Page 227 of Sins of the Hidden

"Why?" The word barely made it past my lips. "Why wasn't I enough for you to love?"

She stared up at me, her dread fading slightly, something unreadable flickering across her features.

The wetness soaked through her thin jacket, plastering her graying hair to her skull. She was shivering, arms wrapped around herself where she lay in the mud, and something twisted in my chest. Without thinking, I started to shrug off my suit jacket—the automatic response of a child who'd learned to take care of everyone but himself.

"I was your son." My words broke on ragged gasps as I stood over her. "All I wanted was for you to love me."

The fight drained away. I was exhausted—tired of hating, tired of hurting, tired of begging for love that was never coming. My chest heaved with each intake, lungs struggling against the weight of a heart that couldn't decide whether to race or stop entirely.

"You didn't deserve what happened to you," I said quietly, watching her face twist with confusion at my calm. "But neither did I."

The words weren't for her. They were for the boy who'd died in her care. The one who spent his childhood believing he was too broken to love.

The worst damage wasn't what they did—it was what you kept. One whisper of want. One breath of maybe. That was what killed you. Because it was the only part still alive.

I spent years believing if I broke enough bodies for the club, took enough lives, emptied myself of anything resembling weakness, I'd forget that touch. That I'd finally kill the part of me that still longed for it. But here she was, and that tiny speck of emotion I couldn't excise burned hotter than all my rage.

I wanted her broken—but I also wanted her arms around me, whispering she finally loved me. Even after all these years I just wanted my Mother to love me.

How fucking pathetic. The man who felt nothing still felt this.

Now, with her huddled form below me, the memory splintered like bone under a surgeon's saw. Meaningless to her. Probably forgotten entirely.

Then, something changed in Mother's expression. Her features softened, the harsh lines of hatred momentarily smoothing out. Still lying in the mud, she reached up with a shaking hand toward my face, fingers outstretched.

My resolve shattered at the hesitant scrape of her fingertips, my body betraying every lesson beaten into it. The child inside—the one who'd waited by windows and cried himself to sleep—surged forward desperately, starving for a touch that had always been withheld.

They brushed my cheek, feather-light. I leaned into it without meaning to, muscles tensed to strike, even as my body leaned imperceptibly forward, craving a touch I'd never had. Her palm cupped my jaw.

My eyes closed. Just for a second my entire body slumped like I was six again, sick and exhausted and stupid enough to think she might stay this time. I breathed her in like she was air and not arsenic.

"Come here, baby..." she whispered, voice suddenly maternal, gentle.

My throat closed. Muscles calcified. Every scar on my body burned with memory—soft words always preceded new wounds, gentle touches always gave way to destruction. The pattern existed in my flesh, written there by her hand.

Yet, I leaned forward anyway, one halting inch at a time, dropping to one knee in the mud to bring my face closer to hers.

"Closer," she coaxed. She guided my face down until we were inches apart, her stare dissecting mine. For a wild, desperate moment, something like regret surfaced there. Love, even.

My eyes closed.

She jerked forward, slamming her forehead against mine with savage force. Agony exploded through my skull, vision blurring as I staggered backward and fell onto my ass in the mud.

"You were supposed to choke on your own blood and save me the trouble," she snarled. "I gave you peace. You should've stayed fucking quiet."

Every cell in my body finally accepted what my mind had always resisted—she would never love me.

Had never loved me.

Could never love me.

She was never going to say it. Not now. Not ever. Not even if I bled out at her feet, spelling out "I love you" in my own guts. She'd never say it back. And the part of me that waited all these years finally died in that mud beside her.

"I just wanted to be your son."

Her face hardened.

She pushed herself to her feet, backing away from me through the mud. "I never wanted to be your fucking mom," she spat before turning and running into trees.

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