Page 21

M y eyes were transfixed on the beast of a man before me. How could they not be? Standing in this run-down building with his muscle tank clinging to his torso, the fabric stretched taut across his broad chest, deliberately covering the area over his heart while exposing his powerful arms. With every breath he took, the bulk shifted beneath the fabric. His thick black hair was pulled back in a tight, messy knot at the back of his head, though rebellious strands had worked free to frame his face and cling to the column of his neck.

V paused for a moment, reaching up to push back a stray lock of hair from his face, the movement causing the cords in his arms to tighten under his skin like something primal and dangerous. When he bent to lift another section of broken furniture, his back flexed with raw power visible where his tank rode up, shoulder blades shifting like tectonic plates beneath his skin. The waistband of his jeans rode low on his hips, revealing a glimpse of skin that disappeared beneath the denim. My mouth went dry at the sight of him, at the way his forearms corded with thick veins as his hands—God, those massive hands—splintered wood as easily as paper. Each movement was precise yet savage, like a predator disguised in human skin. I couldn't look away from him if I tried.

Over the past hour, I'd offered—more than once—to help with the bigger pieces of furniture. Each time, V shut me down with nothing more than a grunt or a glare. Now he was ripping a table apart with his bare hands, knuckles white, biceps bulging with each vicious pull. When he twisted to toss a broken chair leg aside, his abdomen tightened, carved lines catching the light.

There was no AC in here; the low sun sent waves of heat through the glass, turning the room into an oven. Not to mention V making my skin prickle from looking like he did right now. I cursed the layers he made me wear—gloves, heavy boots, all in case a rogue shard of glass decided to take me out mid-step.

Everything stuck. Everything itched. And of course, he wasn't sweating. The sweat pooling under my breasts, the rubbing of the wire on my bra was torture. My bra, my shirt, my skin—it all felt like a curse. My fingers itched to do my usual trick—tucking my shirt under my boobs to stop the suffocating cling—but I couldn't do that here. Not in front of V. That was something I never wanted to explain to anyone.

I had researched CIPA after learning about V's condition. The articles online explained it was hereditary and extremely dangerous. Most people with CIPA didn't live past twenty-five, and V had already made it to twenty-six.

"So with CIPA, the life expectancy is pretty short," I said. "How do you keep it under control?" Without looking away from his task, he answered, hands flexing by his sides.

"Prez checked in on me." I blinked, startled. He turned his huge body back to the wooden table he had eviscerated moments ago. Picking up large planks of wood.

"But what if your appendix bursts or something? You wouldn't feel it and you'd…" Before that word left my lips, he had answered me.

"Hex took it out." My stomach dropped. He didn't mean Hex, like, surgically... did he?

"He…He just took out an organ?" He didn't respond as he continued to throw the wooden slats in a pile. "Has he taken anything else out?" A stupid question, but I knew there would be more to this, anything involving V had more to it. I just had to dig to get the information I needed.

"Took out everything I don't need." How had he just let someone take away vital body parts?

"You just…let him?"

He shrugged like taking out organs was a normal thing to do, then went back to work as I stared at him, stunned. My mind wandered, watching him, the mystery of what lay beneath the fabric that he so carefully kept in place. He was in so many ways still an enigma to me. For all the time we'd spent together, I barely knew anything about him at all. Each tiny revelation felt like finding a single puzzle piece without knowing what the full picture was supposed to be.

I found myself wondering about his past, the years before Souls. He'd mentioned joining when he was fifteen, but what about before? Who were his parents? What had shaped him into a man who lived for killing? The more I learned about V, the more questions I had.

I bent down to pick up some of the smaller pieces that V had overlooked, stretching my arm under a partially collapsed section of furniture. A stray nail caught on my glove as I reached for a piece of broken chair. The sudden sting made me wince, and I pulled back to see red blooming through the fabric where the glove had torn around my ring finger. It wasn't serious, just a surface scratch, but I quickly tucked my hand away. I had no idea how V would react to seeing me injured. Would he ignore it completely? Or would it trigger something in him I wasn't ready to deal with? Either way, I didn't want to find out over a tiny cut.

V's heavy footsteps approached, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He stopped a few feet away, his shadow falling over me as I remained frozen in place.

"You stopped," he observed, his deep voice cutting through the dust-filled air.

"It's really hot in here. I was thinking about your condition—you can't feel the heat or sweat. I just wanted to make sure you're okay." I winced inwardly at my clumsy concern, knowing he could actually overheat without realizing it.

"I'm not scared of dying." The flat, emotionless way he said it sent a chill down my spine despite the suffocating heat. His eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking and unnervingly calm about his own mortality.

His casual disregard for his life hit me like a slap. I shouldn't have been surprised—he couldn't feel pain, so maybe death was just another sensation that didn't register for him. What unsettled me more was my own reaction: the thought of him suddenly not being around anymore made my stomach drop. I wasn't ready to figure out why that bothered me so much.

I cleared my throat, needing to change the subject. "The forecast says tomorrow will be cooler, so we can do a lot more then."

"Painting?" He asked, his tone shifting back to business as if we hadn't just discussed his mortality.

"Oh, I have the perfect colors!" Clapping my hands together, I spun, already picturing it all—each wall, each tile. "I was thinking of a mocha color for the walls? And eggshell colored tiled floors. Make it warm and inviting." Standing there, imagining the finished bakery, I felt a wave of disbelief. This was really happening. V had somehow taken my whispered dreams and transformed them into this concrete reality we were building together.

Gazing over to him, he stood frozen, glaring at me. "S-Sorry I?—"

"Smile again." He said it like a command, not a request.

I laughed softly. He was weirdly obsessed with that lately—like he was studying it. So I did as he asked and let the grin surface. His eyes locked on my face, intense and searching. He took a step closer, his massive frame towering over me, casting me in shadow. My breath caught in my throat as he raised his hand slowly, deliberately.

His calloused thumb pressed gently against my bottom lip, the unexpected spark sending heat through me. I froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. The pad of his thumb was rough, dragging against the sensitive skin of my lip with a friction that made my pulse stutter.

"What does it mean," he asked quietly, "when you smile?" His thumb traced the curve of my lip, his eyes following the movement with fascination.

My heart hammered against my ribs. How do you explain joy to someone who doesn't even feel pain? How could I describe the warmth spreading through my chest whenever he was near?

"It means I'm happy," I whispered against his thumb. "About the bakery. About..." I swallowed hard. "About being here with you."

Something flickered in his eyes—confusion, maybe curiosity. Or maybe something darker. His hand dropped to his side, but he didn't move away. I wondered if anyone had ever said that to him before.

As he turned to collect the next piece of furniture, I winced again at the stinging cut on my finger. The glove had torn through, a thin line slipping across my palm. I tried to wipe it away fast, but V caught the movement.

In an instant, he was before me, his massive hand closing around my wrist with surprising gentleness. His hold was firm but careful, as if he was consciously holding back his strength.

"You're bleeding," he said, low and flat—but something in his voice made my heart stutter.

"It's nothing. Just a scratch from a nail," I tried to pull away, but his hand tensed around mine.

"Show me." It wasn't a request.

I uncurled my fingers, revealing the small cut. It wasn't deep, but a vivid streak marked my hand. V stared at it with an odd, intense expression. His eyes seemed to darken as they fixed on the wound, pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the iris. His breathing changed—became deeper, more deliberate.

"V?" I whispered, suddenly nervous.

He didn't respond. Instead, he brought my hand closer to his face, examining the cut with an almost indifference that somehow felt more intimate than a caress. His thumb hovered just millimeters from the wound, not connecting with my skin but close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him like standing too close to a flame.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice rougher than before.

"A little," I admitted.

Something flickered across his face—curiosity, fascination, maybe even envy. His eyes remained fixed on the wound, watching as another drop welled and began to trail down my finger. Before it could fall, his thumb finally pressed against my skin, stopping its descent. The pressure didn't hurt, but it shot a line of fire up my arm.

"You feel everything," he said, his voice barely audible.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. His eyes lifted from my finger to meet mine, and what I saw there made my breath catch. Something in his eyes made me shiver, something dark and wanting that I couldn't name.

V's jaw tightened as he looked at my finger.

"We're done for today," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"L-Lets go home." There I went again—calling my apartment our home.

He grabbed his long-sleeved shirt and a chunk of the dismantled countertop, not bothering to put the shirt on. He'd cleared out more than I expected today. I barely did anything—he wouldn't let me help.

The ride back to my apartment was silent, filled with an unfamiliar tension. My hand still buzzed where he'd grabbed me, and I couldn't stop thinking about his reaction to my injury—both fascinating and unsettling.

Back at the apartment, I could feel the grime and sweat from the day clinging to my skin. V followed me inside, in just his tight tank top, dust and sweat making tracks down the sculpted planes of his torso.

"I need a bath," I said, then glanced at his dirt-streaked chest. Words stuck in my throat as I tried to figure out how to ask without sounding ridiculous. "You're...um, you're pretty filthy too."

V looked down at himself, seemingly noticing the grime for the first time.

"There are places you probably can't reach properly," I blurted out, my heart racing. I forced myself to meet his eyes. "On your back."

God, that sounded stupid even to my ears. But V just stared at me, his expression unreadable.

"I could help," I added, my voice barely above a whisper. "In the bath. We could... I mean... together. I-If you wanted?" If he said no, I wasn't sure I'd survive the humiliation. My face was burning now, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. Why couldn't I just say what I really wanted?

V took a step closer. "Together?"

I couldn't speak. My throat had closed up completely. All I could manage was a quick, jerky nod.

V's calloused fingers closed around my wrist. His hold seared through me like a brand. One moment I was standing there, the next I was being pulled forward, my feet barely grazing the floor as he marched us both toward the bathroom. My heartbeat thundered in my throat. The apartment blurred around me. Locked fingers. Warm skin like it was heated by a furnace. His bare arm skimming mine with a static hum. No escape, no time to think.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up—breath stuttering, pulse pounding, stomach knotting with raw nerves as the bathroom door clicked shut behind us.