Page 31 of Sins of the Hidden

She held it out. Her cheeks flushed crimson, mouth opening and closing before she finally whispered, "My room smells like you now."

"What do I smell like?" My voice dropped to a rumble. Each breath suspended as I waited. I couldn't understand why her answer mattered so fucking much.

"Smoke." Her voice softened, almost reverent. "It's… comforting. Bittersweet like when I bake."

"You like the way I smell?"

Her head dipped, cheeks burning brighter. She looked up at me, gaze flicking between my eyes and the scratchy synthetic that stretched over my face—like she was trying to see what I'd do next. Like she wasn't sure if she wanted to run… or stay. Instinct drove me forward before thought could intervene, knuckles reaching for fevered skin. I froze inches from contact, knowing how these hands turned beauty to ruin. How everything I brushed shattered into crimson-stained pieces.

Her eyebrows shot up, lips parting. "You stopped?"

"I don't want you to hurt yourself again."Again.Fuckingagain.Because I'd watched her try to claw her own throat open last night. Because I'd seen what anxiety did to her. Because for the first time in my life, I'd wanted to stop someone's pain instead of causing it.

Her gift sat heavy inside the plastic bag. I couldn't fucking think straight with her standing there, vibrating with leftover fear. Needing to give her something, had to make it stop. Had to show her...fuck. I didn't even know what I needed to show her.

I yanked them out and held them toward her. My hands had never shaken before, not even during a kill, but they trembled now as I offered them to her.Fuck.

She blinked, unable to process what she was seeing. Her fingers reached out slowly, hesitant, wary I'd snatch them back.When she took them from my hands, that brief brush of her fingers sent my pulse hammering against my ribs.

"You...got me oven mitts?"

Words failed me completely. Just stood there watching her face, waiting for her to understand what this meant. What she meant. Did she not like them? I wasn't going to hurt her, my gifts were different than Mother's. Lungs constricting, I struggled to draw breath while her gaze locked on mine.

Then it happened.

She fucking smiled.

The first goddamn smile anyone has ever given me.

I forgot how to breathe. Forgot how to be anything except hers.

That expression didn't just undo me—it rewired every kill, every scar, every rule that kept me alive. If she stopped looking at me like that, I'd go back to what I was before—hands that don’t know what to hold unless it’s her.

That smile—fragile, fucking beautiful—slammed the black hole where my heart was supposed to be. Something so gentle had no right to exist in my world. It tore through me, and I wanted to kill the feeling before it spread.

Pressing my fist to my chest like pressure could cage the thing clawing to get out. It didn't feel like a heart—it felt like something unhinged, something she'd put there just to see if I could survive it. I wanted to rip it out, hold it in my palm, shove it into her hands so she'd know what she did to me.

So she'd knowshemade whatever lived inside me beat.

The world's noise faded to nothing, and all I could do was stand here like a fucking idiot.

No one had ever looked at a monster and offered that smile like it meant something. Like I was worth giving it to. But she stood there holding those stupid fucking purple mitts like something precious. As though I couldn’t give without hurting.As though Mother had been wrong all those years ago, lying broken on that kitchen floor. Maybe sometimes gifts didn't have to accompany screaming. Maybe they could feel like this instead–my newfound heart strangling itself in my chest while Oakley looked at me as though I deserved the way her mouth curled up at me.

The mitts hit the couch with a soft thud. Then she was there, right in my fucking space. Vanilla wrapped itself around my throat, suffocating me in comfort I didn't deserve. It drowned out the copper tang that usually calmed me. I wanted to inhale deeper. Wanted to choke on it. Sweet and clean—nothing like the metallic taste that followed me everywhere.

Hellbound had always felt like home.

Until this.

Her curves pressed against my chest, arms wrapping around my waist. Soft where I was hard, warm where I was cold. The contrast of her body against mine felt like stepping into sunshine after a lifetime underground.

My back stiffened. My muscles coiled tighter, heart ricocheting as her hair brushed my jaw. Her pulse trembled against my sternum, strong and rapid. My right hand twitched for my bat. My left—used to grabbing throats—shook instead. This was wrong. Bodies coming at mine meant a fight. Always. My brain screamed danger while something else—something broken—short-circuited the response.

No one had ever trusted me enough to get this close. But there she was, face pressed against my core, oblivious to my heart hammering against my ribs.

Her fingers twisted in my shirt, acting as if I was her lifeline in drowning waters. "Thank you."

Words vibrated, reaching for something buried beneath layers of aftermath and void. Each syllable turned keys in locks I'd forgotten existed. Her heartbeat echoed with mine - strong,steady. Never before had I experienced hands touching without hurting.

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