Page 105 of Twisted Violet

And yet, all I can think about is the one I left behind.

The clack of Rome’s keyboard in the office. The ghost of Niko’s cologne in the cushions. Dallas humming off-key while he cooked pancakes with too much syrup and not enough patience.

Their place was chaotic. Claustrophobic. A mess of mismatched mugs and weapons stashed in drawers.

But it felt like home.

I don’t sleep much.

But I don’t dream either.

Which feels like a win, all things considered.

By morning, I’m craving something familiar. So I pad into the main house with the half-formed idea of making breakfast for everyone.

I step into the kitchen and find that someone’s already beaten me to it.

Marta, their private chef, greets me with a smile.

“Good Morning Miss Alex,” she says warmly. “Your sister and the boys are probably still sleeping, but I wanted to make sure you had something fresh to eat on yourfirst day home.”

She hands me a plate stacked with avocado toast, bacon and perfectly crisp hash browns.

It smells delicious. Tastes even better. But it feels like someone else’s version of home. Perfectly plated. Perfectly seasoned. But not mine.

I sit at the dining room table and eat in silence. There’s no sarcastic comment from Rome about carbs. No gentle glance from Niko across the table. And no Dallas dramatically dropping three plates of food in front of me like he’s worried I’m wasting away.

Just me, a fork, and a meal I didn’t ask for.

God, I miss them.

And Ihatethat I do.

Stevie walks into the dining room a few minutes later, in leggings and a messy bun, holding a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

She takes the seat across from me and studies me for a long, quiet moment.

“Sleep okay?” she asks.

I nod.

She studies me for a moment. “You alright?”

I poke at my hash browns. “I will be.”

She nods. “Can I ask you something?”

I glance up.

She hesitates for a second. “How did you feel about the guys?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

I thought I’d moved past it.

I thought I’d shut that door, but the ache in my chest says otherwise.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, stabbing at my toast. “It doesn’t matter how I felt. It was all a lie anyway.”