Page 200 of Sins of the Hidden

"You even smell like her," he whispered, voice cracking. "They're getting better at this. Better at wearing her skin."

He completed the circle, standing before me again. His free hand rose, hovering near my face without touching. "Prove it's you," he growled, voice scraped raw. "Everyone lies. Everyone wears her face like a mask. You smell like her. Sound like her.Feel like her." His face twisted in agony. "But they always do. Right up until they disappear."

The words flayed me open. How long had he been lost in this maze of his own making? How many times had hope been used as a weapon against him?

I reached for his free hand with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking, my whole body trembling violently. My stomach lurched as I touched the wetness coating his knuckles—split and bleeding, evidence of what he'd done. The texture made me retch again, bile burning my throat. I slowly uncurled his fist, fighting waves of nausea so strong I could barely see. His palm was a map of destruction: cuts from gripping metal too tight, nails bitten down to nothing.

The smell rose between us, thick and choking. Black spots danced across my vision, and I swayed dangerously.

"You're h-hurting yourself," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You're b-bleeding."

"Don't. Don't touch me.” His hand convulsed in mine, trying to pull away. “I'm covered in them. In what I did. You'll get dirty."

The truth of it hit me like a physical blow—he was covered in evidence of slaughter. The metallic scent clung to him, rose from his skin in waves that made my head spin. But I couldn't let go. Wouldn't.

"I'm a-already dirty." I brought his stained hand to my face with trembling fingers, nearly collapsing as the metallic scent hit me full force. I pressed his palm against my cheek despite every cell in my body screaming at me to pull away, to run, to get away from the evidence of slaughter. His warmth smeared against my skin, and I tasted copper on my lips, making me gag. "See? I'm n-not afraid of who you are."

But I was afraid. Terrified. The room kept spinning, and I could barely stay upright.

I pressed my other palm against his chest where his heart slammed against his ribs like something caged and desperate. His skin burned through the fabric, fever-hot with devotion and madness.

I guided his trembling hand to my throat, pressed his fingers—slick with evidence of what he'd done—against the pulse that jumped beneath my skin. "Feel how alive you've kept me."

His breath hitched, but doubt still lived behind his eyes like shadows in an empty house. His hands shook like they were holding ghosts, touching smoke, grasping at dreams that had disappointed him too many times before.

So I reached for his sleeve with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.

He flinched as I pushed the sleeve up his forearm, but he didn't stop me. Scar tissue warped across muscle.My fingers found the names etched into his skin.

Summer. Oakley.

I traced mine first. Letting him feel every letter, every curve, every mark he'd made to anchor himself to something real when reality became quicksand beneath his feet.

"Y-You did this for me," I whispered, my voice cracking like ice over deep water. "You carved me into yourself so even if your mind forgot, your body would remember."

His eyes filled—not with tears, but with something deeper. Recognition. Truth. The slow, terrible dawning of hope. A breath escaped him that sounded like a soul returning from the dead.

"You're real," he choked, and the sound of it shattered every wall I'd ever built around my heart. "You're real."

The bat clattered to the floor with a wet sound that made me flinch.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed hard. His forehead pressed against my stomach as his shoulders began to shake.

"I can't tell what's real anymore," he gasped into my shirt. "In my head, you're always dying. Always screaming. And I can't save you. I can never save you."

I sank down to meet him, my legs finally giving out completely. I collapsed onto glass that bit through my jeans, my hands finding his face despite the metallic scent that rose from his skin and made my vision blur. I was barely conscious, fighting to stay present as waves of nausea and terror crashed over me. My whole body shook as I tilted his head up until he had no choice but to see me.

"Tell me w-what you see," I whispered, my voice shaking.

"You." His voice barely existed. "I just want to see you."

"I'm n-not leaving." I moved closer, until there was no space between us, until the copper scent overwhelmed everything but the need to anchor him to reality. "Feel my h-heart beating. Feel how warm I am. Ghosts don't have heartbeats, V."

His hands came up slowly, trembling as they framed my face with palms still wet from destruction. His thumbs traced my cheekbones like he was memorizing scripture.

"S-Say my name," I whispered. "Say it like you mean it."

"Oakley." The word fell from his lips like a prayer. Like coming home. Like the first breath after drowning.

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