Page 25 of Twisted Violet

It takes a second to process what he just said. “Wing?”

“Yeah.” He nods down the hall. “Come on. Keep walking.”

I follow, and as we round the corner, everything opens up.

The hallway branches into three more corridors, each marked subtly with a different colored door beneath the archways. The main living space stretches out in the middle, and my gaze flicks past the open-concept kitchen to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawls beyond them, rain still glistening on the glass.

This isn’t just one apartment.

This is the entire top floor.

Rome must have a wing. Dallas too. And now… I guess I do too.

Dallas watches my reaction without saying a word.

But I know he sees it - the surprise, the awe. The way I’m trying to make sense of how I ended up in a place like this, surrounded by people like them. People who get bloody doing the jobs no one else will do and still come home to something this… solid.

Dallas doesn’t say anything else. He just leads me down the hall, past a sleek kitchen with dark stone counters and a sunken living room outfitted in soft leather and warm wood accents. It smells faintly of coffee and cedar. Cozy in a way I wouldn’t expect from a place this ostentatious.

We turn a corner, and he stops in front of a door with a brass handle.

“This one’s yours.”

He pushes it open and steps back so I can walk through first.

I pause in the doorway and zero in on the line of windows stretching across the far wall.

They're beautiful, floor-to-ceiling, polished clean, with an incredible view, but they're also exposed, too open, too vulnerable. Anyone could see in and -

Stop it.

You’re on the tenth floor, and the building is crazy secure.

You’re fine.

I force a breath past my lips and drag my gaze away.

The room is beautiful. Muted earth tones. An enormous bed with soft-looking sheets. A small reading nook with a window bench. Bookshelves already half-filled with titles I love. A compact little bathroom off to the side with fluffy white towels stacked neatly on the shelf. A closet I could probably live inside.

Everything about it feels intentional, lived in, but not by someone else. It feels made for me.

My throat tightens.

“Stevie gave us a list,” Dallas says from behind me. “Books. Bath products. Candle scents you like. I don’t know how she remembered all of it, but she did.”

“She always remembers,” I murmur, the words tasting like a mix of comfort and guilt as I step inside.

Ollie’s nails click softly on the floor as he trots in after me. He circles the room once, sniffs a corner, then hops straight onto the bed like he’s claiming it for himself.

Dallas groans. “Seriously, man? Your fluff is going to get everywhere.”

Ollie flops down, tongue out, looking entirely unbothered.

I laugh, really laugh, for the first time in what feels like forever.

Dallas looks at me, and something in his expression shifts, like the sound of my laughter eased something in him too.

“You can kick him out if you want,” he says. “He’ll listen.Sometimes.”