Page 98 of Sins of the Hidden

After carefully rearranging her clothing, smoothing the fabric back over her curves with reverent hands, my fingers found the place where we'd connected—already warm and slick with the proof of us. I traced the sensitive skin gently, imagining this was how she wanted to be touched after fulfilling her fantasy. I pressed my lips to her temple, my voice a devoted whisper against her skin: "Sleep, Oakley. Just like you wanted when you told me to take you before you're even awake. My good girl." The fantasy she'd shared was now reality—the awakening into pleasure she'd described in those hushed, embarrassed tones.

Rising silently despite my muscles' protest, in silence, I made her tea. I made it because she liked it. Not because she asked. Not because I cared. Because I needed her to stay. The cup clinked against the counter. Too soft. Too clean. Like I hadn't just filled her like a grave. I stared down at the gentle swirl of steam, the quiet domesticity a strange counterpoint to the intimate connection we'd just shared, to the way I'd claimed her in her sleep—exactly how I'd promised when she'd blushed and stammered about her fantasy, when I'd told her not to whimper if I collected. Her fantasy was now fulfilled, exactly as she'd described it that night.

The gentle clink of porcelain felt foreign after the feral intimacy moments earlier, yet the simple routine steadied the storm still raging in my veins. The aroma of lavender tea curled through the air—soft, delicate, a stark contradiction to the raw scent of passion lingering on my skin.

Returning with the tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, I paused at the threshold, taking in the vision of her sprawled across our bed.

Her hair fanned out across the pillow, her lips still swollen from my kisses, her skin bearing the faint marks of my possession.

Oakley stirred, those jade eyes slowly opening, immediately dropping to the band encircling her finger as if confirming the night's reality, that she was truly mine. The morning light caught the gold, making it shine with promise.

Her eyes widened, pupils swallowing the gold of her irises as she glanced quickly from the ring to my face. The rapid flicker of emotions she's taught me—shock, recognition—burned beautifully in her sleepy gaze.

The slight wince as she shifted told me she could feel the undeniable proof of my absolute devotion, the pleasant soreness that would remind her with every movement today who she belonged to.

Her voice rasped softly, layered with lingering dreams and the faint huskiness of unconscious moans.

I stepped fully into the slanting morning glow, my body hardening instinctively, craving her again—not just her body, but the sleepy softness in her eyes, the trust she placed blindly in my darkness.

When she spoke, I would already know what she'd say. Because I'd left no part of her untouched. Not even her silence. The fantasy she'd whispered that night had now been fulfilledexactly as she'd described—waking slowly into pleasure, the gradual transition from dream to reality.

"Good morning, wife."

Stirring, my body weighed heavier—like gravity had doubled overnight. Grogginess clouded my head, thoughts swimming through molasses, finding it hard to open my eyes as the morning sunlight flitted through the lone window in my room—harsh, invasive beams that pierced like needles against my eyelids.

Why did I feel like this?

Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I shifted at seeing the time—ten AM. Searching my brain for any memory of yesterday, I paused. The last thing I remembered was V and I going to the club, then doing our usual routine. Then nothing.

My hands rose to rub the sleep away—but I stopped cold. An icy pressure, foreign and heavy, pressed against me where there should be nothing. Opening my eyes, they nearly fell out of my head when I saw the gold circle on my left ring finger. The sight of it made my stomach drop to my feet, a sudden vertigo washing over me.

A ring.

Not just any ring.

A wedding ring.

The shackle with three diamonds set perfectly on the front, catching the light like frozen tears. It fit perfectly, as if it was made just for me—or as if someone had measured my finger while I slept.

My hand spasmed helplessly beneath my skin. Why was there a wedding ring on my finger? The hard, cold pressure tightened around me like a manacle, growing heavier by the second. Before I got the chance to jump out of bed to find him, V entered the room holding a tray.

Holding up my hand, forcing the words past a constricted throat. "V-V?"

He kicked the door closed with his foot. His dark eyes pinned on me—black holes that seemed to devour all light in the room. "Good morning, wife."

Wife?

Did he just say,wife?

Nausea pooled in my gut, acid burning up my throat as sweat slicked my palms. The world tilted, reality skewing at an impossible angle. "What do you mean wife?"

He held his left hand up, a black silicone ring resting on his ring finger. "Why is there a wedding ring on your finger?"

"We're husband and wife."

My jaw worked uselessly as I tried to summon words to get some sort of explanation, but my tongue swelled thick and clumsy in my mouth.

"We're not married." I sputtered. Was this some kind of delusional nightmare I was in? A psychotic break? Digging my nails into my arms, I pinched my arm, desperate to wake up.

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