Page 249 of Sins of the Hidden

The handwriting was hers.

Agapimenos.

Loved.

My reflection stared back from the broken mirror—scarred face, hollow eyes, hands that had never touched anything without destroying it. Beside me, she glowed like something holy, white dress cascading around her feet like spilled starlight. I shredded my mask off of her, her laughter filling the air when I began to fumble with the zipper on the back of her dress while her lips were on mine.

I was finally loved.

Cruorcrux.

Who did I owe the pleasure of sending me to this death sentence?

I chuckled, the sound scraping raw against my throat like broken glass.Good.

I didn't want to fuckin' live anymore anyway.

Thinkin' of my daughter, the very fuckin' reason I hadn't put a bullet in my head for all these years. And now that I found her and she was happily married to my best friend? The irony tasted as bitter as bile, as sweet as salvation. My little girl—flesh of my flesh—wrapped safely in arms that would never hurt her. That knowledge should've torn me apart, but instead it settled like peace in bones that had forgotten how to rest.

And that fuckin' wild woman…

Victoria thought she loved me before I saved her from roughin' it on the streets and bein' a club girl for other clubs. In her eyes, I was her savior. The way she'd looked at me in those early days—like I hung the goddamn stars instead of just pulling her out of the gutter. Her fingers would trace my cuts like theywere holy, like I was something worth worshipping instead of the broken bastard who couldn't even save himself.

In mine, she was just a lost soul that found the light in a room that would never light up again. A candle flame in a hurricane, burning bright and desperate while everything around her crumbled to ash.

The officer was rough as he took me to a room, thick fingers digging bruises into my bicep as he shoved me forward. The lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow that made my skin look corpse-pale. Commanding me to take off my clothes and put on the disease-infested orange jumpsuits. The fabric reeked of fear, sweat, and desperation from the poor bastards who'd worn it before me.

They re-cuffed me, metal biting cold against my wrists already chafed raw and walked me down the cell block. The sound of our footsteps echoed like gunshots off concrete walls. Inmates yelling all sorts of things—death threats, sexual promises, offers to trade cigarettes for protection that wouldn't come. Voices bounced off steel and stone, creating a symphony of rage and madness that would drive sane men to their knees.

Their words hit like thrown stones, but I kept walking. I'd been to prison before, shit wasn't anything new to me. County lockup, state pen, federal holding—all different flavors of the same hell.

But I'd never been to Cruorcrux.

Someone must have it out for me. The thought made me grin. Someone caring enough to spend whatever amount of fuckin’ cash to send me to my death was sweet. Hopefully they were in the fuckin’ hole now.

The officer unlocked the cell, keys jangling like wind chimes in a graveyard, shoving me inside with force that sent me stumbling. My hands hit the opposite wall to catch myself, palms scraping against concrete that felt like sandpaper.

"Hey, Prez." Every muscle in my body locked up tight at that voice. "Orange suits you."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Hollow."

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