Page 40 of Sins of the Hidden

My heart stuttered. "What if..." The words caught. "What if you get hurt and can't tell you're bleeding?"

He leaned in, eliminating the space between the sink and the counter. "I feel the pressure." His attention never wavered, cataloging every microexpression. He submerged both our palms together, the water swirling between our joined skin.My lungs expanded in a sudden jerk—fear or something else entirely.

His other hand rose, blocking my view of the burns. "Don't look. You don't like wounds."

I bit my lip, eyes squeezed shut. "Just... I can look. Just talk with me so I can focus on your voice and not your wound." The quiet dragged on, dense with everything we weren't saying. He stayed still, letting me work.

Taking his wrist, I led him to the living room where his book lay forgotten. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

I went to the bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit I kept for baking accidents. The white box was heavier than usual, knowing who I was about to use it on—a man who'd probably used similar supplies for bullet wounds and knife cuts.

Back in the living room, I gestured at his hand nervously. "Open your hand up and let me see." He complied immediately, massive palm facing up like an offering. Welts puffed across his palm, tender and red—raw like rising dough. "Just because you can't feel pain doesn't mean it can't get infected."

"Almost died from one."

"You almost died?" I barely choked the words out.

His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug as if death was just an inconvenience. The nonchalance on his face made my chest tighten with worry.

"It still might leave a scar. I need to get that covered." The kit landed with a muted thump on the couch as I searched through it, fingers trembling slightly. The gauze felt accusatory, each roll questioning what I was becoming—a baker who patched up killers.

"I have scars." His voice dropped lower, sending shivers down my spine.

"You're always covered up." The bandage shook slightly as I took his injured palm. Heat radiated beneath my touch.

"You don't like scars. I hide them from you."

He sat there, beauty amid ruin. Every interaction connected suddenly—small gestures, careful shielding. Hands that destroyed lives were also capable of astonishing gentleness.

The intensity burned through the air, pulling forward a question that had grown familiar as a shadow. "Why me?"

He made a questioning sound, head tilting.

"Why did you choose me?" The question floated between us, barely audible. "Out of everyone, why do you..." I couldn't finish. Protect me? Watch me? Care? Each possibility scared me more than the last. Why me? Why did being chosen scare me more than being overlooked?

His eyes locked on my touch like it meant something. "I felt my heart beat for the first time when I saw you."

The gauze slipped from my trembling fingers. The look in his eyes dragged my attention back, our eyes meeting over the fallen gauze. But now there was something else—something almost desperate in how he watched me process his words, like a man watching his last chance at redemption slip away.

His hand suddenly covered mine as I reached for the fallen bandage. Not gentle—just certain, like everything he did. "Did I upset you?"

His thumb brushed once more across my pulse, a quiet reassurance even he might not fully understand.

"N-No." The word was barely a whisper.

"I don't understand emotions." His thumb brushed once more across my pulse, memorizing its rhythm—his unreadable expression fixed on our joined hands with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "But I want to understand you."

The words fell between us. From a man who lived in absolutes, who knew only certainty, this was... everything. This wasn't a crack in his armor—it was a door he'd never opened.

Maybe it was stupid. But it felt like the only thing I could give him back.

"Let me help you," I blurted without thinking. "I-I mean, I can help you sort out your emotions if you want?" My voice shook with uncertainty—was I even capable of helping someone like him?—but the raw need in his eyes erased hesitation. What if I failed him? That worry tightened my throat, but something deeper urged me forward anyway.

He blinked slowly. "How?"

How—and more importantly, why? Why did those words escape like a plea? Because he had helped me, twice in twenty-four hours. Was this something I could do for him? My journey started last night. What if I could help V start his own? Guide him toward something like light? "You have feelings. No one taught you what they are or how to use them." He considered my words with his usual focus.

His grip tightened on my wrist. "They tried."

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