Page 235 of Sins of the Hidden

A soft knock broke the beeping. Tyrant's massive frame filled the doorway, but his usual swagger was gone. Behind him, asmall figure hovered in the shadows—barely visible, like she was trying to disappear into his bulk.

"Can we come see her?"

I didn't answer. Didn't move. Just kept staring at Oakley's face.

Tyrant stepped inside anyway, and the girl followed. She moved like a ghost, feet barely making sound on the linoleum. Keeping her distance from me, pressing herself against the far wall. When she reached the foot of the bed, she stopped. Stared at Oakley with wide eyes, hands trembling.

"She w-was so brave," the girl whispered, voice barely audible. Her skeletal fingers twisted in the hem of her dress. "When he c-came for me, she..." The words caught in her throat, tears spilling down porcelain cheeks. "She saved me."

The girl—Callista—was watching me now, waiting for something. A reaction. Understanding. Permission to continue. But she wouldn't look directly at me. Eyes darting to the floor, the wall, anywhere but my face.

"She k-killed somebody to protect me."

My sweet Oakley killed someone?

"He was going to..." Her voice cracked, stuttered. She tried again, wrapping thin arms around herself. "She s-saved me. She m-made me promise," Callista whispered, stepping closer to the bed but staying as far from me as possible. Her skeletal fingers reached out, almost touching Oakley's hand, then pulled back like she'd been burned. "When they came for us. She said she already had her h-happily ever after. That s-she wanted me to have mine."

My hold tightened on Oakley. Why the fuck was I shaking?

"S-S told me t-to find you." Callista's eyes flicked to mine for just a second before darting away again. "She knew you'd c-come for her."

Tyrant shifted by the door. "We should go."

But his attention shifted to Callista. She was pressed against the wall, trembling like she expected a blow. Something changed in Tyrant's face when he looked at her—an expression I'd never seen on him before. Not the easy confidence he wore with everyone else. Something careful. Reverent.

His massive frame could crush her without effort, but when he spoke, his voice gentled. "Hey. You did good getting out of there."

Callista's sapphire eyes darted to him, then away. "I w-was so scared. But she made me p-promise..."

"And you kept that promise." Tyrant's ink-covered hand started to reach out, then stopped halfway. He pulled it back, fingers curling into a fist before he tried again—slower this time, telegraphing every movement like she was made of glass. When she didn't flinch, he barely touched her shoulder, the contact feather-light.

I watched him looking at her. The way his shoulders softened. The way he stood like he was guarding something precious. The way he was afraid to touch her the wrong way.

For the first time since entering, Callista's shoulders dropped slightly. "She s-said you would help me."

"We will." Tyrant’s voice carried absolute conviction. "You're safe now."

Callista nodded quickly, relief flooding her face. She looked back at Oakley one more time, voice barely a whisper. "Th-thank you. For everything."

Then they were gone, and I was alone with the beeping machines again.

I memorized every mark on Oakley's skin—this one from a fist, that one from something worse. Each bruise is a signature from men I should have killed slower. The crude stitches around her mouth twisted her lips into a fucked up copy of my mask.

Hours passed. Victoria brought fresh clothes with tears in her eyes.

I never left her side.

Eventually, I forced myself to move. I pushed myself up from the chair beside her bed, legs stiff from sitting motionless for hours. Three steps took me across the small room to Hex's bathroom, where I filled a basin with water. Hot tap fully open, cold halfway. I'd watched her do this enough to learn what temperature she liked her water.

Steam rose from the surface when I returned, ghosting in the cool air. I grabbed clean washcloths from Hex's supply cabinet.

I wanted her to wake up clean. She liked baths.

I dipped the cloth into water and began with her face. The first stroke revealed how much they destroyed her. Beneath the grime and dried gore, her skin was paper-white, translucent like she was already half-ghost. Dark circles shadowed her eyes so deep they looked like bruises. Her lips were cracked, split in places where they hit her—where Callista had to tear out those blue threads while she was unconscious.

The light blue cloth darkened immediately—dirt, tears, sweat, the evidence of that cabin. All of it mixing together into something that shouldn't exist on her skin. She'd always been so clean. Flour-dusted from baking, maybe. Smelling like vanilla and cinnamon. Not this. Never this.

Her forehead first. I wiped away streaks where sweat mixed with what they spilled, where they dragged her face-down across splintered wooden planks. Each gentle stroke revealed more damage. A scrape here. A cut there. Evidence of every moment I wasn't there to protect her.

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