Page 49 of Sins of the Hidden

I'd written myself into her like a scar—with scent, with weight, with constant invasion of her space. Now my touch would be the only relief she'd crave. Next came her surrender, acknowledging what she was: bound to me by forces stronger than choice.

My boots echoed across wooden floors as I left, each step measured and certain. Let her parents rage. Let the club collapse over Darrell's betrayal. None of it mattered. Only Oakley mattered. Only possessing every breath, every smile, every frightened gasp.

She'd lie in that bed tonight, flinching at every creak in the floorboards. Not because she was scared. Because she was hoping it was me.

She would be mine forever—because the deepest chains weren't forged from metal, but from the scars I'd leave on her soul.

The mirror no longer reflected a whole person. Jagged glass teeth grinned from the frame, each shard revealing a different version of myself caught between the cracks, all wondering what kind of woman let a dangerous man crawl inside her head and make himself at home.

The yellow square waited between the broken pieces, somehow intact despite the destruction surrounding it. My hands hovered over the broken pieces, sensing the malevolent energy radiating from them, as if the glass might still slice me open even without contact.

Peirasmós.

The handwriting was unmistakable—those sharp, angular strokes that looked carved rather than written, the same script I'd seen on the notes he'd left before. It hadn't been there when I went to bed last night, which meant he must have come back after leaving me trembling and unsatisfied.

The thought of him in my apartment while I slept sent electricity prickling across my skin—his massive frame moving silently through darkness, eyes watching me at my most vulnerable. My heart stuttered, breath catching in my throat as I imagined him standing over my bed, watching me sleep.

The ghost of his fingers pulsed back to life between my legs—cruel, precise, and unforgettable. I clenched my thighs, ashamed of how fast my body remembered him.

What kind of girl wanted the monster to come back? Each boundary he trampled should have pushed me further away, but the lines between us kept blurring, and I couldn’t tell anymore if I was letting him in or if he was splitting me open just to crawl inside.

I typed the word into my phone, just staring when the result appeared.

Temptation.

V found me tempting?

A ridiculous question after what happened last night—the way he made me feel unraveled with just his hands, his pressure dragging across my most sensitive places, leaving invisible trails my nerves couldn't forget.

What did it say about me that I no longer jumped when he appeared uninvited? That I'd stopped flinching every time those scarred hands reached for me? I used to scream inside when he touched me. Now, my silence scared me more.

No one had ever looked at me like that before. I was never anyone's first choice—just the sidekick in everyone else's love story, the supporting character never meant to get her own happily ever after. And then he saw me, really saw me, and every wall I'd spent years building collapsed as if they'd never mattered at all.

The contradiction left me dizzy, my thoughts spinning like a broken compass. Those hands—calloused, scarred knuckles—had broken bones and drawn blood without remorse. I'd witnessed enough at the clubhouse to know exactly what he was capable of—the enforcer, the club's personal monster kept leashed in darkness until needed, eyes cold as winter when he carried out orders.

Yet those same hands that delivered punishment now traced my skin with unexpected tenderness, fingertips igniting nerves I never knew existed. The cognitive dissonance made my head swim. My treacherous body apparently had no use for ethics or morality. It remembered only the weight of his body, the heat of his skin against mine, the way he moved with chaotic control that left me gasping for air I couldn't seem to find.

His focus made me feel truly seen in ways I'd never experienced—even as every rational thought screamed that his attention was something to dread, not crave. I wasn't naive enough to believe I was anything but a temporary fascination, though. Once he got me out of his system, he'd move on to someone new, someone more exciting.

Men like him didn't stick around—especially not for women like me, with soft edges where he was all sharp angles and danger.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over V's contact. My screen lit up with a notification from the family group chat. Dad again, checking in for the third time today.

Dad: Just checking on you, sweetheart. How are you feeling this morning?

Mom: I made extra muffins if you want to come by for breakfast. The blueberry ones you like.

Warmth mixed with guilt flooded through me as I read their messages. Their pattern of increased check-ins whenever theysensed trouble was touching, even if overwhelming. After the confrontation a few days ago, their concern had intensified, their love manifesting as constant vigilance.

Me: I'm okay.

Three dots appeared and disappeared several times before Dad's response came through. I could picture him inhaling deeply, trying to choose his words carefully.

Dad: Remember what I said—one call, and he's gone. Be safe. I love you.

Me: Love you too.

Could I call him after last night? The abrasive drag of V’s touch on my thigh flashed through me—unyielding, unforgettable. The harsh sound of his breathing behind that mask as he watched me come undone, the wet heat of his mouth through fabric at my neck. His teeth grazing my flesh sent a current of awareness through me, my nipples tightening beneath my cotton shirt.

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