Page 55 of Sins of the Hidden

"Your bakery." He cracked his neck with a sharp pop, his gaze swept the broken edges of my future.

His words didn't register. My thoughts stumbled.My bakery?The words seemed impossible, too large to fit in this broken space.

Moving to a stack of rotted wood blocking a doorway, he swung his bat in a semicircle before smashing it against the planks. The thunderous crack echoed off the walls. I flinched as muscles tensed, shoulders hunching instinctively. Memories flashed—another time and place where violence had shattered safety—as vision briefly tunneled and sweat beaded along my hairline.

His powerful arms flexed with each impact, splintering wood effortlessly. After clearing the path, he gestured toward the newly revealed space—what might have once been a kitchen.

My parents had offered to buy me a bakery a dozen times, and I'd refused each time, determined to earn it myself.

I didn't move as V turned, dark eyes finding mine. In three long strides, he closed the distance between us, his boots crushing glass with each step. I felt V's hand settle at the small of my back—not pushing, just present. When I didn't move, his fingers spread wider, spanning nearly half my lower back with subtle pressure that propelled me forward effortlessly.

At the center of the room, his fingers curled slightly in my shirt, making me halt. He circled me, hand sliding from back to hip then shoulder, rotating me slightly leftward. The maneuver positioned me precisely where sunlight streamed through a broken window, illuminating my face as he gauged my reaction.

"You—you bought me a bakery?" My voice trembled on the words.

"Us." The single syllable held more certainty than I'd ever heard from him.

Us? What did he mean byus?

"This place is..." Words failed as possibility collided with practicality. "V, I can't accept?—"

"It's yours."

"But–"

His hand shot out, catching my wrist with his thumb pressed against the racing pulse. His other hand placed a key in my palm—cold metal warming instantly against my skin. His fingers closed over mine forcefully—not painful but allowing no resistance—sealing the metal between our hands as though soldering our futures together. That small, sharp piece of brass sat in my palm, something seemingly insignificant that held the power to reshape my entire future.

The key weighed heavily in my hand as imagination transformed the space around me. Visual chaos of destruction receded, replaced by pristine white walls, gleaming display cases filled with rows of glossy raspberry danishes and golden croissants, and polished hardwood floors. Then, emotional realization crashed through—independence, legacy, purpose—secret yearnings manifesting through this unexpected gift.

"Sweet Summer's," I whispered, the name I'd chosen when I was sixteen.

The words hung in the dust-filled air between us. Time thickened between us, each second louder than words. In that pocket of quiet, the name took on physical presence, becoming more real with each moment he allowed it to exist unchallenged.

A flash of memory hit me—age seven, pressing my nose against the glass of this very building, watching the cashiers give treats to children’s grabby hands, whispering "someday" as Dad pulled me away.

The barriers I'd created weren't just toward V but against possibility itself. I'd created a life of careful limits—modest dreams that couldn't hurt when shattered. V had crashed through those boundaries from the start, demanding more than I demanded of myself. This building represented everything I'd denied wanting.

I could refuse his gift. The image flashed before me—V dragging me back here day after day, his patience infinite and terrifying. I envisioned him chaining me to this very spot until I surrendered to this dream I'd never admitted wanting. My throat tightened. With V, saying no wasn't an option.

My arm lifted of its own accord, trembling fingers extending toward him until they connected with the firm surface of his forearm. His arm went tight under my fingers, but he didn't withdraw. Instead, his free hand captured my wrist—pressing against what throbbed under his thumb, louder than breath. Surrounding wood creaked under his weight as he moved closer, forcing me to tilt back to meet his gaze.

Stepping into him, my body fit against his. Arms encircled his waist as my face pressed against his solid chest, the steady thud beneath my ear. My eyes stung. His shirt blurred. I didn't stop.

Though his body remained still, his hand moved to cradle my head, fingers threading through hair with methodical gentleness. I felt it then—just once—the slight tremor in his fingertips against my scalp, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

Looking up without wiping tears away, I whispered, "Thank you."

Reaching up, I brushed fingertips along his mask edge—another boundary crossed toward whatever we were becoming. His pupils dilated slightly at my touch, the minute black expansion within brown revealing more than words could offer.

Standing amid the rubble of what would become my dream, I recognized his offer extended beyond brick and mortar to something I'd sealed away long ago. The walls I'd constructed against hope were crumbling faster than the plaster at our feet.

"Let's build it," I whispered, voice shaking. "Together."

His hand tightened around mine, the key digging between our fingers.

For the first time, when I imagined my future, he was there—not an intruder breaking in, but a shadow cast long before I knew him, always waiting for me to turn and face what had been there all along.

The clubhouse door swung open. V stepped through first, his blood-stained bat dangling from one hand as he held the door for me to follow. I smiled, small but genuine, and stepped through the doorway. Victoria looked up from behind the bar, her eyes brightening.

---