Page 133 of Sins of the Hidden

He knew exactly how much pressure to apply, which areas needed more care. The sponge traced my spine, lingering at my lower back before ascending again. His free hand steadied me, thumb occasionally brushing my collarbone in what might have been tenderness in another existence. He washed away physical evidence, but memories remained, embedded deeper than bone.

When he finished, he placed the sponge on the tub's edge and stood.The cup filled, water cascaded over me. His gaze remained fixed on me, examining every detail with the focus of someonememorizing what he already owned. The task was complete, but his eyes conveyed the truth—he'd never truly be done with me.

He reached for the drain plug. As water gurgled away, his stare burned through his mask. The muscle in his jaw worked beneath the black barrier, tension radiating from his frame. His forearms flexed as he braced against the tub, veins prominent beneath his skin. The barely contained fury in his posture said everything—someone had dared touch what belonged to him, and only his focus on me prevented immediate retribution.

V stepped away briefly, moving to retrieve towels from the linen closet—one for my hair, another for my body. He returned and set the hair towel on the toilet seat within easy reach. His eternal preparedness unsettled me more than spontaneity ever could.

I remained seated, watching the bathwater spiral away, soiled and clouded. Droplets clung to my skin, refusing to be washed away. Like memories. Like fear. Some stains refused to wash away. The water circled the drain hypnotically, making me dizzy. It mirrored how I'd been pulled into V's orbit—circling and circling until the inevitable fall.

When the tub emptied completely, V moved back to my side. He extended his hands, the gesture both command and offering. After hesitating, I placed my trembling hands in his, allowing him to lift me upright. The position change sent my head spinning, heart pounding in my throat. Everything hurt—especially the finger-shaped bruises circling my neck.

The sudden chill prickled my skin, sending waves of shivers down my spine. Vulnerability crashed over me as I stood naked before him, water streaming down in rivulets. His eyes traveled my body, not with desire but something worse—ownership, assessment, calculation.

V lifted me from the bath like I weighed nothing. The transition from warm water to air left me disoriented,hypersensitive to every point where his hands touched bare flesh. He placed me on the bath mat, my feet adhering slightly to its damp surface. He immediately draped the body towel around me, the plush fabric catching along my frame, fibers both comforting and abrasive against my hypersensitive nerves.

The towel around my hair snagged on a knot, jerking my scalp as he adjusted it. His movements had become cautious, as though I might fracture under too much pressure. The irony didn't escape me—how gentle he could be after everything he'd done.

His hand pressed against my lower back, guiding me from bathroom to bedroom. The carpet felt luxurious compared to the tile, briefly keeping me present as we crossed the threshold.

He didn't ask what I wanted to wear. He simply moved to his dresser, retrieving one of his black T-shirts, cotton worn soft from countless washes. My clothes—what had once been mine—hung in the closet untouched. But he didn't reach for them. He knew what I needed better than I did, and right now, I needed to disappear inside something saturated with his scent.

The towel fell away as he guided my arms upward. Icy air clawed across my skin, slicing through nerve endings. His knuckles brushed my ribs. The shirt fell over me. I inhaled the scent—unwilling, automatic.

He ghosted through the motions, fingers retracing ownership like a ritual. His careful touch mocked every violent encounter we'd shared, as if kindness could erase cruelty. If he asked for more, I wouldn't stop him. There was nothing left to fight with.

Standing in the bedroom, it felt like my soul had stepped outside, leaving a vacant shell behind. The places where his fingers brushed my skin burned like frostbite—fire penetrating to the bone. His hands moved across my body, and I watchedwith detached fascination, as though they belonged to someone else. As though I belonged to someone else.

His gentleness felt crueler, leaving me unsure which version was real. He'd broken parts of me I wasn't sure could be restored.

When he reached toward my waist, I flinched involuntarily. He paused, the muscles in his forearms tensed visibly. I swallowed hard, forcing my body to relax.

He retrieved black leggings from the dresser and knelt before me. He tapped my right leg gently. I lifted it, placing my hand on his shoulder for balance. His muscles coiled beneath my palm, restrained power humming just beneath the surface. He guided my foot into the legging and pulled it to my knee. Tapping my left leg, he repeated the motion. Standing, he pulled the leggings up to my waist, smoothing every wrinkle with possessive hands.

He stepped back, eyes studying me with that unnerving intensity, cataloging every microexpression, every fragment of emotion I couldn't conceal. The T-shirt hung loose on my frame, his scent encasing me completely.

There was a small makeup table positioned between the bedroom and bathroom—a vanity area that served both spaces. V gestured toward it. "Vanity," he said. His hand on my shoulder guided me to the chair facing the mirror.

As I stood there, my hands instinctively covered my eyes—I wasn't ready to confront my reflection.

The mirror would have revealed a bruised throat, a stranger staring back like someone had turned out the lights and left the body behind. Purple fingerprints bloomed across my neck like a macabre necklace. The girl in the mirror wasn't me anymore—she was fractured, rebuilt wrong.

I closed my eyes and forced air into my lungs, holding it before slowly exhaling. The world gradually steadied. When Iopened my eyes, the mirror was mercifully hidden beneath V's cut, the bruised reflection concealed.

V opened a vanity drawer and extracted my hair dryer. Plugging it in, he pulled the shirt collar down slightly to access the damp strands clinging to my neck, then began drying my hair with unexpected care. He remembered my hatred for wet hair, especially at bedtime—one of countless small details he'd collected in his obsession. The hot air scorched my scalp, but I welcomed the sensation—an honest form of discomfort, uncomplicated by contradiction.

His breath ghosted over my neck, warmth tracing invisible chains along my spine as he leaned closer, his chest nearly touching my back. Each exhale raised fine hairs there, constant reminders of his proximity, his unwavering attention. It made me want to scream. It made me want to press against him. I did neither, suspended between opposing desires, trapped in the liminal space between revulsion and craving.

The room fell quiet after the hairdryer clicked off, marking a pause between one form of torture and the next. Without warning, he swept me into his arms. My hands instinctively circled his neck as my head rested against his chest, drawn to his warmth despite everything. His heartbeat pounded against my ear—steady, strong, relentless. Just like him.

He carried me to the living room and placed me in the corner of the couch. I curled into the cushions, drawing my knees up instinctively. V sat two cushions away, near the center, reaching for a folded blanket on the armrest. He shook it open and draped it over both of us, the fabric bridging the careful distance I'd created.

I adjusted my position, hands awkwardly curled against my chest, head resting on a decorative pillow. His eyes never wavered from my face, watching with that unnerving intensity.

Part of me wanted to pull away—to scream, to hate him. But another part, quieter and exhausted, didn't want to be alone. My body remembered the comfort of his hands even as my mind recalled their cruelty. Wanting both strangled the air from my lungs.

"Tell me how to fix this," he whispered, his voice fractured, scraping like metal against stone.

The question hit like blunt trauma—I couldn't exhale around it. What would restore my smile? Freedom? His absence? Or—this thought terrified me more than any other—his presence, but transformed. Changed. Real.

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