Page 164 of Sins of the Hidden

In one fluid motion, he sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. Despite his injuries, he moved with unnerving grace, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He extended his hand to me—not grabbing, just offering. An invitation that felt more dangerous than any threat.

I hesitated only a moment before placing my palm against his. He pulled me upright with effortless strength, the mattress shifting beneath us as my weight transferred. My bare feet touched the cold floor as he guided me to stand.

With measured steps, he led me across the room toward the shattered mirror, his hand maintaining its grip on mine. The floorboards creaked beneath our weight, each step bringing us closer to our broken reflections. When we reached the dresser, he positioned me directly in front of the glass, his body a wall of heat at my back.

The fractured mirror transformed us into something unrecognizable yet undeniable. Cracks spiderwebbed across our reflection, severing my eyes from my mouth, his hands from his arms. Where the lines intersected, we became a kaleidoscope of broken pieces forming a new whole.

Heat pulsed from his body as he moved closer, the space between us vanishing with each breath. One arm circled my waist while his mouth hovered at my neck, each exhale ghosting against my skin.

"Tell me to stop." The hand at my waist slipped beneath my shirt, palm branding my stomach as his fingers spread wide. "Don't let me hurt you again."

My body arched instinctively, pressing back into him before my mind caught up. "Since when do you ask permission?"

His fingers dug into my skin—not enough to bruise but enough to remind me who controlled this moment. Against my spine, his heartbeat remained a steady drum while mine raced thunderously. Nothing soft existed in his grip, just as nothing soft existed in him. "Since I took away your smile." His voice sliced through darkness, no emotion softening its edge. "I ruined the only thing I ever fucking wanted."

My breath hitched, throat constricting. Everything he'd taken—my freedom, joy, choice—crushed against my ribs heavier than any physical weight. And now he offered something broken in return, a monstrous type of gift.

In the mirror, my mouth betrayed me first—the slight upward curve at one corner. Not my old smile, but something new rising from its ashes.

My knees weakened. Blood roared in my ears. Not fear of him but of myself—of surrender. What happened if I willingly stepped into this darkness? If he broke me again, would anything remain to rebuild? He'd already taken everything that night: my name, choice, light. Yet now, without warning, he returned the one thing I never expected: power. My ability to say yes.

I turned in his arms, fluid and sudden, my body making decisions my mind still questioned. We stood chest to chest, his rhythm steady against my racing pulse.

"I want this," my voice steadier than I felt.

His eyes tracked over my face, dissecting each microexpression with cold intensity. "You're safe," he promised, masked lips pressing against the curve where my neck metshoulder. The fabric barrier only heightened the contact. Fingers found my shirt hem, curling into the material with restrained purpose. Not taking. Asking. I raised my arms in silent consent, the fabric sliding upward, catching briefly before exposing me to the night air. Goosebumps raced across my naked skin, nipples pebbling under his unwavering stare.

"Am I?" I challenged, voice wavering between defiance and surrender.

His fingertips began a deliberate journey from my throat to collarbone, mapping bone and sinew beneath skin like he was memorizing topography. His touch created electric currents wherever it landed, my body responding despite my lingering doubts.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. Before I could respond, his hands gripped my shoulders firmly and spun me to face the mirror. My bare feet pivoted against the cold floor as he physically rotated my body, his strength making the movement effortless. He positioned himself directly behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he adjusted my stance. "Watch."

The webbed glass sectioned us into something surreal—my half-naked body split along jagged lines, his towering presence behind me both separate and connected. He moved, palms skating from shoulders down arms before claiming my waist. Each motion was exact, controlled, like handling something volatile yet precious.

He pressed masked lips between my shoulder blades. Fingers unhooked my bra, fabric falling onto the floor. "Do you see what I see?"

I crossed my arms instinctively. Tried to hide from the reflection. From him. From myself. My figure divided by the cracks—stretch-marked stomach, breasts heavier than I wanted, thighs that met in the middle.

"S-Stop," I twisted away. "Don't make me look."

His body blocked movement. Not forcing. Just present. "Why?"

"Because I know what I am." Years of doctor's visits and dressing rooms crashed through me all at once. "I'm not made for someone like you to want."

Palms claimed my breasts. Thumbs circled my sensitive peaks. "You are. I never knew beautiful until I saw you."

I laughed, but it came out as a sob. "Don't lie to me."

"I don't lie." His gaze locked with mine in the glass. "Not to you."

My eyes searched for mockery. For pity. For disgust. But I found only hunger. His exploration continued downward. Thumbs trailed over silvery lines I'd spent years concealing.

"These," he murmured, mapping their paths across my stomach. "Evidence you survived."

His palm curved around my belly. Not forcing it flat. Not hiding it. Just accepting.

Tears came hot and sudden. For the first time, I believed maybe I wasn't wrong to want to be seen.

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