Page 13 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

TWELVE

VIOLET

It’s been a few days since my call with Stevie, and I haven’t seen much of Rome since. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss having his grouchy self around, but I think it’s for the best, for now at least.

Some time apart will do us both some good. In the last few weeks, I’ve gotten way too comfortable around him, and the last thing I want is to make him feel uneasy in his own home.

The apartment is quiet tonight, but it’s not empty. Not really.

Rome’s mug is still by the sink. The one Dallas gave him as a joke that says World’s Okayest Boss .

Niko’s boots, the laced-up leather ones he always leaves by the elevator, are still right where he kicked them off.

Dallas’s hoodie is still flung over the back of the couch with the sleeves rumpled like he peeled it off mid-stride.

And then there’s Ollie, curled up at my feet, tracking me with his big brown eyes as I move around the kitchen .

For the first time in weeks, I’m the only one home. But in a weird way, I’m not alone.

The stove hisses softly behind me. I stir the sauce, then lean over to check the pasta. Everything smells warm and delicious, like spices and garlic and home.

I’m not used to this feeling, the safety, the peace. It still feels like I haven’t earned it, like any second, someone’s going to come in and take it all away.

I glance down to see Ollie watching me with those big, hopeful brown eyes. His ears are perked and his tail is wagging, like I’m putting on the most exciting show of his life.

It’s not like I’m doing anything impressive. He probably can smell the chicken I’m pan-frying and is just waiting for the moment I break and sneak him a little taste.

“Not happening, Prince Ali,” I murmur, even though my resistance is already slipping. “Your Papa will kill me.”

His tail thumps once on the hardwood, like he’s trying to argue and I shake my head.

The only thing bigger than his stomach is his attitude.

I grab a handful of basil and start dicing, slowly and steadily. Over the last few weeks, cooking dinner for the guys has become a kind of ritual for me. It’s the one thing I can do to say thank you without having to actually say it.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

I glance at it, fingers still slick with olive oil.

Unknown Number.

1 New Message.

I wipe my hand on a dishtowel and open the text.

My fingers hesitate over the screen and my chest tightens.

Not all at once, slowly, like there’s something carefully coiling around my ribs.

I swallow hard and set the phone back down.

It’s probably just the wrong number.

I shake my head, pick up the knife, and start dicing again.

Another buzz. Another notification.

Perfect girl.

There was only one man that ever called me that.

It’s the same man who bought me. Who caged me. Who broke me, over and over again, just because he could.

This has to be some kind of sick joke.

The knife slips.

“Shit -”

Pain lances through my thumb. The blade clatters to the floor, and blood spills fast.

I stagger back from the counter, grabbing the closest towel. My breath punches out in short, shallow gasps.

Ollie whines, scrambling to his feet. He presses his head against my leg and licks my ankle like he knows something’s wrong.

I crouch and grip the towel tighter. “I’m fine,” I whisper.

But I’m not, I can’t breathe.

My knees buckle, and I grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

God, I need to calm down.

Just because he has my number doesn’t mean he knows where I am. He could’ve gotten it anywhere. A database. A leak. He’s in my phone, but that doesn’t mean he’s here.

This place is hidden. The locks are reinforced. The windows are tinted. I’m safe. Aren’t I?

I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, trying to believe the lie.

The elevator dings and I snap my head up, heart skidding in my chest.

“V?”

Dallas’ voice hits me like a floodlight in a dark tunnel.

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m barely holding it together as it is.

He rounds the corner and freezes mid-step. His eyes flick from my face to the towel wrapped around my hand, then to the floor where the knife lies in a puddle of blood, and something sharp flickers across his face.

“Shit, V.”

In three long strides, he’s kneeling in front of me, his voice lower now but no less urgent. “What happened? Did you fall? Did someone-?”

“No,” I whisper. “I just… wasn’t paying attention and cut myself. It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His gaze flicks over me again, scanning for other injuries like he’s expecting more damage. His jaw clenches as he reaches for the first aid kit under the sink .

I try to speak again, to brush it off, but my throat locks up.

Dallas is so close. Close enough, I can smell his cologne and the faint scent of mint on his breath. He focuses, hands gentle but firm as he unwraps the towel, careful not to jostle me more than he has to.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. “Are you cold?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”

But I’m not, and we both know it.

Dallas doesn’t press me on it, he just keeps working. His brow furrows in concentration as he cleans the cut and wraps it in gauze. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times, but the tension in his shoulders tells me this time’s different.

Ollie presses closer, head now resting across my feet.

I sit there and try not to fall apart.

Say it.

Tell him what happened. Tell him someone texted you.

That you think it’s him . That he’s torturing you all over again .

I open my mouth.

Dallas looks up to meet my eyes, and I see it. The softness. The hope. The quiet, unspoken question he’s too afraid to ask: Why can’t you trust me?

And I break inside a little more, because I want to trust him.

I want to fall into him, to tell him I’m scared and that I don’t know what to do. But I’m already holding on by a thread, and if I let go, if I let him see the truth, I’ll unravel. And he’ll see the mess and finally decide he wants no part in it.

So I force a smile, even as it trembles on the edges .

“Thanks for patching me up,” I say softly.

Dallas holds my gaze. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes dims. Just a little, like he knows I’m holding something back.

But he doesn’t push the subject; he just nods once. “Anytime, V.”

The moment Dallas leaves, I reach for my phone again.

The messages are still there, sitting on my screen like wounds I can’t stitch up.

My thumb hovers over the thread, and for one breath, I consider showing it to him. Telling him everything and letting him carry some of the weight, but the thought sours fast.

I know exactly what will happen if I do.

He’ll look at me the same way people always do when they realize I’m broken beyond repair, and he’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble.

I’ve already been the fragile girl they had to rescue once.

I can’t be her again.

Not now.

Not when I’m finally building a life here.

My chest still feels tight, but my hands stay steady as I swipe left and hit delete.

The messages vanish, like they never happened.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and force my shoulders to straighten.

If ignoring it makes me a coward, so be it.

Better a coward than a burden.