Page 163 of Sins of the Hidden

The scar. A jagged "O" carved into the skin above his heart. My initial, etched permanently into his flesh. He'ddone it himself—cut into his own chest without feeling the pain, watching the blood flow while marking himself as mine. The thought still made me shiver—the devotion twisted into something primitive and visceral, the way he'd branded himself like he'd branded me with that ring.

"Can you feel this?" I whispered, my fingertips ghosting over the spot on his chest where I knew the scar to be, beneath his shirt and the bandages.

His eyes opened immediately, finding mine with that unsettling intensity. "Yeah."

Just one word, but it carried weight. He couldn't feel pain, but he could feel touch. And he felt mine—tracked it, cataloged it, treasured it in his own disturbing way.

"Why carve it there?" I asked softly.

His hand found mine, moving it deliberately to press more firmly against his shirt, over his heart. "So you wouldn't forget where you belong."

The possessiveness should have frightened me. Instead, it carved out a strange hollow inside my chest—a space where something dark and forbidden began to bloom.

"Even if I left?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"You could tear out your heart and it'd still beat for me. That's not something you can walk away from."

I stared at where my hand rested on his shirt, knowing what lay beneath—permanent, indelible proof of his obsession. Proof that I was sewn into his skin as surely as he had wormed his way under mine.

The intimacy of this moment, with my hand on his heart, the confession of belonging, made me brave in ways I hadn't been before.

Pressing my palm flat against his shirt, feeling the steady rhythm beneath my touch. "What's your real name?"

The question hung between us, unexpected even to me. Maybe it was seeing him vulnerable for once—bleeding, hurt, human—that made me ask. Or maybe I just needed something real to hold onto after everything we'd been through.

V went still, his eyes fixed on mine with that unsettling intensity. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.

"V," he said finally, voice rough.

"No, I mean your birth name. The one your parents gave you."

Something cold flickered behind his eyes. "Don't have one."

I frowned, confused. "Everyone has a name."

His fingers twitched against the sheets. "Mother never named me."

The admission hit me like a physical blow. What kind of parent doesn't name their child? I swallowed hard, trying to process what that meant—growing up without even that basic recognition of existence. A child without a name. Just empty space where identity should begin.

"Then where did 'V' come from?" I asked gently.

"Prez." His jaw tightened beneath the mask.

"Just 'V'? Not short for something?"

He shook his head once. "One letter's all I'm worth."

Something twisted painfully in my chest—not pity, but understanding that cut unexpectedly deep. His words carried the weight of years spent reduced to function rather than person. Fingertips brushed my cheek so lightly that I might have imagined it, his eyes never leaving mine.

My gaze drifted to the mirror across the room—the one V had shattered the night I had my first panic attack in front of him. Spider-web cracks radiated from the impact point. My face fragmented in the glass.

I studied it from where I lay beside him. Cold. Sharp edges. A distorted reflection that somehow felt more honest than the unbroken version ever had.

For once, I didn't look away.

"You're afraid," he said, voice low behind the mask.

"Not of you." The admission tasted strange on my tongue. After everything, fear of V had transformed into something else.

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