Page 84 of Sins of the Hidden

V had worshipped my body with a reverence I couldn't comprehend. I'd hated this shell since before I had words to express it. The stretch marks, the curves that appeared, the body that betrayed me monthly. Yet under his hands, I'd felt... beautiful. Not despite my flaws but because of them.

My eyes darted to the mirror as they did every morning—a ritual of self-torture. A new note was there. I practically leaped from the bed, muscles protesting in places I never knew could hurt. A small wince escaped me, the tender flesh between my thighs burning with each step.

I yanked V's shirt over my head as I rushed to the glass.

Spíti.

I tore it from the surface, clutching the sticky note to my chest. The notes gave me strength when I couldn't find it myself—when self-hatred threatened to drown me. It wasn’t a cure… but it was a nice reminder.

The clouds that had shadowed me for so long were slowly dispersing, as if V's presence burned them away like a dark sun rising. I caught my reflection and faltered, actually seeing myself rather than flinching away. V's shirt swallowed me whole, dwarfing my frame. My cheeks glowed with uncharacteristic color, and my eyes—usually dull with self-loathing—seemed alive in this light.

For the first time in my life, I felt beautiful. Not in the way magazines defined it, but in the way V saw me—as someone who couldn't be replaced.

Shaking stray hairs from my face, I straightened my spine and locked eyes with my reflection—a challenge I'd avoided. The last time I did, I had a panic attack in front of V. Victoria’s advice surfaced again as I took a deep breath, but fear didn’t overcome me this time.

"I like my hair." The words felt strange in my mouth as I pressed the new note alongside the others framing the mirror.

"I like my nails." Each affirmation is a small rebellion against years of self-hatred.

Stepping back to take in more of myself, I continued, "I like the way I look in V's clothes." His shirt hung to my knees, the dark fabric a stark contrast against my pale skin.

"I like the way V touches me." The confession made my pulse thunder beneath my ribs. My fingers unconsciously traced one of the marks he'd left—a claim, a brand.

"I like how my body feels today.” The discomfort is worth it, a price I'd willingly pay again to feel what I felt last night.

"I like..." My voice faltered as the magnitude of what I was about to admit crashed over me. "V."

Eight months ago, I couldn't breathe when V appeared—each glimpse of his mask sent panic flooding through me. Now I couldn't breathe when he was gone. His presence once meant danger; now it meant sanctuary. The hands I once feared would hurt me had become the only ones that made me feel real. My nightmare had become my necessity, and I didn't know how to make sense of the transformation.

Maybe I could learn to love the shadow that swallowed everything in its path except me.

V entered the bedroom shirtless, black jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips, unbuttoned. The dark trail of hair disappearing beneath denim claimed my attention more than the steaming coffee cup in his hand. His eyes raked over me, lingering on his shirt draped over my frame.

"You're wearing my shirt." His voice rumbled through the room, rippling across my skin.

The fragile confidence I'd built shattered instantly. Shy, familiar insecurity rushed back like an old friend. "I-Is that okay?" I hated how small I sounded, how quickly I reverted to asking for approval.

V placed the coffee on the dresser. "Looks better on you."

My eyes dropped to the floor, a learned response to praise I couldn't accept. I tucked my hair behind my ear, my heart racing. One day, I told myself, I'd meet his gaze and simply say thank you. But that day wouldn’t be soon.

"T-Thank you for the note," I stammered, desperate to change the subject.

His obsidian gaze traveled down my body with such heat I swore I could feel it burning paths along my skin. My body recognized that look—predatory, hungry. My pulse quickened. If I didn't distract him, I'd end up back in that bed, beneath him, undone again.

"We, um. W-We broke the bed." Reluctantly, he shifted his attention to the damaged frame. "W-We need to get a new one."

"Headboard." The single word carried weight as he shrugged on his shirt, then his cut, before stalking back toward me. He crossed to my dresser without responding, pulling out a shirt that was clearly his.

"Hmm?" My gaze tracked his movements, unable to look away.

"We're getting a headboard."

"Why?" I ventured, immediately regretting asking.

He reached toward me, and I braced for his touch—half-feared, half-craved. Instead, he plucked a hairband from the table behind me. He hunched forward, gathering half his midnight hair into a bun at the crown of his head. I felt moisturegather on my bottom lip, my mouth going slack. God, was I actually drooling?

V straightened to his full imposing height, one eyebrow arched knowingly. “Next time you sit on my face, I’m going to treat it like my last meal—and I don’t plan on dying hungry.”

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