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" H e doesn't deserve her forgiveness." I hugged my knees tighter against my chest. On screen, the male lead knelt, begging the heroine to take him back after dating her on a bet. His face crumpled with practiced remorse that never touched his eyes.

Mom's weight shifted beside me, the couch cushions dipping. Blue light from the television washed across her face, catching in the silver strands threading through her chestnut hair. She reached for the remote, freezing the man mid-plea. "Forgiveness isn't always about whether someone deserves it. Sometimes it's about what keeping that poison does to you."

I curled tighter into the corner of the couch, Mom's lavender perfume sinking into my throat, heavy and suffocating—an overdose of childhood comfort. My tongue felt thick, weighed by everything I couldn't say about V. The drugging. The wedding. The basement with its crematorium gaping open like hell's mouth.

"How can you forgive someone like that?" The question burned up my throat, carrying fragments of memory I couldn't shake—waking with that ring seared onto my flesh.

Something fractured in Mom's expression—a splinter of glass beneath her skin, revealing an abyss of old wounds I'd never been allowed to see. Her eyes hardened with a coldness that felt foreign on her face, transforming her into someone I barely recognized.

"The hardest lesson I ever learned was that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." Her fingers found mine. The television light caught in her eyes, turning them to wet glass as she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You can't always stop the pain. But you choose what it turns you into."

I leaned into her touch, craving a comfort I'd outgrown but needed desperately. For a moment, I was six again—small and hurting, believing Mom's hands could heal anything. But childhood remedies couldn't touch the bruises V had left beneath my skin.

"How do you always know the right thing to say?"

Mom's throat bobbed with a swallow that looked painful. Her smile thinned. "Because I'm living with a sin I should've confessed long ago."

"Wha—"

Tires crunched on the gravel outside, the sound slicing through the moment. Headlights swept across the living room in harsh white bands. Mom jumped up, moving toward the window. Unease trickled through my nerves. "They weren't supposed to be back until morning."

A car door slammed. Voices filtered through—my father's tense commands and another that drawled with casual disregard. Then silence, heavy as a held breath. Boots scraped against concrete. Mom yanked open the door before they could knock, her body going rigid. "What happened?"

My lungs seized, air turning solid in my chest.

V hung suspended between Dad and someone else, yet even injured, his massive frame seemed to resist their support—muscles taut and straining against unwanted help. Bandages wrapped his torso beneath his ripped shirt, the copper stench of dried blood still clinging to him, hitting my nostrils and curling on my tongue. His head lifted, black hair falling haphazardly across his face. "Oh my God..."

"Jesus Christ, I ain't your damn crutch," a familiar voice muttered, shouldering more of V's weight as they struggled through the doorway. "Next time get yourself stabbed somewhere with an elevator."

V wrenched away from their support, a snarl tearing through clenched teeth as he tried to stand alone. His legs buckled, but even as he faltered, one hand shot out to steady himself against the wall rather than accept their help again.

The second man stepped into the entryway light, and recognition cut through my shock. "C-Chet?"

"Heya, sweetheart." His smile was tight, nothing like his usual easy grin. Dried blood stained his shirt in dark patches, evidence of what they'd been through. Chet's eyes darted to V, then back to me, something unreadable flickering in their depths before he turned away to wash his hands in the sink.

I stepped forward, drawn by something I couldn't name. V's eyes locked onto me instantly, eyes foggy like the night he drugged himself. Even wounded, his attention felt like hands on my skin. I reached out without thinking, fingers pressing against his bandaged chest.

He didn't flinch. Didn't react to pain at all. But his breathing changed—a sharp inhale that had nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with my touch.

"What were you thinking?" My voice cracked, anger and fear and something darker tangling in my chest. "You could have—" The words died as my fingertips pressed against the thick bandages. He was patched up but still damaged beneath. The thought sent my mind spinning. He could be hurt. He could die.

"Can't feel it." His words slurred at the edges, consonants blunted. "'M fine."

"You're not fine." I wanted to scream it, but the words came out broken.

"He'll live." Dad wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, leaving crimson ghosts on the fabric. His eyes never left V, something unnerving in their intensity. "Hex and Nyla patched him up."

"And pumped him full of antibiotics and sleep meds," Chet added, tapping orange prescription bottles before setting them on the counter with a hard click. "He fought the meds. Took twice the normal dose to slow him down." Of course he did.

"Never thought I'd be hauling around the boogeyman with a hole in his side," Chet muttered, rolling his shoulders with a wince. He glanced at V, something like grudging respect crossing his features. "Most men would've been crying for their mothers with those injuries."

"W-What happened?" The question slipped out, though I knew I'd get lies in return.

"We can't tell ya, sweetheart." Dad's shoulders bunched tight beneath his cut. He kept looking at V, then away, jaw working beneath his skin like he was grinding his teeth to powder. Dad cleared his throat, gaze settling on me. "I'll check on him in the morning."

The lack of venom struck me hard—where was the usual disgust? The snide comments about V being unfit to breathe the same air as me? Instead, his voice carried an edge of... respect?

"You should stay here," Mom interjected, stepping forward with a washcloth in hand, already moving to clean blood from V's face. "We can make up the guest?—"

V's hand shot up with startling speed, catching Mom's wrist before she could touch him. His grip wasn't hard, but the message was clear—don't touch him. Not even my mother. He released her instantly as he swayed on his feet.

Silence stretched between us, interrupted only by the soft tick of the kitchen clock and my uneven breathing. V's eyes found mine through the tangle of his hair. "Home."

Dad's breath hissed through his teeth, face hardening. For a moment, I thought he'd object—that the familiar battle lines would reappear between them. Instead, he glanced at me with an expression I couldn't decipher, then at V, lingering on the visible injuries. Something passed across his face. "Oak, are you sure?—"

"I-It's fine." The words spilled out automatically. I wasn't sure who I was convincing—Dad or myself. "He'll rest better there."

Mom touched my arm, her fingers pressing deeper than necessary. Something lurked in her eyes—a warning, maybe, or a question she couldn't voice with the others present. "I'll be over in the morning and make a big breakfast for him," she said softly, her eyes drifting to V. "And we'll do what he enjoys..." she smiled, a knowing look passing between us. "Just being with you."

Dad looked between V and me, internal conflict visible in the tightening around his eyes, the way one hand kept clenching and unclenching at his side. "I can take you both home," he offered, keys already in hand.

"I'll drive them." Chet pushed away from the counter, setting down his glass with a sharp click. His usual easy demeanor had hardened into something else—focused, alert. "Route's on my way home."

Dad's entire body stiffened, muscles coiling beneath his cut. His eyes drilled into Chet with the kind of scrutiny I'd only seen him use on potential threats.

"You sure?" Dad's voice dropped an octave, weighted with threat. He gave up that quickly?

"Scout's honor." He raised three fingers in mock salute.

Dad's jaw worked, a vein pulsing in his temple. He shot a glance at V, who stood unsteadily but with eyes still fixed on me. Dad's shoulders dropped a fraction, decision visibly made. "Straight there. No stops."

Chet rolled his eyes. "You wanna put a tracker in my ass to make sure?"

But beneath the flippant response, something else passed between the two men—a current of understanding I'd never witnessed before. The hair on my arms rose. Dad was trusting Chet—someone other than him and V—with my safety.

"I've got her, Trevor." Chet's voice shed its sarcasm, replaced with something that sounded like a vow. "You have my word."

Dad nodded once, the movement sharp enough to hurt my own neck. "Call me when you get there."

"Will do." Chet's hand found V's shoulder, not quite touching.

As we headed for the door, I caught the look that passed between Dad and Chet—not just understanding, but a passing of responsibility. Dad's hand gripped Chet's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Take care of them both."

Chet's nod was almost imperceptible.

The night swallowed us as we stepped off the porch, V's weight a constant presence against my side.

His face tipped toward my neck, inhaling deeply despite the pain it must have caused him. Even now—broken, bleeding, barely conscious—he sought comfort in my scent.

I'd grown used to him appearing from shadows, invincible and unyielding. Tonight, reality revealed a painful truth: he was mortal.

And I wasn't ready to lose him.

T he drive was mostly silent. I sat in the back with V, his massive frame taking up more than his share of the seat. His body radiated heat that I could feel through my clothes, but the cold intensity of his eyes remained unchanged. His hand found mine, fingers curling around my smaller ones with possessive certainty.

When we arrived at our building, Chet helped V from the car, though "helped" wasn't the right word. V barely tolerated the support, his body rigid with rejection. He couldn't feel the damage he was doing to himself with each stubborn step, risking tearing open his freshly stitched wounds.

"Ease up, big guy," Chet muttered as they navigated the porch stairs. "Your body doesn't know it's hurt, but those stitches can still tear. Oakley, get the door please."

V's weight shifted unexpectedly, nearly sending both men stumbling. Chet grunted, readjusting his grip. "Son of a bitch, lose some weight would ya?"

I hurried ahead, unlocking the apartment and flipping on lights. The familiar space felt strange tonight, the shadows deeper, the air heavier with the scent of V's blood and something medicinal—antiseptic, maybe, or whatever Hex had used to clean his wounds.

Inside, we guided V down the hall to the bedroom. He sank onto the mattress, eyes growing heavy but still fixed on me. I helped him lie back, careful of his bandaged torso as I arranged the pillows. The black mask still covered the lower half of his face, a stark contrast against his unusually pale skin.

"You can't feel it, but that doesn't mean you aren't hurt. Your body is still—" I cut myself off, breath catching. "You could have died tonight," I choked, panic clawing up my throat. "You wouldn't have even known until it was too late."

His eyes stayed fixed on mine, that intensity never wavering even as the sedatives continued to take hold. The black depths of his pupils seemed to expand, consuming the thin ring of gray around them. His massive frame sank deeper into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders gradually melting away. He fought it. I could see the struggle as his eyelids grew heavy, then half-closed, then flickered with the effort to stay open. His fingers found mine, squeezing once with surprising gentleness before his hand went slack. His breathing deepened, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as the medication finally dragged him under. The mask covering the lower half of his face shifted slightly with each exhale, the only movement in his otherwise still form.

For a moment, I just watched him, his features softened in a way I'd never seen before.

I pulled the blanket up over V's chest, tucking it around him with more tenderness than I wanted to admit to feeling. I couldn't help thinking about Dad's strange behavior tonight—the way he'd looked at V, the absence of his usual contempt. Whatever had happened between them had changed something fundamental, and the thought unsettled me.

"He almost looks harmless sleeping like that," Chet noted wryly. "You know, if you ignore literally everything else about him."

I lingered a moment longer, making sure V was comfortable, then followed Chet back into the living room, gently closing the bedroom door behind me. My body suddenly felt ten times heavier, the adrenaline of the evening crashing all at once.

I sank onto the couch, exhaustion washing over me in waves. Chet settled into the armchair across from me, his usual carefree demeanor edged with something harder, more calculating. The air between us felt thick with unspoken truths, heavier than the metallic scent of V's blood still clinging to both of us.

His eyes tracked to my trembling hands. Without a word, he got up and returned with a glass of water, offering it to me without comment. I took it, my fingers trembling slightly around the cool glass as I tried to pull myself together. He also grabbed a cherry cupcake I'd baked for Daphne's weekly visit.

"Chet," I began hesitantly, the question that had been burning inside me all night finally finding its way to my lips. "C-Can I ask you something?"

He looked up, licking frosting from his thumb. "Shoot."

I twisted my hands in my lap, fingers restlessly interlacing as I gathered my thoughts. "How do you forgive someone who doesn't know how to be sorry? Who doesn't understand why what they did was wrong?"

Chet's expression shifted, the usual mischief in his eyes replaced by something darker, more calculating. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and I suddenly felt the weight of his full attention—something I realized he rarely gave anyone.

"This about him?" he asked, jerking his head toward the bedroom where V lay.

"He doesn't understand why certain things are wrong," I said carefully, my voice barely audible. "In his mind, he's... protecting me."

"That man in there," Chet said, his voice dropping to match my whisper, "is broken in ways that can't be fixed. The wiring's all wrong. He's not missing pieces—he never had them to begin with."

"That doesn't excuse what he did." Disgust coiled in my stomach as I remembered waking up married with no memory of the ceremony. And it wasn't just V—it was Mitchell and two others. I had no idea who else watched V violate my trust.

"No, it doesn't," Chet agreed, surprising me. "Nothing excuses it." He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on something distant. When he spoke again, his voice carried an edge I'd never heard before. "But I know something about living with choices you can't take back."

I stared at him, seeing for the first time the carefully constructed layers to the man I thought was just Daphne's easy-going boyfriend.

"You ever wonder why a man chooses to dig graves?" He asked, a strange smile playing at his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Nobody asks questions when you show up with a shovel and dirt on your hands."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, something cold flashing across his face before he silenced it with a precise, controlled movement.

"Listen to me," he continued, voice dropping lower. "Forgiveness isn't about the other person. It's about you." He pointed at my chest, the gesture somehow more threatening than comforting. "You can keep carrying the weight of what he did, or you can set it down. Doesn't mean you forget. Doesn't mean you let him do it again."

Something in his words cracked open a door I'd been keeping shut. My teeth scraped my lower lip until I nearly broke skin, the threat of pain somehow grounding. My hands trembled as I wrapped my arms around myself.

"I'm terrified," I whispered, the confession burning my throat. "Not just of him. Of myself. Of what it means that part of me feels safer with him in my bed than I do alone."

Chet didn't look disgusted. He just nodded slowly, something knowing in his weathered features. "The heart recognizes what it needs, even when the mind rebels against it." His voice carried no judgment. "You can hate what someone did and still need what they are."

"He's a killer," I said, the words falling between us like stones.

"Yeah," he leaned forward, eyes serious. "But he doesn't pretend to be anything else." His eyes studied me with uncomfortable intensity. "Whatever happened to you, Oakley—that wasn't your fault."

I froze, breath catching. "I never said?—"

"You didn't have to," he said quietly. "That kind of damage leaves marks. I know what it looks like when someone's been shattered and put themselves back together wrong."

Tears slid silently down my face as the weight of a secret I'd carried for years suddenly lightened. "I couldn't..."

"I know," Chet's voice carried none of its usual humor. "He makes you feel safe because no one can hurt you when death itself is holding your hand." His phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. He checked it with a frown. "I need to go."

He stood, gathering his jacket. I noticed a small braided bracelet on his wrist. He caught me looking and his expression changed in a way I couldn't read.

"I've got two reasons that taught me carrying that kind of weight only destroys you in the end." His fingers brushed over the bracelet almost protectively.

"Chet?" He stopped without turning fully. "Thank you. For tonight. And for..." A dry swallow past a lump in my throat. "Saving him."

He gave me a strange look. "Lock the door behind me."

The apartment fell into silence after the door closed behind him. I locked it, leaning against the wood for a moment, trying to process everything that had happened. My conversation with Mom felt like days ago instead of hours, her words about forgiveness echoing strangely with Chet's advice.

I moved through the apartment, turning off lights, gathering stray wrappers from Chet's cupcake binge. Simple, normal tasks that felt surreal after the night's revelations. The clock on the wall showed it was nearly two AM. Exhaustion dragged at my limbs, but my mind wouldn't quiet.

After a final check of the locks, I headed toward the bedroom to check on V. The hallway stretched dark before me, the only light coming from the city glow through the living room windows. I was halfway down the hall when a shadow shifted at the edge of my vision.

I spun around, heart leaping into my throat.

V stood in the bedroom doorway—not leaning for support but braced like a predator ready to spring despite his injuries. His massive frame blocked the entire space, the bandages stark white against his skin, slightly askew from his movements but still holding firm. The black mask remained fixed over the lower half of his face, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made my heart stutter. The sedatives Hex had given him should have rendered him unconscious, yet here he stood, watching me with a focus that felt like physical contact.

"V," I breathed, frozen in place. "You're supposed to be?—"

V's head tilted slightly, that familiar gesture that somehow conveyed more than words. "Sleeping pills don't work." His voice was rough, dragging over each syllable. "Not anymore."

My stomach twisted at the implication. "What do you mean 'not anymore'? Have you taken sleeping pills before?"

He just stared, neither confirming nor denying, but the answer was written in his silence. I wondered how many nights he'd spent in darkness, unable to escape into sleep when the rest of the world did. Another piece of him I'd never considered—insomnia without the mercy of exhaustion to end it.

I took a step forward, then hesitated. Even injured, there was something deeply dangerous about approaching him like this. His fingers flexed at his sides, muscles tensing beneath the clean bandages. He wouldn't feel if his stitches tore.

He didn't move, eyes tracking my approach. Only when I was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body did he shift, allowing me past but immediately following, almost herding me toward the bed.

He sank onto the mattress with a controlled movement that betrayed no discomfort, his CIPA making him indifferent to injuries that would have others writhing in agony. I pulled the covers over him, and his hand shot out, fingers encircling my wrist with surprising strength.

"Stay."

I pulled my wrist free, taking a step back. "I need a minute."

I retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. My reflection caught my eye from the mirror—a stranger wearing my face, haunted by everything that had happened tonight. Chet's words echoed, cutting through the static in my mind. About forgiveness being for me, not for V. About monsters who show their teeth being less dangerous than those who hide them.

Disgust churned in my stomach as I stared at my reflection. The thought that should have comforted me—seeing him vulnerable, knowing he was mortal after all—only twisted the knot in my chest tighter.

The truth burned—that something in me was broken beyond repair. Something that recognized V's darkness and hungered for it. Not despite what he was but because of it. Because in his ruin, I found a terrible reflection of my own damage. Because sometimes the devil you knew felt safer than the demons you'd been running from all along.

I stripped off my shirt with shaking hands, letting it fall to the floor in a heap that looked too much like a body. Under the harsh bathroom light, I examined my skin—across my collarbone, along my arms, at my wrist where his fingers had circled.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, the silence of the apartment pressed against my skin like a physical weight. Every shadow seemed to reach for me with grasping fingers, every creak of the floorboards under my feet an accusation.

I moved toward the bedroom, steps faltering as I approached the door. Through the gap, I could see V's massive frame spread across the bed. His chest rose and fell in a way that seemed too deliberate for sleep.

The sight of him there—in my bed, in my life, in my soul—should have revolted me. I should have found the strength to cut away this poison that was slowly consuming me whole.

Instead, I crossed the threshold, drawn by something darker than fear and more powerful than disgust. I slid beneath the covers, careful not to disturb his bandages, though I suspected he wasn't really sleeping at all.

His arm moved, wrapping around my waist and drawing me against his side. His body radiated heat, a stark contrast to the coldness I'd always sensed beneath his skin. The weight of his arm should have felt like a prison sentence, but instead it anchored me to the present moment—keeping me from drowning in the darkness swirling inside my mind.

His fingers flexed against my hip, digging in slightly. And in that moment, I realized something that should have destroyed me—I was exactly where I belonged. Not because he deserved forgiveness. Not because I'd found peace. Because I wasn't looking for peace. I was looking for someone who'd never ask me to be whole.

The thought should have shattered what remained of my humanity. Instead, it felt like finally admitting a truth I'd been drowning in all along.