Page 240 of Sins of the Hidden

Her fingers traced the outline of my bandaged hand, feather-light over the gauze. I ran my thumb over the place her finger used to be, as if tracing its absence could somehow make it less permanent. Her ring finger was gone forever, along with the symbol of our bond that I forced on her months ago.

But looking at our joined hands now, at the matching voids where whole fingers used to be, I realized something. We didn't need those rings anymore. She cried herself to sleep in my arms, tears soaking through my shirt to the skin beneath. Even in sleep, her hands searched for the edges of me, like I was already fading. Like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.

"Don't leave," she whispered, half-gone to exhaustion.

I crushed her to me. I was not capable of existing anywhere she wasn't. There was no V without Oakley. No purpose beyond her protection. No direction except toward whatever kept her safe.

I watched the monitors count her heartbeats—each one a gift. Each one proof we'd made it through darkness. Each one asecond chance I didn't deserve but would spend the rest of my life earning.

Not whole. Not unscathed. But alive.Together.

I intertwinde our left hands, the gap between our fingers creating new patterns against white sheets.

Her breath brushed against my neck, shallow but alive.

The heartbeat she gave me thumping steadily–the ghost I used to be finally find home.

All it took to feel alive again was dying beside her.

Yes.

That single word haunted me. Her last gift before the water dragged her down.

I didn't sleep anymore. Not since I pulled her from death. Three days at Hex's clinic. Three nights in our bed. When I closed my eyes, I saw her sinking. Felt her slipping through my fingers. Watched her mouth form that word as the water claimed her.

Yes.

Tonight she jerked upright, a strangled scream caught halfway between waking and drowning. Eyes wild, clawing at an invisible threat, desperate for breath that wouldn't come. I caught her wrists, pinned them, feeling her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips—each beat a reminder of the seconds I almost lost her. Another nightmare where she drowned and I didn't reach her in time.

Her eyes darted around the room, pupils blown wide, seeing lake water where there was only darkness. Her chest heaved with panicked, shallow breaths as she fought against my grip.Her teeth clamped down hard enough that I could hear the click of enamel, her jaw rigid with terror. She was still underwater in her mind, still sinking, still calling my name as the darkness took her.

"Oakley." I kept my voice low, steady. The opposite of what stormed inside me. "Look at me."

Recognition slowly seeped into her gaze. The water receded. Reality returned in pieces—our bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, my hands on her wrists. My face above hers. She went limp, the fight draining from her body all at once.

"I'm here." Two words. What they really meant—I tore apart three men for you. Let Prez sacrifice himself. Surrendered my bat to the water. Would do it again. Would do worse.

Mother still breathed somewhere. That problem wouldn't last.

Where her finger used to be, our hands met like a wound trying to close. She shuddered beneath me, body pulled so tight it felt like she’d snap if I let go. This was what wa left of us—ruin that only knew how to hold on.

Oakley’s breathing finally slowed. I eased back, watching bruises darken on her wrists where I held her too tightly. Mine layered over theirs. Sometimes I couldn’t tell who I was hurting anymore—her or the ghosts I never got to kill.

I was supposed to be the one who ended the pain, not added to it. But the bruises didn't know the difference. Not when they were mine.

Her eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep somehow. Better there than here sometimes, I thought. At least her demons couldn't leave new scars.

Dawn cut through blinds like a surgeon's scalpel. The pale morning light cruelly highlighted the brutal symmetry carved into her mouth—the grotesque echo of my mask, my mother's twisted sense of humor written permanently in Oakley's flesh. Apart of her stolen, a part I'd never forgive myself for letting them take.

"Your phone," she whispered, voice rough from screaming in her sleep. Her fingers traced the edge of the blanket, avoiding my eyes. "Someone's been trying to–”

My fingers curled around the edge of the bed. "Don't give a fuck."

"V—"

"I was five seconds too late." The words tore from somewhere raw inside me. My hand hovered over her missing finger, the scars at her mouth. "Next time I might not–"

"There won't be a next time."

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