Page 28 of Sins of the Hidden

"Borrowed," he corrected.

His dark eyes traveled down my body, lingering on places that made heat bloom at my lack of clothes. There was something different in his gaze—not judgment. But something that made me want to run and stay perfectly still all at once.

"I thought you went back to Hellbound." My words wavered, still thick from crying. Aftershocks of fear made my hands tremble as I wiped dampness from my cheeks. The salt stung against nail marks I didn't remember making.

"I always come back here at night." My entire body tensed at his unapologetic confession.

"W-While I'm asleep?"

Those black eyes pinned me in place, heavy with unspoken meaning. How many nights? How many times had I laid here, thinking I was alone, while he watched from the foot of my bed? My medication always puts me in a deep sleep. The thought should have unsettled me more than it did, but my nerves were too frayed to process another wave of alarm.

In three fluid strides, he closed the distance between us. My back hit the mirror as he caged me in, one hand pressed against the glass beside my head. The bat rested against my hip—not threatening, but present, a reminder of what he was capable of. My lungs seized, body still hypersensitive from the crash. Every point of almost-contact between us buzzed like live wires.

"You're hurting." Frustration edged his voice as the hand against the mirror curled into a tight fist, knuckles going pale. "But there's no blood." Anger flashed in his eyes—not at me, but at his own inability to solve this without drawing blood, the only language he truly spoke. The bat stayed steady at his side, rigid with unspent impulse.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. Of course that's how he'd see it—pain quantified in drops of red, measured in bruises and broken bones. How could I explain that some wounds didn't bleed, that sometimes the deepest hurts were the ones that left no visible marks?

"I-it's nothing," I stammered, shrinking beneath his stare. The mirror pressed cold against my back, holding me in place. Dozens of distorted versions of us reflected back—predator and prey, protector and protected, nightmare and dream. "Don't... don't worry about—" My voice failed, gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm fine."

My stomach twisted hard. Pressure climbed fast behind my ribs, nausea curling up my throat?—

Then glass exploded beside my ear.

The impact knocked everything out of me, sharp and deafening. I flinched hard as shards burst outward, slicing the air, raining down in sharp flashes that caught in my hair and scattered across my arms. Tiny fragments pricked my skin like frozen needles, each one leaving a faint sting. The scent of iron flooded the space, sharp and sickening. Something bit into my ankle—hot, sudden—but I barely felt it over the noise in my chest. The wall behind me stuttered. My reflection shattered across the floor, pieces thrown wide, none of them looking back the same.

Scarlet streaks from his torn knuckles dripped steadily, but V remained motionless. His chest, usually so controlled, rose and fell slightly faster beneath his vented shield.

"Tell me," his voice was cold, "what you like about yourself."

I blinked rapidly, trying to process the shift. "W-what?"

His fingers flexed against the wall beside my head. Red lines smeared across the mirror from his knuckles, jagged and unforgiving. "Answer."

"I..." My mind went blank, fear rising in my throat. The way he loomed over me made it impossible to think past the thunder of my own heart. "I don't... I can't..."

"You can't think of anything?" His other hand remained on the bat at my hip, a heavy reminder of how trapped I was, how completely he controlled this moment.

"V, your hand—" He cut me off with a sharp movement, pressing closer until I felt the rough fabric of his mask near my temple, his breath ghosting across my skin through its vents.

"Answer." The command vibrated through me, his voice dropping lower, heavier. "What do you like about yourself?"

Caught between the splintered glass and the man who broke it, I felt my vision swim again. How could I tell him there was nothing? That every morning I woke up loathing what I saw? The words stuck in my throat like glass shards.

The pressure of saying something real felt worse than the clench of his hand.

"I... I don't..." My voice cracked along old lines, fingers nervously twisting at nothing, desperate to shield myself from his stare. A warm droplet hit my bare foot, and I jerked away, nausea clawing sharply up my throat. Blood—no, not now, please. Panic fluttered rapidly in my chest. "Maybe," I whispered weakly, trying not to look down again. "Maybe my hands, for?—"

The bat clattered to the floor, his hand shot to my hair, forcing my head back until my neck strained under the pressure. "Try again." His words held no room for argument, no space for the lies I'd been telling myself since childhood.

His thumb pressed harder against my chin, tilting my face up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes studied me, dissecting every micro-expression that crossed my face, reading stories written in trembles and tears.

I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat, my chest so tight it felt like my ribs were slowly collapsing inward.

"I can't..." The words fell apart as they left me. "I can't think when you're?—"

He remained silent, but his thumb brushed away a tear. The gesture felt like a threat, a reminder of how easily he could hurt me if he wanted to–how he was hurting me–how completely he controlled this moment.

When I still couldn't speak, his other hand finally released my hair, only to grab my face with bruising force. A small, frightened squeak escaped me as he forced me to look directly at him. The mask was inches from my face now, those dark eyes seeming to see straight through the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my self-hatred, through years of avoiding mirrors and wearing clothes too big to feel.

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