Page 10 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

NINE

VIOLET

This room was tailored for me.

I know that.

I can see it in every detail. The pale gray walls with lavender undertones. The floating bookshelves, already lined with the titles I reread when the world gets too loud. The throw blanket draped across the foot of the bed that I once told Stevie I wanted because it reminded me of the night sky.

Everything about this place is thoughtful. Purposeful. But knowing something was made for you isn’t the same as believing you deserve it, and every beautiful detail only serves to remind me that I don’t belong here.

Not in this apartment. Not in this quiet. Not in this life that feels like someone else’s.

Niko said he killed my attacker. He said it was his bullet that ended his life.

But we both know the man was already dead when he got there.

Still, he looked me in the eye and gave me a version of the truth I could live with.

And I let him. Because I didn’t have the strength to argue, and I didn’t have it in me to carry the weight of one more thing.

I let him clean up my mess. I let him lie for me. And now I’m here, wrapped in warmth I didn’t earn, in a room I don’t deserve, wondering if this is all I’ll ever be.

A liability. A burden. Something people constantly feel sorry for because it’s too broken to function.

I haven't unpacked yet.

I just shoved my duffel in the corner and spent the last two hours rearranging the books on the shelves over and over again. First alphabetically, then by height, then by color.

I glance at the closed door.

I haven’t left my wing since Dallas gave me the tour last night, so I haven’t seen any of them today, but I can hear them.

Rome’s footsteps are always easy to recognize.

They’re measured and no-nonsense, like he has somewhere to be.

Dallas usually hums when he’s walking around.

He’s almost always off-key, but it never seems to bother him.

Niko usually walks around when it’s late.

I know it’s him because he barely makes a sound when he moves, and it’s like I can sense his presence more than anything.

They’re out there, and I’m in here, and honestly, that distance is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

The next morning, I wake up before the sun rises. The apartment is quiet. No creaking floorboards, no low mum of conversation, just stillness.

I tiptoe into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound.

There’s something sacred about being the only one awake.

Like the apartment is letting me borrow time that doesn’t belong to me.

I make a single piece of toast, butter it lightly, and pour half a glass of orange juice.

Not a drop more. If I keep the dent in supplies small enough, they won’t notice.

I sit at the far end of the kitchen island with my back to the door, legs pulled up beneath me, and take slow, quiet bites.

Then I hear the soft shuffle of claws on hardwood.

Ollie trots out of one of the other wings, tail wagging like he already knew I’d be here. He doesn’t bark or whine. Just flops down dramatically at my feet like I’ve personally offended him by not making a second piece of toast for him.

“Hey, Ollie,” I whisper, nudging his paw with my socked foot. “Was your sleep crappy too?”

He stares up at me, unbothered. Blinks once. Then yawns like this whole interaction is beneath him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I murmur, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re the easiest one to talk to in this place.”

He lets out another sigh, like he agrees.

That night, I don’t come out for dinner.

But I hear them from my room. Low voices, the clatter of dishes, and bursts of laughter that echo down the hall. Someone says something sarcastic. The others groan. I think it’s Rome. He always sounds like he’s trying not to enjoy himself.

I stare at the pile of protein bars I stuffed into the bottom of my duffel and choose one without checking the flavor. I eat it out of the wrapper, one bite at a time, while scrolling through my phone just to keep my hands busy.

They laugh again, and I tell myself I’m not missing anything.

On day three, I open my door and find a full plate of breakfast sitting on the floor.

Waffles, turkey bacon, and a coffee with extra cream, just how I like it.

All still warm.

There’s no note. No knock.

It’s just there, waiting for me.

I don’t grab it right away. I wait until I’m sure no one’s nearby, then I quietly pull the plate inside and sit on the carpet, legs crossed, eating quietly by the door .

Somehow, the gesture is more comforting than anything they could’ve said aloud.

That night, I crack my door open a few inches.

Just to listen.

Rome and Niko are in the living room, barking at the TV. I peek out just far enough to see them on the couch with Ollie and PS5 controllers in hand.

Dallas walks behind them holding a protein shake and mutters something about not yelling in front of the dog. Rome flips him off, and Niko throws a pillow at his head without looking.

They all laugh.

It’s not loud, not forced, just easy.

I pull the door shut before they can see me.

The next morning, I find Ollie camped outside my room.

He’s facing the hallway like he’s been on patrol all night. His ears twitch when I open the door, but he doesn’t move. Just cracks one eye open and lets out a slow sigh like he’s done something heroic.

I stare at him for a long time.

“I didn’t ask for a guard dog,” I murmur, crouching down next to him.

His tail thumps once against the hardwood.

I sit beside him and rest my head back against the wall. The cool surface seeps into my spine.

Maybe I didn’t ask for any of this. This house. This safety. This weird cocoon of quiet care that I don’t know how to fit into.

But it’s here.

And I don’t want to run from it anymore.

That evening, I wander into the kitchen when I smell something rich and buttery.

Rome glances up from the stove, but he doesn’t comment on me being there.

He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that I’ve been hiding for days.

He just nods toward the kitchen island.

“You want a plate?”

I nod.

And when he sets it in front of me, I thank him and take a seat.

Niko’s already sitting next to me. His legs are stretched out, and he’s flipping through a worn paperback with one hand, while nursing a mug of black coffee with his other.

He doesn’t look up, but I feel him shift slightly, like he knows I’m here but doesn’t want to scare me off by acknowledging it.

Dallas appears ten minutes later. He drops a bag of candy on the counter and slides it silently toward me.

Watermelon sour strips .

My favorite.

I open the bag, rip off a piece, and slip it into my mouth.

Dallas fights a smile as he takes a seat beside me.

No one asks what changed.

No one asks why I finally came out.

They just let me sit.

Quiet. Awkward. Here.

And somehow… that’s enough.