Page 34 of Hidden

Control. Always control.

Even when you have none.

I moved between them again, adjusting hands, tilting chins, repositioning bodies like they were mannequins instead of people.

“Hands matter,” I said. “Keep them visible. Soft. Not clenched. These men are always looking for danger. For trouble. Don’t give them any reason to think you’re inviting those things in.”

One girl’s fingers were trembling, and I stilled them gently, shaking my head at her.

“They don’t like shaking,” I murmured. “It makes them think you’ll break.”

And if they think you’ll break… they push until you do.

I stepped back before I could think about that too much.

“Walk.” They hesitated again. “Walk,” I repeated. “I need to make sure your walk is correct. Light. Dainty. If you stomp around the place, they will zero in on you.”

This time they obeyed with slow, careful steps, each movement measured and steady.

But they still weren’t quite right.

I watched the way their bodies moved—too rigid, too aware. Like they were trying to escape their own skin.

I knew that feeling well.

I lived in it.

“And when they touch you—”

The words caught for half a second. Just a half. But it was enough to have the women stilling, hearing the hesitation.

My ribs ached suddenly, a dull, familiar throb that never really went away. Not since that night… not since Nico had arrived…

I shifted my weight subtly, masking the memory, shoving it back into the box I swore I would never open. I let my hand drift to the edge of the table beside me, like I was just leaning rather than steadying myself, needing to feel something solid beneath my fingers, something real. Needing to not feel as though the world was falling from beneath my feet.

“When they touch you, you don’t pull away,” I finished, my voice strong. I wouldn’t allow it to shake. My fear would manifest ten times over in them. I knew what they would think—if I was scared, what the fuck did they have to look forward to?

“You don’t flinch. You don’t tense. You let it happen.”

Because fighting makes it worse.

Because resisting makes it last longer.

Because saying no—

I cut that thought off before it could finish.

One of the girls stopped walking, her sob ringing out into the room. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, her voice sounding terrified.

Everything seemed to stop all at once, and each pair of eyes flicked in my direction. Waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to acknowledge the fear.

Hoping I could do something about it.

Hope was the cruellest fucking thing in here. None of us had it, and yet we were all reaching out for it.

I met her eyes, seeing how terrified she was. Seeing how she was on the brink of madness. And I did all I knew how.

I hit her with the truth.