Page 184 of Sins of the Hidden

The four years since Anne's death reshaped me entirely. I finished school from home, watched Anne's parents' marriage collapse under the weight of their grief, and spent countless nights jumping at shadows.

V didn't move. Not even to blink. His large arms kept me pressed against the solid wall of his chest. His body ran unnaturally cool, like he existed in a permanent winter that even his leather cut couldn't warm. The black surgical mask that never left his face brushed against my temple as he held me.

When I finished speaking, a heavy silence filled the room. Then, one simple question: "Were you going to do it?"

"... I was," hesitating before I whispered. It was the first time I'd admitted it aloud. "I just couldn't do that to my parents. After watching what happened to Anne's mom..."

V's hands moved from around my waist to my shoulders, turning me to face him. His dark eyes, black as a starless night, bored into mine. People called those eyes empty, soulless, but I recognized the emptiness. It was the same kind I'd carried since that night in the barn.

"If you ever think of leaving me," his voice dropped, raw and dangerous, "death won't stop me from bringing you back."

I almost pulled away. My first instinct was to run—happiness felt like betrayal to Anne's memory.

Until V.

We were both damaged. Both capable of hurting each other in ways we couldn't always recognize. I still flinched sometimes when he moved too quickly. He still watched me like I mightdisappear if he blinked. Some nights, I still dreamed of running away from him.

But tonight, telling him about Anne felt like the first honest choice I'd made in years—a door I'd opened willingly, without his hand forcing mine.

I sat there in his lap, tears streaming down my face. Without warning, his fingers moved to his mask, pulling it down just enough to expose his lips. He still wore the mask, but he'd reached a point where he refused to kiss me with that barrier between us anymore.

He leaned toward me, and I flinched. Not from him—from the idea of being touched. Four years of my body bracing for harm instead of comfort. I hated that instinct, hated that even with V, my first response was fear.

He paused, observing my hesitation, then pressed his lips gently against my forehead. Our noses brushed as my head tilted back slightly. My body—the one I'd spent years hiding in oversized clothes, the one I'd punished for surviving when Anne didn't—responded to him in ways I never thought possible. His breath warmed my skin. My body responded before my mind could catch up. I remained still as he pressed his lips to mine.

A quiet hum vibrated from his chest. He tilted his head slightly as I parted my lips, his tongue stroking softly against mine. His fingers tangled in my hair, thumb brushing my cheek as he kissed me with unexpected gentleness. I dissolved against him, more tears falling—for Anne, for the girl I used to be, for all the years spent feeling unworthy of touch.

Sometimes I caught myself counting CPR beats when I was anxious. One-two-three-four. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I tasted tears.

I thought healing would feel like joy. It didn't. It felt like betrayal. Like standing in sunlight and wishing it would rain.But if Anne's ghost was still in that room, I hoped she saw what I was trying to become. Not healed. Just still here.

V had shown me exactly who he was—a killer, a monster, a man who lived by his own brutal code. He'd never once lied about what he was. And in return, I'd finally told him my truth, the secret I'd kept buried for four years.

Now I knew what I had to do.

Not to forget. Not to let go. But to live—quietly, fully, carrying Anne with me in ways that honored her memory instead of drowning in it. To bake cakes that made people happy. To find moments of joy without guilt.

Anne's story ended before it should have.

Mine didn't—and I owed her every painful, beautiful moment I had left.

One-two-three-four.Breathe.

One-two-three-four.Live.

V's motorcycle rumbled to a stop in front of my parents' house. Before the engine died completely, the front door swung open. Dad rushed down the porch steps, face lined with worry I hadn't seen before. Mom remained framed in the doorway, fingers clutching the frame, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

I stayed rooted beside the motorcycle, unable to move forward. My chest tightened with each shallow breath. V dismounted first, then placed his hand against the small of my back. The pressure was firm, insistent. I stared at the fifteen feet between us and my parents—a distance that felt impossible to cross. I'd avoided this moment for days.

V positioned himself slightly behind me, his eyes locking with mine when I glanced back at him. His hand remained on the small of my back as I took the first step forward. I twisted my fingers together at my waist, unable to keep them still. "C-Can we talk?"

Dad froze at the bottom of the steps, just staring at me. Relief and fear battled across his features. Then he closed the distancein three quick strides and pulled me into his arms, nearly lifting me off the ground. "Come inside," he murmured roughly against my hair, one arm staying around my shoulders as he guided me toward the house.

The path to the front door stretched endlessly. Each step felt heavier than the last. Mom straightened in the doorway as we approached, her eyes never leaving mine. She stepped aside to let us enter, her hand briefly touching my arm as I passed.

We moved through the entryway into the living room. The familiar surroundings felt strange now. Family photos lined the hallway walls—snapshots of birthday parties, graduations, holidays—moments from a life I was now questioning. Was anything in those smiling images real? Was any of it true?

Dad settled onto the couch first, patting the cushion beside him. Mom took the loveseat across from us. V remained standing, positioning himself against the far wall where he could see everyone.

---