I tried to back away, but my legs betrayed me. I collapsed to my knees, slipping in the cooling blood.

The corner of his leather-bound Bible connected with my cheek, splitting skin like paper. The sting was nothing compared to my missing finger and mangled lips, but it shocked me into silence.

"Tie her," the command fell like a stone thrown into still water. "Take the witch to the dock."

Three men rushed me, rough hands binding my wrists behind my back. The rope bit into my skin, grinding against the raw stump where my finger had been. Pain exploded up my arm, vision going white for an instant.

They dragged me outside, my heels leaving grooves in the dirt as I fought with what little strength remained. But my thoughts weren't on my own fate anymore. They were on Callista, running through trees toward freedom. Running toward V and Dad.

They were taking me to drown. But Callista was free, carrying my message to the only family that mattered. V would come for me, even if it was too late.

"You made a big mistake, witch," one of the men said as he dragged me up, pushing me out the door.

They led me out of the cabin down a hill. I saw rope and cinder blocks and it hit me.

They drowned witches.

Istood just inside the door of our half-finished bakery, flowers clutched in my fist, suit suffocating me. The scent of fresh paint and sawdust filled my nose—memories of her fingers traced in yellow, her laughter echoing off empty walls.

This morning, the stranger in the bathroom mirror wore a suit, his hair clean, his eyes hollow. I'd practiced the words until my voice cracked. "Will you marry me?"

I killed people for a fucking living, now I'm tongue tied over a fucking question.

The question had hung unnatural and wrong in the air. I'd slammed my fist into the mirror—the glass should have shattered. It didn't. Just like everything else, it refused to break the way it should. Black on black—shirt, slacks, jacket Victoria had gotten me years ago. I'd never worn it until today. I kept my combat boots. The one piece of myself I wouldn't surrender.

My hair hung loose past my shoulders. Oakley liked it that way. I'd washed it three times, combing out each tangle with her shampoo—the one she bought for me. Its scent surrounded meeven when she wasn't there. One more thing I'd changed for her. One more piece reshaped by her hands.

Lilies in my grip—her favorites. I'd seen her stop to touch them at the market, fingers gentle against petals like she was afraid they'd crumble. I noticed everything about her. The black fabric was poorly ironed, creases visible, each uneven line evidence of my clumsy attempt at normalcy.

The wooden sign sat propped against the counter. Our handprints pressed together in the wood—my black palm spanning wide, her delicate lavender print nestled inside mine. Below, an empty space waited. Summer's handprint would go there. Our daughter who would exist because I'd decided she would.

I'd crafted that sign by hand. Hours bent over oak, knife sliding through grain, spelling out Sweet Summer's in flowing script. The bakery she'd dreamed of since childhood. The life we were building together.

Seven o'clock. That's what we'd agreed.

I could see it—white silk pooling around her feet, her chestnut hair catching afternoon sunlight like spun gold. Law would walk her down the aisle. The way she'd bite her lower lip when nervous, jade eyes finding mine across the grass between us. She'd be beautiful. She was always beautiful, but in a wedding dress, walking toward me like I was worth choosing—it would stop my heart if I had one that worked like other men's.

The garden would be small. Intimate. Just the club and their women under open sky because we'd all burn if we set foot in a church. Yellow roses scattered in the grass like sunshine she could walk through, wildflowers woven into her hair. Real flowers, not the dying ones in my fist.

And afterward, when the vows were real and legal and chosen, we'd come back here. To our bakery. She'd wear her dress while we mixed batter, flour dusting the white silk, herlaughter echoing off walls we'd painted together. I'd lift her onto the counter, careful of the fabric, and kiss her until she forgot every reason she ever had to doubt this.

Seven fifteen.

My finger found the outline of her handprint on the sign. Delicate. So much smaller than mine. I could span her entire palm with three of my fingers.

Inside my jacket, four pendants pressed against my ribs—silver teardrops, each with ash inside. Michael. Tyler. Jensen. Karson. The boys who tormented her in high school. I was hoping we could smash them together.

---