Page 69 of Sins of the Hidden

Something shifted inside me then—a sense of reciprocity that hadn't been there before. He had cared for me; now I wanted to return that care.

I turned slightly, just enough to see the shampoo bottle resting on the edge of the tub. "Let me."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly—the barest hint of surprise in those dark depths. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, as though processing an unfamiliar request. Then, with the slightest inclination of his head, he yielded.

I reached for the bottle, my fingers shaking—barely, but enough to betray me. This wasn't just about washing his hair—it was crossing a boundary, initiating intimacy rather than merely receiving it. The bottle was nearly empty. I tipped it carefully, squeezing the last remnants into my palm.

"Turn," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against porcelain.

He complied, shifting his massive frame to present his back to me. His hair hung in a dark curtain down to his shoulders, some strands clinging to his scarred skin. I lifted a hand to touch it, hesitating momentarily before sinking my fingers into the thick, heavy curtain.

V went utterly still beneath my touch. Had anyone ever touched him this way? With care rather than intent to harm? As he surrendered his head to my hands, I felt a tether snap inside me—breaking free. His trust was unexpected and complete. A tremor passed through my chest, not from fear but from the intensity of the moment. No one in my life had ever made themselves this vulnerable to me. The water ran black with ink from his hair, and I found myself fighting tears, wondering what other darkness I might wash away if he'd let me, if I could bear to try.

I discovered a rhythm, emboldened by his response. My fingers worked from his temples to the nape of his neck, discovering the contours of his skull beneath the silken strands. With each stroke, I felt him yield further, his head gradually tilting back to give me better access.

The vulnerability of this position—his throat exposed, his eyes closed—stole my breath. This man survived by vigilance, yet here he was, allowing himself a moment of blindness in my presence. Trust, from someone who had every reason never to trust again.

"Tilt back," I murmured, mimicking his earlier instruction.

He angled his head, allowing me to cup water in my hands and pour it over his hair. I watched, mesmerized, as rivulets traced paths down his neck and over his shoulders, highlighting scars both old and new. My fingers followed, ensuring all soap was rinsed away, lingering perhaps longer than necessary against his skin. The sound of water cascading over him filled the small room, a peaceful counterpoint to the tension between us.

When I finished, he remained motionless for several heartbeats, water dripping from the ends of his now-clean hair. Then, slowly, he turned to face me again. Something had shifted in his gaze—a new awareness, an unasked question.

No longer needing to feign confidence, I did something wildly out of character.

I twisted awkwardly to face him fully. My body displayed—every mark, fold, and dimple laid bare for his inspection. He straightened, his imposing frame still braced against the tub's back. His gaze absorbed every inch of me. My wet hands gripped the porcelain as I craved connection.

What expression lay beneath? What secrets did he hide? For months, his hidden face had terrified me. Now, it drew me forward with magnetic force. His face, once a source of fear, now seemed like the last secret between us—the final piece keeping me from truly knowing him.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst out and run without me. Every warning bell in my mind screamed to stop, but my body was already moving. Screw caution. Screw boundaries. This wasn't about thinking anymore.

I moved without thinking. The gap between us closed. My lips found his mask—cold against warm. Through it, I felt the shape of his lips. Water splashed as I gripped him. My fingernails left half-moons on his wet skin. The copper-smoke smell of him filled my head, made me dizzy.

Oh my God. I kissed V.

The synthetic material was cool against my lips, a strange barrier between us. Yet I felt the warmth of his breath through it, the firmness of his mouth beneath. Time suspended, stretched into infinity as we connected. The world contracted to this single point of contact—this impossible, imperfect connection. Even with the barrier between us, I felt closer to him than I'd ever been to anyone else—the mask a symbol of everything he kept hidden, yet somehow everything he was willing to reveal to me alone.

I felt his mouth open slightly beneath mine. A sound caught in his throat—something raw and unexpected that sent a shiver through me. Had my simple touch affected him that deeply? The possibility that I might hold some sway over this imposing man was startling. For all his strength and control, maybe I reached him in ways I never imagined possible. The thought was both unsettling and thrilling.

I pulled back, mortification flooding my system. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" Panic strangled each syllable. What had I done? What unspoken boundary had I crossed?

As I began to retreat further, his hand halted my withdrawal. Damp palms framed my jaw with careful restraint. His eyes, dark and intense, held mine for a heartbeat before he pulled me forward.

Something still separated us, where I desperately wanted nothing between us. He pressed his covered lips against mine with sudden urgency, the pressure sending butterflies rioting through my stomach. His fingers threaded through damp hair at my nape, dispatching shivers to secret, responsive places. My body shifted slightly with the motion, the water lapping against the porcelain as I found myself facing him more fully now, my knees bumping against his thighs in the confined space.

Withdrawing slightly, V maintained his gentle hold on my face. His thumb traced the contour of my bottom lip while his intense gaze fixated there. His touch left fire in its wake, each brush of his fingertip against my skin sending waves of sensation through me.

"I haven't felt anything in years..." his voice vibrated through to me, barely audible, "and now I can't feel anything but you."

His hands vanished, and shame surged before I could stop it. Had he seen too much? Had I been foolish to believe he could want this body? The cruel voices from my past surged forward—You really thought he could want someone like you?The sudden absence of his touch left me cold and exposed, vulnerability morphing rapidly into humiliation.

His hands moved my protective arms away from my chest. His touch delivered immediate solace, banishing those destructive thoughts in an instant. He guided me to turn, the water swirling between us as I pivoted until my back was nearly against his chest, both of us now facing the same direction. Those calloused hands, that had known such hardship, encircled my torso with unexpected grace. I gasped, my brain automatically commanding my muscles to contract, trying to minimize my presence.

"Don't do that." His words emerged from behind the mask with quiet authority. Not a threat—a plea.

He'd noticed my reflexive retreat. Unsteadily, I forced my body to relax. Fresh tears scalded my eyes, his perceptiveness the trigger. His fingertips traced the silvery roadmaps of my stretch marks, the pale lines stark against his deep, warm-toned skin.

"They feel ugly, don't they?" His fingers captured a damp strand clinging to my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The question surprised me—not accusatory but understanding, as though he recognized something familiar in my shame.

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