Page 238 of Sins of the Hidden

Hours dissolved in the growing dusk. The room dimmed except for the glow of medical equipment and a single lamp in the corner casting everything in amber. I dozed fitfully in our shared space, my bandaged left hand resting over hers where it lay across my ribs. Our missing fingers align, gaps matching with surgical precision.

When I pressed our wounded hands together, nerve endings registered nothing—the absence complete. But deeper recognition stirred, the perfect symmetry of our mutual damage creating something whole from broken parts.

A sharp gasp jerked me from half-sleep. Oakley's chest convulsed as she struggled for air.

Her eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide with panic. She tried to sit up, fighting against gravity and disorientation while the monitors shrieked their electronic alarm. Wires pulled taut as she clawed at the sheets, at anything within reach.

"I can't—" Her gaze darted wildly around the sterile room. The exact moment arrived when memory abandoned her, when the present dissolved into past horrors. She tore at the tubes threading her arms, desperate to escape invisible restraints.

I tightened my hold without restricting her movement. "Look at me. Oakley, look at me."

Her breathing turned ragged, each inhale shorter than the last. Sweat beaded across her forehead despite the room's chill, skin taking on a gray pallor that made the bruises stand out like fresh ink.

"Oakley." I kept my voice level, unwavering. "You're safe. You're with me."

Her eyes found mine, relief flickering across her features for one heartbeat—then her body recoiled. Just a fraction.Just enough to register rejection before shame flooded her expression.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears already forming. "I'm so sorry."

Her breathing deteriorated further. Each inhale sounded like she was drowning in open air.

Every instinct demanded I retreat, create distance, accept that perhaps I truly was the monster she should fear most. Instead, I remained motionless against her side. "It's okay." The lie tasted metallic on my tongue. Nothing approached okay if she couldn't bear my touch now.

"Be afraid of everyone else," I leaned closer, my voice dropping to barely audible. "But never me." I forced gentleness when everything inside demanded violence against whatever put this terror in her eyes. "What do you see?"

Her gaze skittered across the room—monitors, IV stand, the door Hex recently exited—before settling on my face. "Y-you," she stammered, voice fracturing. "You're here. You're real." Her hands reached for my wrists with desperate urgency, nails biting into skin like she was afraid I'd vanish.

I pushed up my sleeves, exposing the raised scars spelling "Summer" and "Oakley" across my forearms—permanent declarations carved with the same blade I used to end lives. Taking her trembling hand, I pressed her fingertips to the letters.

"Trace them," I commanded softly. "Feel each letter."

Her fingers followed the jagged lines of her name, her touch feather-light initially, then firmer as tactile sensation grounded her. The monitors slowed fractionally as her focus narrowed to the task, the proof that she mattered enough to be written in scars.

"Good. What do you hear?"

She flincheed at the blaring equipment, sounds that likely echoed alarms from that compound. "Too much. Everything's too loud. The machines—they're screaming."

Like she screamed when they severed her finger.

"Focus on my voice. Only my voice. What do you smell?"

Her nostrils flared as she struggled to comply. "Antiseptic. Lake water." Her breath hitched. "You. Pine and ash."

She still recognized my scent. Still found comfort in the combination of leather and violence that marked me. Even after everything, some part of her drew strength from it.

"That's right. What do you taste?"

"Fear," she whispered, raw honesty bleeding through. Then, after a pause that stretched endlessly, "Metal. Copper in my mouth."

From stitches that tore. From biting her tongue when they struck her. From tasting another man's life as it leaked away.

I reached for the ice chips that Hex left behind. "Here."

She accepted one, the cold seeming to ground her further. Sharp sensation provided concrete focus, drawing her from the memory's spiral. The monitors began quieting as her heart rate gradually stabilized.

Something unexpected happened—the ghost of a smile flickered at her mouth's corner. But freshly-healed skin pulled tight, resisting movement. She gasped, pain flashing across her features as tender scars stretched. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with shock and humiliation.

"Don't," I whispered, gently pulling her hand away. "Don't hide from me."

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