Page 237 of Sins of the Hidden

When I was finished, I sat back and looked at her. Clean now, but not unmarked. The bruises remained. The scars around her mouth. The missing finger. The rope burns. Evidence of everything they did to her written on her skin in languages I wish I couldn't read.

They took more than flesh. They took her future, her ability to work the way she'd always dreamed. The ring I'd slid onto that finger on our wedding day—when she trembled and wouldn't meet my eyes—was gone. Probably mounted as some sick trophy where we'd never reach it.

I looked down at the left band on my hand.

If her body has to bear their marks, mine would match. If she had to learn to live with pieces missing, so would I.

I rose from the chair beside her bed, legs stiff from sitting motionless. Three steps took me across the small room to Hex's tool cabinet against the far wall. The metal doors opened with a soft click, revealing rows of neatly organized instruments. Scalpels, forceps, bone saws—all laid out in perfect order. I bypassed the surgical tools, finding instead a heavy cleaver hanging on the back wall.

I splayed my left hand against the wall, away from where she could see if she woke. The white paint felt cool against my palm as I spread my fingers wide, isolating my ring finger—the same one they took from her.

The cleaver rises. Hovers. Then comes down.I felt nothing.

If her body had to bear their marks, mine would match. If she had to learn to live with pieces missing, so would I.

The weight of the cleaver felt right in my hand. Familiar. I'd used blades like this before, though never on myself. The edge caught the overhead light, reflecting a thin line of brightness across the sterile metal.

Dark warmth welled from the ragged stump, soaking into the towel I pressed against the wound. Thick droplets hit the infirmary floor in steady rhythm. My silicone wedding band tumbled end over end before disappearing into the darkness under Hex's cabinet.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, measured and unhurried. Hex appeared in the doorway, pausing as he took inthe scene. His gaze moved from the cleaver lying on the metal counter to my severed finger on the floor, then followed the scattered drops across the sterile tile to where I stood clutching the stained towel.

"Did you cut your fucking finger off?"

I didn't answer.

“Fuckin’ psycho.” Hex crossed the room and kicked my severed finger toward the trash can. The quiet thunk of flesh hitting plastic echoed around us. He moved to his medical bag, hands steady as he pulled out his tools and arranged them on the counter.

I eased myself onto the examination table, the towel growing heavier with each passing second. Wet warmth seeped through the cotton, dripping onto the floor in spreading spots.

"I'm gonna cauterize it so your dumbass doesn’t die." He rummaged through drawers, pulling out instruments. Hex returned with the cauterizing iron, the metal tip already glowing white-hot. The metal touched what was left. The world stayed exactly the same. My vision remained clear. Tissue sizzled and popped under the heat. I watched the process with the same interest I'd give any other task.

Hex pulled the iron away as his phone rang. He answered with an irritated flick of his thumb, returning to my wound. "You’re on speaker. Behave."

"Fuck you, Hex."A woman's voice crackled through the line, sharp and defiant."You were supposed to come get me thirty minutes ago!"

"I'll be there soon."

A bitter laugh from the other end."Well, I'm gonna hitchhike?—"

"Do it and you won't like what I do to you, Jordyn." Hex's eyes never left his work, but his jaw tightened visibly. Jordyn isJoslyn’s twin sister who has a major drug problem. What the hell was Hex doing with her?

"Like what?"She challenged, voice sharp with defiance."Keep me locked up in your secret cabin?—"

"You better fucking stay there." He hung up, eyes finding mine. "You. Heard. Nothing."

I wouldn't give a fuck if he killed her.

He wound the bandage around my hand. The pressure helped contain what was left. When he'd finished, he stepped back and began cleaning his tools, wiping each one carefully before returning it to his bag. "Don't bleed on my fucking floor again."

The medical bag snapped shut. He turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of burnt flesh and the steady thump where part of me used to be.

I approached the narrow hospital bed where Oakley lay beneath a tangle of wires and tubes. The monitors traced erratic patterns of her vitals across their screens, each beep cutting through the antiseptic quietness. Her left hand rested atop the starched white sheets, bandaged stump where her ring finger once belonged exposed to the harsh fluorescent light.

She hadn't moved since they brought her here. The sedatives kept her locked in whatever dreams survived trauma.

Careful not to disturb the IV line snaking from her right arm, I eased myself onto the mattress beside her. The metal frame protested under my weight with a soft creak. Space was limited—barely enough for one person, let alone my frame—but I managed to position myself along her right side, mindful of the oxygen sensor clipped to her index finger.

My arm slid beneath her shoulders, gathering her against my chest. Her head settled naturally into the hollow of my throat, her breath warm against my collar. The monitors adjustedto our new configuration, wires stretching but holding as she unconsciously curved into my warmth.

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