Page 17 of Second Sin

The pain’s dulled now—less sharp, more of a steady pulse that hums beneath the surface. A reminder of everything I couldn’t stop. Everything that still lives in the dark corners of my mind, waiting to jolt me awake the second I let my guard down.

The report’s been filed. Typed out in clinical language that makes it all sound so detached. Two male assailants. Medium build. White. Hooded. I gave them what details I could, even though the memory’s slippery. Just flashes, really. Shapes moving fast. Hands like iron. Rage without a target.

They didn’t need a reason.

Some people just hurt because they can. Because they’ve never been taught to sit with their own pain, so they pass it along like a curse.

And now I carry it.

My wedding ring is probably already sitting in some pawnshop display case.

No one will ask whose finger it used to cling to. Whose vows it used to symbolize. What promises it once held, or how many nights I twisted it around and around, trying to remember who I was before I started breaking in invisible ways.

To them, it’s just gold. Just another transaction. Something to melt down or mark up. A story erased.

But it was mine.

It meant something once. Not just the marriage. The fight to keep going. The hope I kept clinging to long after it stopped making sense.

Now it’s gone.

Still haven’t cried.

But I’m close.

I took a few days off. Told myself it was to rest. To give the bruises time to fade. But truthfully, I just couldn’t walk back into this building and pretend I was fine.

I'm not.

Everything feels…off-kilter. Like I’m floating half a second behind myself.

The session notes on my laptop blur in front of me. Letters swimming, sliding out of focus no matter how many times I blink or rub at my eyes.

I’m supposed to be documenting progress. Behavior patterns. Observations that might help someone feel a little less broken. But I can’t make sense of any of it right now. Can’t hold a single thought long enough to finish a sentence.

My concentration’s shot. And not just because of the attack.

It’s everything.

The empty place on my finger where my ring used to sit. The weight of all the stares—soft, pitying, too careful. Like I might crack wide open if someone breathes too hard in my direction.

And then there’s him.

Sebastian Wilde.

The way he looked at me. The way his hand closed around my wrist like he didn’t even think about it—like it was instinct to steady me, to keep me upright even when I didn’t ask.

He shouldn't matter.

But he does.

And that’s its own kind of problem.

That moment flashes again—uninvited, sharp as a matchstrike in the dark.

The way his thumb moved along the inside of my wrist, slow and deliberate. Not possessive. Not even flirtatious. Just steady. Grounding. Like he thought he could keep me tethered with that one small touch. Like maybe he needed the contact as much as I did.

And I hate that I felt it.

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