Page 70 of Sins of the Hidden

He shifted behind me, water cascading over the tub's edge as he repositioned himself, his legs now on either side of mine. I could feel the heat of his chest hovering just behind my back, not quite touching but close enough that each breath he took created a subtle current of air against my wet skin. His fingers mapped the silvery rivers across my skin, and my chest shattered when he didn't flinch away. He touched the parts I hated with reverence, and suddenly, I hated them a little less. The stretch marks mapped more than just growth—they told the story of hormonal battles, of weight that appeared and retreated without permission as my body struggled to find balance. For years, specialists had offered pills and platitudes but little understanding, until I stopped expecting anyone to see beyond the symptoms to the woman beneath.

A lifetime of hiding these marks, of believing they made me unworthy of touch—and here was this dangerous man studying them like constellations that might guide him home. My eyes burned, vision blurring. His touch asked permission to know the story written on my skin, every chapter I'd tried to erase.

"Beautiful." His fingertips traced over the indentations. "Every single inch."

He had seen the evidence of my condition scattered across the bathroom counter, written on my skin, and still chose this word. The declaration, so simple yet so profound, fell from his lips with absolute certainty—the same tone he used when telling me I belonged to him. An irrefutable fact.

His hand moved lower, resting with familiar gentleness against my abdomen where the monthly pain centered. Something in the way he traced me like terrain seemed knowing, attentive—as though he understood this was contested territory, a battleground where my body fought itself. Unlike the doctors with their dismissive glances and hurried examinations, his presence acknowledged the invisible struggle without requiringexplanation. When his attention found the coarse patches of skin along my jawline—evidence of hormones I couldn't control—I flinched, but his gaze never wavered.

When his hand settled against my lower abdomen—right where the pain lived, where doctors had dismissed and strangers had judged—my lungs locked. Years of medical appointments, of being told it was in my head, of learning to live with invisible knives beneath my skin, and somehow he knew exactly where to touch. Not to hurt but to acknowledge. My body, so long a battleground, became something else under his hands—territory worth claiming, worth defending. I turned my face away, hiding the first tear that escaped, mourning for the girl who'd believed she'd always fight this war alone.

As his words settled into me, the space between us disappeared. His powerful arms encircled me fully, drawing me back against his chest. I let my weight sink into him as he leaned against the back of the tub, my spine aligning with his torso, my head finding the hollow beneath his chin. The water rippled and settled around our now-still forms. He wrapped himself around me like I wasn't broken. Like I wasn't hard to love. Like I hadn't spent years apologizing for my body taking up space. My breath hitched as his forehead descended to the curve where my neck met my shoulder. He inhaled deeply, his exhale dancing across my dampened skin.

Pressed against his chest, feeling his rhythm sync with mine through water and bone, a stark clarity washed over me.

I was already his—had been since before I knew his name.

The fear that hollowed my stomach wasn't of him anymore, but of the person I was becoming under his hands—someone unrecognizable who craved things I couldn't name.

That woman was already gone, as surely as if she'd drowned in this very tub, and whoever emerged would be someone else entirely—someone born of his darkness and my surrender.

I came into this room scared to be seen. I was leaving it terrified of being left.

The water had cooled, but I couldn't bring myself to move. His arms formed a sanctuary I wasn't ready to abandon. The thought of stepping out of this tub, of breaking this spell between us, made my chest ache with a sharp, unfamiliar pain. I pressed back against him, as if I could somehow completely dissolve the boundaries between us.

"Can we stay like this forever?" V asked, his arms tightening around me as if afraid I might disappear.

No, we couldn't.

But did I want to?

The quiet beat of his heart settled against me. I let go, sinking into the safety of him, into a belonging I'd never known I needed.

I was starting to.

Oakley and I spent the morning at the hardware store. She held up three color swatches, waiting for my opinion. They all looked the same—shades of brown. But her brows furrowed in concentration, like she was solving a puzzle that mattered. When she finally selected one, her smile transformed her entire face.

I carried every bag despite her protests. Her delicate hands reached for supplies I wouldn't let her touch.

The smell of sawdust hung in the gutted bakery. I'd ripped out the rotting furniture, cleared space for her to create. She stretched on tiptoes, brush extended toward the ceiling, cleaning walls for tomorrow's paint. I watched her struggle. Too short. She kept trying, straining upward, but couldn't reach. Her shirt lifted—just a breath of skin above her leggings. I crossed the room without thinking. My palm engulfed hers on the brush handle, taking over where she couldn't reach.

"T-Thank you." The stutter in her voice sank into my blood. I handed back the brush, watching her stretch her arms overhead, checking the walls.

"I can't believe how much you've cleared out in so little time. Is there anything you can't do, besides cook?" Her expression danced with amusement. I didn't understand what she meant, but her curved lips made me want to split open my veins just to see what color they'd bleed for her.

"Live without you."

She stared at me, lips parted, but no sound came out. She studied me for something she wasn't sure how to ask, as if looking for a sign I wasn't serious. Pink bloomed across her cheekbones, lips lifting at the corners. Her smile lit up parts of her face I hadn't seen before—the corners of her eyes, the dip of her cheeks. Like she saved that expression just for me.

I looked around the bakery to evaluate our progress. The back room would need complete demolition, just as she'd planned. She'd already selected all the appliances, mapped out every detail. Tomorrow I'd tear out the fixtures while she painted, following her instructions exactly. Hellbound would have to wait. My toys would stay hungry, less important than making her smile again.

As Oakley packed away tools, the day's work settled into silence. She waited by the door, dust catching in the low light across her clothes. "Are you ready to leave?"

I locked up with my keys. Her car waited beside my bike in the parking lot. She stowed her things in the trunk, that new smile I craved spreading across her face. "Well I'll see you?—"

Sunlight hit her skin. I wanted to keep looking at her. The thought of watching her drive away made something inside me twist like a knife being turned in flesh.

"Come with me."

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