Page 37 of Sins of the Hidden

"The moment she calls me—the second she needs help—I will burn your fucking world to the ground." Dad's hands shook with barely controlled rage. "You think you're untouchable because of what the club lets you do?"

"Trevor!" Mom grabbed his arm with both hands, forcibly pulling him toward the door. "Our daughter is having a panic attack! Your threats aren't helping her!"

Dad resisted, his eyes never leaving V.

"Now!" Mom's voice cracked with desperation as she practically dragged him to the door.

The door slammed behind them with a finality that echoed through my apartment. A framed photo crashed to the floor from the force, glass splintering across the hardwood—a perfect reflection of the fracture widening in my life. I tried pulling back, but my muscles resisted. "S-sorry?—"

"Don't." His free hand moved to cover mine, where it gripped his arm, keeping me anchored to him.

Minutes passed, marked only by my gradually steadying breaths. When I finally managed to loosen my death grip, angry red crescents marked his skin where my nails had been.

"I hurt you." Guilt crept in as I traced the marks with unsteady fingertips.

His eyes held mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "You never could."

My reflection stared back from the rain-streaked window—fractured and distorted by the raindrops that had begun to fall outside, a ghostly echo of the mirror he'd shattered to protect me from myself.

I jerked at his response, at the simplicity of it. My hand shook where it rested against his arm, adrenaline still coursing through my system. I'd seen the worst parts of him—had witnessed firsthand the violence he was capable of. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to put as much distance between us as possible.

I was certain he could feel it—every frantic beat under my skin. I should pull away. Should stop pressing my luck with a man who thought death was closure.

"Why can't I let go?" My voice cracked on the question.

He studied me with that predatory focus that made my skin crawl, like he was dissecting me piece by piece. His attention dropped to where my fingers still clutched his arm, knuckles white with tension. "Because terror and need can share the same heartbeat."

My chest locked, caught between salvation and damnation. My fingertips trembled, torn between lifeline and destruction.

The words sent shivers violently cascading down my spine. Weeks ago, he'd dragged me to his basement, shown me things no one should witness. Yet here I sat, clutching him like he was the only solid thing in a world constantly crumbling beneath me.

“You should be scared.” His tone didn’t change—but everything else did.

"I am," I whispered, my grasp on him tightening in defiance of my own words. The contradiction made the room tilt—desperate to flee from him while battling between wanting to run and needing to stay.

He remained a statue, offering neither solace nor withdrawal. The atmosphere suspended between us, thick with unspoken truths.

My breath caught painfully as his other hand shifted, my muscles tensing for... something. But he merely reached for the symbol no one else had touched that had fallen between us. The movement brought the scars across his knuckles into view—etched stories of every fight he never lost.

Scars traced ghostly reminders across his skin, whispered stories he'd never share. My unsteady touch traced one, following the dark lines that vanished beneath his shirt sleeve. His muscles tensed against my touch.

"Why do you let me in when I don't even know what I'm asking for?" The question slipped out.

He remained silent, his dark eyes watching my fingers trace patterns on his skin. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

My nerves trembled where my skin met his, trapped between the instinct to withdraw and the need to press closer. The duality of him—my anchor during panic and the deadly enforcer who had once dragged me to his basement—left me clinging to contradictions I couldn't reconcile.

His only response was a slight tightening of his grip where his hand still covered mine.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to pull back from his arm. The loss of contact left me unsteady, but I made myself create distance between us.

"I-I need to bake," I said quietly. "A-After... after attacks, I?—"

"I know." Of course he did. He'd probably memorized every pattern, just as he noticed everything else about me.

"W-Would you..." The words caught in my throat, fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt. "W-Would you stay?"

I nearly snatched back the words, regret already clawing up my throat. The weight of what I'd just asked—what it truly meant—crashed over me like concrete. He didn't speak. Just watched me, jaw locked. Then—so soft I almost missed it. "Yeah."

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