Page 72 of Sins of the Hidden

"I do." She clutched my cut, making my lungs seize. Then something changed—she didn't pull away as I expected. Instead, she leaned forward, raising her palm to my mask. Her gesture was deliberate, tracing the edge where metal met skin—whereno one had ever dared to go. Not because I'd guided her there. Because she wanted to.

The world tilted beneath me. My vision blurred at the edges—a disorientation I'd only experienced from blood loss. But this was different. Better. Worse. I don’t know.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, still resting against my chest.

I shook my head. "It's how I always feel when I'm with you."

She rubbed over the spot, each circle making my muscles coil. "I think that means you're...happy."

"Happy." I said it softly, like it might break if I held it too tight.

I watched her. She'd closed her eyes, face tilted toward me like a prayer, chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders as she gifted me what I wanted.

Her laugh cracked something open in me. Eyes bright, dimples cutting deep. Like she hadn't smiled like that in years. This wasn't the careful smile she gave to strangers or the polite curve of her lips when something amused her. This was raw joy—unfiltered and bare. Her head tilted back slightly, her throat exposed in a display of trust she'd never shown before. I wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about love.

I thought love meant bruises. Watching her face swell purple under a man's fist before he'd bring her flowers the next day. Seeing her accept gifts from the same hands that broke her ribs. Love was possession, pain, and control.

But this didn't feel like that. This felt different. Wrong, maybe. Or right in a way I couldn't understand.

Emotions I couldn't name erupted inside of me, my impulse taking control as I cradled her face. Her green eyes sparkled under the stars, her flushed cheeks marked with blood rushing beneath the skin, the trust she'd developed for me burningthrough me with an intensity I craved. The urge to kiss her rolled through me, like I had seen the actors do in all the movies she liked. What my brothers did with their women. I wanted that with Oakley.

To be happy with her.

Smiling with her.

If love could take form—something real, something you could hold—it would be her. And if it needed a reason to live, it would be the way she made me feel human when I didn't deserve to be.

I pressed my forehead against hers, the universe narrowing to just the feeling between our skin. Something violent stirred within me, threatening to tear through everything beneath my skin. The engine ticked beneath us, cooling in the night air while something inside me burned hotter than before.

"Teach me how to fall in love with you, Oakley."

The words hung between us, suspended in the silver moonlight. She shivered against my cut, unsure where to settle. The scent of her—vanilla and sweat and something uniquely hers—made my breathing falter. My chest constricted, every nerve ending firing at once.

"I…" Her voice faltered as I leaned back, giving her space. Her gaze fell to her hands, where her fingers twisted anxiously. "I don't know how to love myself, V."

The confession hit like a hollow point—expanding on impact, tearing through everything in its path. I'd seen it every day—how she ducked away from her reflection, how food remained untouched when I watched, how she held herself like she was apologizing for existing. But hearing the words stripped raw from her throat turned the fracture into an abyss.

I wanted to rip out every soft thing I'd stolen or salvaged through the years and press them into her skin. Make her feel whole with pieces of myself I didn't know I'd kept. The nightair sharpened around us, carrying the distant scent of pine and asphalt.

"We'll learn together." My grip tightened on her hands, not enough to bruise but enough to anchor. Moonlight caught in her hair, turning chestnut to silver. Her throat fluttered visibly, like a moth trapped beneath her skin.

She studied me for a long moment, then reached up to brush something from my leather jacket—a gesture so casual, so domestic it struck me silent. Her fingers lingered there, arranging the collar with meticulous care.

"Have you ever loved anyone before?" The question floated between us, soft yet heavy with implication. The motorcycle shifted slightly beneath our weight as I searched through memories gone grey with time.

Her face surfaced—a blur of features I could no longer fully recall. Eleven years had faded her, leaving only the shape of what I'd needed and never received.

"Mother." The word tasted wrong on my tongue.

Oakley's grasp tightened over mine. "There's different types of love. Familial, platonic, and romantic." My head tilted, signaling her to continue. "Familial love is the love you have for your family." She explained. The concept was alien to me.

"I don't have any family." The stars reflected in her eyes as her brows knitted together.

"You have your club brothers. You don't feel anything for them?" I shook my head. Their faces meant nothing—empty oxygen, necessary but meaningless. "What about Darrell?"

Something electric jolted through my chest, uncomfortable and strange. "He saved me."

"From who?" Her voice barely carried over the night sounds—a distant owl, the whisper of wind through roadside grass. The silver glow outlined her face in light, and the rest of the world fell away into shadow.

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