Page 38 of Sins of the Hidden

I suppressed words that terrified me more than he ever could. Words about finding sanctuary in his darkness that the light had never provided. This wasn't merely accepting him as my beacon during panic attacks. This was deliberately keeping him close when safety meant distance. This was willingly stepping into shadows where he dwelled, knowing light might forever remain beyond reach.

I could still retreat. Pretend this meant nothing. But the mitts were still where I'd left them. I wasn't holding them.

I was holding him.

His stare didn't move. Mine didn't either.

I used to dream about someone saving me from the darkness.

I just never thought I'd find him there.

Itugged on black leggings and an oversized red shirt that slipped off one shoulder, grabbing my stained baking clothes from the drawer—evidence of too many hours spent covered in flour and buttercream. I tugged on fluffy socks last—my feet were always freezing, and the kitchen tiles didn't help. Warmth surged low as my toes curled into the softness.

I padded down the hallway, my steps faltering when I spotted V. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, sleeves stretched tight over muscle coiled like restraint. My neck tingled with warmth after staring too long, my gaze jerking away. His gaze tracked every movement, brushing over me like static.

My hands were still shaking from my parents' surprise visit, from the panic attack that had gripped me just minutes ago. My ribs tightened with each shallow breath, vision tunneling as their voices closed in. V had been there instantly, his form solid as stone as he'd ordered them out. Their stunned silence as V ordered them out haunted me, guilt sinking too deep to wash out. My mom's hurt expression and dad's anger branded in my mind. The phantom weight of his cut, smelling of leatherand smoke, pressed against my shoulders. I touched the spot without thinking. The last thing I needed was to get distracted by memories of V being... surprisingly gentle.

I tried to slip past him into the kitchen. He didn't move an inch, making me squeeze by close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My pulse quickened under his stare. "I need to start baking. You can..." I gestured vaguely at my living room, not sure how to handle having him in my space after everything that had happened.

He nodded once before plopping on the couch. Heat flooded my cheeks, hotter than the oven-warmed kitchen. He'd chosen one of my steamiest romances, its pages soft and worn from countless late nights. But seeing him there shifted something in my chest.

I just now noticed how domestic we were becoming. His books wedged next to mine, keys mingled in the bowl, shirts scented with my lavender softener instead of leather and oil. He'd crept in piece by piece—until one day, I woke up surrounded.

It felt surreal seeing him there, lounging among my things. Weeks ago, I'd woken in terror beneath Hellbound, flinching at every shift of his shadow across the crematorium walls. Back then, his presence meant danger. Now, seeing him gently turn the pages I'd worn thin, my heart struggled to reconcile those memories with the quiet warmth spreading between us.

The thought of him sleeping on the club's dirty floor made my stomach knot with guilt. Him curled up on filthy concrete, alone in the dark, while this whole apartment stood empty except for me—the image returned night after night. That's why I hadn't made him leave—sending him back made me sick. Here, at least, he had warmth. Safety. Excuses, maybe. But I didn't care.

The extra flour sat on the top shelf. I'd already asked so much of him today, made him deal with my parents and me falling apart like some pathetic mess. Like the kind of girl men leave behind. He'd probably have a heart attack if I dragged out my wobbly step ladder. After a few failed attempts to reach it myself, stretching until my shoulder ached, I gave in.

"V?" His name had barely left my lips before he materialized behind me, filling the tiny kitchen with quiet intensity. My chest tightened at his closeness. I swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his presence hovered close behind me, each silent breath drawing him closer. "Could you..." My voice faltered slightly, heart pounding. "The flour?"

He reached up, his shirt riding to reveal a strip of tanned skin and that dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. My eyes caught on muscle shifting under golden skin, veins disappearing into denim. I should've looked away, but instead, my mouth dried.

"Oakley?" His voice ricocheted through my thoughts, pulling my head up to meet that midnight stare that used to terrify me. Now it just made heat bloom in my cheeks.

"Hmmm?" The flour container pressed cold into my palms, his touch lingering—sending electricity up my arms.

His head tilted, his expression reading every flicker on my face. "What?"

"T-Thank you," I squeaked, holding the flour to my chest. We stood frozen, the air between us charged with something new.

His mask shifted when he sniffed, reminding me how inhuman he could appear. "What are you baking?"

I turned around, setting the flour on the counter, intensely aware of his shadow behind me. The warmth from his body reached across the space between us, making even the distance feel intimate.

"Cherry cupcakes." I measured ingredients with practiced hands, watching them blend. My body tensed as he crowded against my back, his mass impossible to ignore. The spatula trembled in my grip.

Each measurement was precise—flour, sugar, butter—messy components transformed through patience and care. Soon, delicate cakes would rise in the oven, small miracles from chaotic batter. Sometimes beauty came out of chaos. I hoped hearts worked the same way.

"What are you doing?" My lips barely moved, words flowing out in a whisper.

"Watching." My arm stalled mid-fold, his breath tickling my neck through his mask.

Words tumbled out to fill the charged silence. "One of my client's boyfriends likes these. I visit her every week." His warmth vanished suddenly, leaving me cold. His eyes narrowed dangerously, possessiveness darkening his features.

"I know. I watch you make your deliveries."

I shouldn’t be surprised that he knew my schedule. Had probably followed me more than once, a shadow I never noticed, keeping me safe. He leaned against the counter as I worked, his massive arms crossed. The outline of muscles through his shirt drew my attention before focusing back on the cherries bleeding vivid red into pale batter—too bright against the quiet of my life.

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