Page 30 of Sins of the Hidden

A soft sound pulled me from my thoughts. Each movement she made hooked barbed wire deeper into my chest. Yesterday's demons haunted me. Her anxiety wasn't something I could smash to pieces. Those tears on her face made me want to set the whole fucking world on fire. Made me want to wrap my palm around her throat just to feel her panic slow down, to press my thumb against her lips until they stopped quivering. I'd never wanted to be gentle before. Never needed to be. But watching her break apart made me wish I knew how to put someone back together instead of just taking them apart. Unless...

Gifts.

The memory crashed through me. Mother on her knees, scarlet dripping onto the new diamond necklace he'd just clasped around her bruised throat."Look how much he loves me,"she'd whisper, showing me the bracelet that matched the pattern of fingerprints blackening her wrist. Every sparkle hiding a new break, every precious stone reflecting the light in her swollen gaze. She collected them as fucking trophies—lined them up on her dresser next to bottles of concealer and gauze.

I learned young what gifts really meant. Watched her trace each new piece of jewelry with shaking fingers while I counted the fresh bruises underneath."See how special I am?"Her voice would crack in echo with her ribs, pride mixing with pain as she showed me the dress she got for letting him put her in the hospital. The diamond earrings that cost her three teeth.

I shifted, boot scraping against last night's debris—the mirror shards from when I'd smashed the glass to silence the demons in her reflection. Scattered pieces reflected my failure—I couldn't find what made her gasp and claw at her throat. No visible wounds. Nothing tangible to destroy.

She'd backed away until glass stopped her, heart hammering wildly as I caged her in."I'm fine,"she whispered through an obvious lie.

My fist had found the mirror instead. Needed iron under my knuckles. Glass fragments rained through her hair, each broken piece now staring back, showing all the ways I'd failed to protect what was mine.

Hand gripping the doorknob, I glanced back. She was curled up small, swimming in material that had heard more confessions than a priest. Her hand shifted in sleep, fingers curling tighter around the patch over her heart. The curve of her neck disappeared into leather, and something twisted in my gut seeing her wrapped in the colors. Her brunette strands caught the moonlight, stark against my cut. The image burned into my retinas, something I'd keep forever.

Her door clicked shut behind me as I made my way outside to the driveway. My bike's engine roared when I twisted the key, gripping the handlebars until the metal bit into my palms, forcing myself not to turn around. To not go back in and watch her until she began to stir from her sleep. Streets blurred past in smears of neon, familiar hunting grounds turned strange as I pulled into a place I'd never stepped foot in.

The automatic doors of the superstore hissed open, blasting artificially cooled air against my face. The harsh fluorescence stripped away shadows, leaving nowhere to hide. The air tasted of fake sugar and plastic–nothing like Oakley's real vanilla scent mixed with that fear that made me want to sink my teeth in deep.

Muzak trickled from overhead speakers—some cheerful bullshit designed to make people buy more shit they didn't need. The mundane chatter of normal people living normal lives grated against my nerves like sandpaper.

Everyone's line of sight skipped right over me—trained to unsee what didn't belong in their safe little world. Fearperfumed the air as shoppers scattered. At least fear made sense. Not like how Oakley's sleeping face haunted even this sterile hell, making my knuckles twitch with the need to carve my ownership into her bones.

Kitchen stuff lined the back wall. Rows of chrome and teflon. I needed something softer. Something worthy of her. She had pots, pans, and baking sheets. But those weren't–

Light purple caught my eye. Her favorite color.

I stepped closer, reaching for the item on the wall, picturing her hands, not trembling but safe in them.

The cashier flinched when I pulled out the bills. His eyes darted between the bloodstained money and the exit, calculations transparent on his face. I offered a slow blink at him, wondering how much minimum wage was worth dealing with me.

Memory cracked open like a skull–mother sprawled on the kitchen tile, her new dress spread around her pooled wine. Men laughing as they draped it over her broken body."They love me, they love me, they love me,"she kept whispering through bloodied teeth, clutching silk to her chest while red soaked through. Seven years old, hidden behind the counter. Learning that gifts meant someone was about to bleed.

Oakley wouldn't bleed. Not like Mother had.

I parked my bike behind her car, making sure she couldn't run. Using the key I borrowed, I opened the door, seeing Oakley on the couch, my cut still clutched tight between trembling fingers, her expression glazed and distant.

My mind skipped, seeing my cut in her soft grip felt wrong and perfect all at once. Something wild thrashed beneath my sternum, each beat resonating through my fingertips. I’d never allowed anyone to touch my cut before, and there she sat, wrapped in everything I'd done, everything I was. Something twisted behind my ribs, sharp and certain, like instinct turnedinside out. She'd absorbed me and didn't even know it—the only person allowed this close to my horrors and permitted to survive.

She stiffened the instant my shadow reached her. The noise that escaped her throat sliced through my chest. Her scream—I'd always lived to rip that sound from throats, fed on it, thrived on it. But hers tore something open inside me, raw and wrong. She scrambled backward, the vest slipping from her lap, green eyes wide and panicked. That same panic I'd seen the night before that forced my fist through her mirror. Needed to break something, but never her. Others could shatter, but not my Oakley.

"I-I'm sorry. I-I didn't—" Apologies spilled from unsteady lips, landing bitter when they should've been sweet.

Kicking the door shut, I pressed the bag against my chest. "Why were you looking at it like that?"

She paused. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you put your cut on me?"

"You said weight helped you sleep." I shrugged, "My cut is heavy."

Her fingers dug into the leather. "Doesn't this mean a lot to you?"

I moved closer to her, watching goosebumps rise along her exposed skin. "Means nothing unless you're the one wearing it."

Her mouth formed a perfect 'o' shape, awkwardly looking down at her feet. She began to shift her wringing her hands. "T-Thank you. I-I slept better w-with it." The words spilled out in staccato bursts. "I-I um..." Those spring-green irises darted everywhere but at me, tracking invisible escape routes across the room. "Here."

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