Page 11 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

TEN

ROME

Violet falls asleep on the couch again.

She does that a lot now.

Stays up too late watching k-dramas on low volume, curled up under the same throw blanket with Ollie tucked at her side.

I was coming out of my room for water. Now I’m stuck, frozen halfway down the hall, staring like a creep at the woman passed out in our living room.

She’s wearing one of Dallas’s hoodies, oversized and faded, with the sleeves pulled over her hands. One leg's draped off the couch, and her face is half-buried in a pillow that she must’ve brought out from her room.

She looks peaceful. Like she’s finally letting herself breathe.

Ollie lifts his head from the floor when he notices me, ears twitching like he’s silently judging me for staring.

Don’t worry, Bud, I’m judging me, too.

Violet shifts in her sleep, and the blanket draped over her slips, sliding down to expose the pair of light blue sleep shorts she’s wearing that do nothing to help the situation. I exhale through my nose, telling myself not to be weird about it. Just pull the blanket back up and walk away.

Easy.

Gathering my nerves, I inch closer and reach over the back of the couch, straining to grab the corner of the blanket without waking her.

It’s too far.

Of course it is.

I circle around, stepping carefully to sit on the edge of the couch beside her and lean over to reach for it again.

That’s when she moves and rolls straight into me.

The weight of her body presses me back and her cheek lands against my chest with a soft thud.

Her arm drapes across my stomach like it’s done this a hundred times before. Like I’m hers to hold on to, like I always have been.

I freeze and look down at her.

Her face is right there. Her eyes are shut, her lips are parted, and the top of her forehead is pressed against the edge of my shirt collar.

My pulse spikes, and I can already feel the anxiety creeping up.

Don’t move, asshole.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t ruin this.

I glance at Ollie, desperate for a lifeline.

He’s watching from his spot next to her, head resting on his paws, staring up at me like he’s annoyed she’s snuggling up to me of all people.

I swallow hard, trying not to make a sound.

Her hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing the bottom hem of my t-shirt. She nuzzles in, just the tiniest bit, like even in sleep, she’s trying to get closer.

I should get up, I should move, but I don’t.

I just sit there, spine straight, muscles locked, like some kind of coward afraid of his own heartbeat.

I don’t even want anything more from her.

I just want… this.

One moment. One breath. One quiet second where I get to pretend I’m not completely gone for a woman who wants nothing to do with me.

She murmurs something against my chest.

“Rome.”

It’s soft, barely there, but my jaw tightens and my heart pounds in my chest.

She said my fucking name.

I know I shouldn’t read into it, but I do.

I stare straight ahead, eyes locked on the far wall like it’s gonna give me the answers I need. It doesn’t.

Neither does Ollie. He just yawns and closes his eyes, clearly over this scene.

Traitor.

Her breath is warm against my chest. The weight of her against me shouldn’t feel good, but it does. And that’s a problem, because I’ve been here before.

Not this exact couch, not on this exact night, but this feeling? It’s familiar. And the last time I let myself lose control around her, she pretended like it never happened.

I told myself it didn’t matter, but it did, it still does.

I look down at her again and let my eyes trace the curve of her lashes, the softness of her mouth, and the way she relaxes into me like I’m safe, like I matter.

It’s a lie. Not from her; she’s not even awake, but my mind’s already making up stories for itself.

I shift just enough to test her weight. She doesn't stir.

Good.

Slowly, I roll her back over as I reach for the blanket again and tug it up over her shoulders. Her brow twitches like she’s about to wake.

I freeze and wait.

Nothing.

Then I slide my arm out from beneath her, moving inch by inch like I’m disarming a bomb.

The second I’m free, I stand up and back away.

She curls into the spot I left behind and tucks her hands beneath her cheek like nothing happened, like she didn’t just undo me in thirty seconds flat without even opening her eyes.

I glance down at her one last time and take in the faint crease between her brows and the whisper of a frown that never fully leaves.

Then I turn and walk away.

Because if I stay, I’ll start to believe this means something.

And I’ve already made that mistake before.