Page 236 of Sins of the Hidden

Her temples were next, careful around swelling that made her look like a stranger. Someone beat her here. Fists connecting with bone, snapping her head back. I could see it happening,over and over, while I was miles away thinking she left me, destroying out bakery.

The delicate shell of her ear where dark stains had gathered. Not hers—too dark, too thick. Someone else's. The man she killed. It was under her fingernails too, crusted in the lines of her palms. Evidence of what they forced her to become.

I rinsed the cloth, watching the water turn a musty pink. Then rust-colored. Then darker.

Her cheekbones. The bridge of her nose where more dried gore clung. Some of it flaked off when I touched her earlier, leaving behind pale skin marked with tiny cuts. Like they dragged her face across gravel.

Each stroke erased their touch from her skin and replaced it with mine. Their hands hurt but mine healed. At least I told myself that. But looking at her now—really seeing the damage—I wondered if my hands had ever healed anything. If I was capable of anything but destruction.

When I reached her neck, I almost quit breathing.

Fingerprints bloomed across her throat like purple flowers. Bruises shaped exactly like a hand. Someone choked her. Squeezed until she couldn't breathe, until her vision went black, until she thought she was going to die.

The cloth disintegrated in my grip, fabric giving way under pressure I didn't know I was applying.

I grabbed another one. Forced my hands steady. But I could see it so clearly now—some bastard's fingers wrapped around her throat, watching her gasp for air. Her small hands clawing at his wrist. The terror in her eyes as consciousness faded.

My sweet Oakley, who never hurt anything, fought for her fucking life. I cleaned around the bruises with touches so gentle they barely contacted. Like I could brush away the memory of what happened.

Her shoulders came next. More bruises here. The skin was mottled purple and yellow, some so fresh they were still swollen. Others are already fading to green at the edges.

I washed down her arms, careful around the IV lines. Her wrists were raw where they tied her to that concrete block. Rope burns that went deep, down to pink flesh. She fought against the restraints until her skin gave way. Never stopped trying to escape, even when it meant tearing herself apart.

That was my Oakley. Stronger than anyone knew. Braver than she believed.

When I reached her hands, I had to stop. The missing finger hit me fresh every time, like seeing it for the first time. But worse than the missing finger was what remained. Her palms were stained dark with dried gore. Under her nails, between her fingers, crusted in every line and crease. The man she killed painted her hands with his life.

I cleaned each finger separately, working the cloth between them, under her nails, across her palms. The water in the basin grows darker with each rinse, but I kept working. Washing away the evidence of what they forced her to do. What they made her become.

Her hands created beautiful things. Wedding cakes and birthday treats. Pastries that melted on your tongue. The kind of magic that rose from ruin. That sweetened even the broken. These hands were never meant to kill.

But they did. Because that was what her survival demanded. Because protecting Callista mattered more than staying pure.

The cloth tore again in my grip when I thought about it. Her beating a man's skull open with a piece of rotting wood.

I grabbed a fresh cloth and continued. Moved to her chest, her stomach, washing away every trace of that place.

But she didn't break. She killed instead. My fucking sweet, perfect wife. She was still beautiful. More beautiful, maybe,because she survived. Because she was stronger than anyone knew.

But she'd never be the same.

"What are you doing?"

Law's voice cut through from the doorway. He stood there holding a clean shirt, knuckles bone-white against the fabric. His daughter lay broken before us both, and he couldn't even look directly at her.

"She doesn't like blood."

I didn’t pay attention to him, barely listening when he told me. "She used to hate baths as a little girl," he said, voice scraped raw. "Would scream like we were murdering her. Until Claudia started adding those bubble bath bombs. Then we couldn't get her out."

The cloth hung suspended in my fingers. Pink droplets fell back into the basin like tears.

"She likes lavender," Law added quietly.

"I know." Every bottle on her bathroom shelf—lavender body wash, rose shampoo, honey conditioner she splurged on despite the cost. The eucalyptus oil she dabbed behind her ears when stress headaches took hold.

I turned to Law, seeing his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing once. He dropped his gaze, shoulders curving inward beneath his leather cut. He turned toward the door, footsteps heavy on the linoleum as he walked out. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed against the sterile walls.

I returned to my work. The reality hit fresh each time I reached the gap where her ring finger used to be.

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