Page 89 of Sins of the Hidden

My world collapsed into absolute, terrifying black as consciousness slipped away completely.

Her favorite lavender mug slipped from limp fingers, landing with a muted thud against carpet fibers—chamomile bleeding into wool like a wound weeping. The rhythm of her lungs slowed in deep sleep.

Good.

Her neck offered no resistance as I cradled it, my thumb brushing over her pulse—swift and oblivious beneath my touch. The sedative I'd crushed into fine powder and stirred into her tea had worked.

She said she wanted to get married. She said she wanted to get fucked awake.

So now she slept with my ring on her finger and my hand between her thighs. That was what she asked for. I was just making sure she never forgot it.

My pupils dilated at the memory of her trusting smile as she'd sipped from that mug, completely unaware. The sweet irony of her drinking the very poison that would bind us together forever tasted better than any drug I'd ever known.

I traced beneath her knees, goosebumps rising at my touch. Her body knew me even when her mind was gone.

Chestnut hair cascaded down, swinging with each step I took, a pendulum counting down seconds until our union became irreversible. Heat pooled low, my pulse spiking sharply at her vulnerability. So vulnerable. So completely surrendered.

Her brow twitched as I bent and pressed my masked lips against her earlobe. I tasted the salt of her skin through the cloth, imagining her flavor coating my tongue directly. Soon. Her head knocked gently into my shoulder with every step, each dull tap marking another moment closer to yielding. Her limbs hung loose, fingers grazing my thigh.

Every third step, I squeezed her tighter, bones pressing into my palm—proof she was real. That I didn't invent her in the dark just to survive it.

That the first person I ever needed to see me wasn't something I made up to feel less alone.

The bed waited in the bedroom, fresh sheets I'd bought earlier stretched over the mattress. She'd insisted on a bigger bed. I wanted a smaller one so I could feel every movement while she slept, so she couldn't escape me even in dreams that weren't mine to enter. Laying her down, she didn't stir, chest rising and falling slowly.

Anticipation coiled tight in my gut as I moved to the bedside. Blood rushed through my veins harder than it had on the motorcycle with her pressed against me, her arms wrapped around my waist. That was nothing compared to this.

I reached for the bouquet I'd placed on the nightstand earlier, plucking a lily free. She'd told me once she loved lilies. It was the perfect flower for our wedding.

She said happiness felt like breathing without pain.

So I’ll rip the ache out with my bare hands and shove love down the hole it leaves behind.

I moved to the dresser. My eyes went to the oversized T-shirt I bought for her for our special day. Taking it out, I shook it, letting it catch the moonlight. Nyla had worn white on her wedding day. I remembered Grim looking at her, his hazel eyes soft with a love I didn't understand then.

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I returned to her. Her breathing remained deep and even, lost to whatever dreams the drug had given her. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm I'd memorized over countless nights watching her.

My fingers worked methodically. The cotton of her shirt whispered as I lifted it. The clasp of her jeans surrendered with a soft click. Her skin prickled with goosebumps as the night air touched her. Her stomach muscles contracted briefly before going slack again.

The oversized white T-shirt slid over her head easily, fabric pooling around her curves. The neckline dipped low, exposing the hollow of her throat. Too large across her shoulders, the sleeves hanging past her elbows. Nothing fancy, nothing special to anyone but me. This would be her wedding dress. Simple. White. Pure in a way she'd never understand.

Her head lolled to the side as I arranged her limbs, adjusting the shirt to cover what I wanted covered. A strand of chestnut hair fell across her face. I brushed it back, carefully tucking it behind her ear. Her skin felt warm beneath my fingertips. Alive. Unaware of what tomorrow would bring.

I stepped back to study her. My perfect fucking bride.

Her eyelids fluttered briefly. She was dreaming of me. Of us. Of the life we would build. Of our family with Summer. She would thank me. She would see that I had given her everything she ever wanted.

Tomorrow she would understand. Tonight, she would become mine.

Forever.

I left her underwear on—a gift I was giving myself. I wanted to peel them off after I had officially claimed her, to unwrap her like the present she was.

My fingers tucked a strand of Oakley's hair behind her ear, the lily I'd taken from her neighbor's garden settling against her temple. The white petals stood stark against her chestnut hair, fragile and pure against skin that would bruise so easily. Oakley said a bride should have flowers in her hair. There should also be something old, something new, something borrowed,

something blue.

The lily was borrowed. The shirt was new. The rings were old. And her bruises from the last time we fucked were blue.

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