Page 73 of Twisted Violet

TWENTY-SIX

ROME

She’sasleep on my chest, and I’m not sure I remember how to breathe.

Her leg is hooked over mine, one arm draped lazily across my stomach, breath warm against my skin. The bracelet I bought her is still looped around her wrist, smudged with powdered sugar and sweat.

I should be thinking about consequences.

About lines crossed, about what this means, but all I can think about is how goddamnrightshe feels here. In my bed. Wrapped around me like she belongs.

And maybe that’s the problem. Because I’ve never wanted anything to belong to me more.

I fucked her all night. On the island, against the wall, in the shower, on this bed. We only stopped once the sugar was all gone and her eyes started fluttering shut mid-kiss. Even then, I had to pull her against me and hold her tight, like my body didn’t accept that it was over.

She wore me down in the softest, sweetest, filthiest way possible. And now she’s here, asleep in my arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I stare down at her face, lips parted slightly, lashes sweeping her cheeks, powdered sugar still faintly dusting the lavender hair at her temple.

My chest cracks wide open.

No excuses, no denial, no carefully structured logic.

I fucking love her.

There. It’s out. Silent and earth-shattering. Settling in my bones like it’s always been there, just waiting for me to admit it.

And for once, I don’t care what comes next.

Not about Stevie and The Reapers. Not about the repercussions. Not about how badly I’ve fucked every rule I’ve ever lived by.

If this comes with fallout, I’ll take it.

Because she’s worth every second of it.

My phone buzzeson the nightstand.

I reach for it with one arm, careful not to shift her weight off me.

It’s a text from Bobby, one of the building’s night guards.

Sorry to contact you so late, Mr. Creed. There’s a young couple here. Neither will hand over their IDs. But the womansays if we don’t let her through, she’ll burn down the building.

I sit up just enough to glance at the monitor across the room, with the camera feed already pulled up.

It’s Stevie and Atlas.

Fuck.

We all agreed. No visits. No contact. No risks. Them showing up out of nowhere is a problem.

I slip out of bed, tug on a shirt and sweats and head straight for the elevator.

The moment the elevator doors glide open, I step into the lobby and spot Stevie arguing with Bobby, one of the night guards.

Atlas stands a few feet behind her, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“They weren’t on the list,” Bobby says, throwing me a panicked look. “We told her we can’t just-”