Page 14 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

THIRTEEN

NIKO

It’s two a.m. and I’m restless again.

I’m always restless.

Sleep never comes easily to me.

Not when it’s dark, not when it’s quiet. That’s when the noise in my head is at full volume.

So I move from room to room. Wall to wall. Until I eventually end up here, standing shirtless in the kitchen.

The kitchen is empty; the lights are off, and the fridge is humming.

I open it, not because I’m hungry, but because eating is just something to do to pass the time.

Rows of meal-prepped containers stare back at me, filled with grilled chicken breast, sweet potatoes, and broccoli. All of them labeled in careful handwriting. Violet’s handwriting.

They must be for Rome.

I slide the containers aside and dig deep into the back of the fridge and find an old prepackaged snack kit with crackers, cheese and turkey in it .

I peel back the plastic, stack the meat and cheese on a cracker, and take a bite

“That’s nostalgic.” A voice calls out from somewhere in the darkness.

It’s Vi.

I don’t jump; I never do, but her sudden appearance does catch me off guard.

She’s barefoot in a sleep shirt that hits mid-thigh, with sleeves too long for her arms. Her long lavender hair’s a mess, and her eyes are tired. She looks like she was pulled out of sleep mid-dream, or mid-nightmare.

“You want one?” I ask, holding up another stack.

She gives me a look. “You’re literally eating sadness,” she says, then glances away like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to tease me.

I shrug and chew. “Gets the job done.”

She crosses the kitchen and opens the pantry, already scanning like she’s planning something better. “Let me make you something better.”

I stop chewing.

“You don’t have to.”

She scowls. “I want to.”

I shake my head. “It’s late. I don’t want you going out of your way.”

“Oh.” Her voice drops just a little. “Right. I forgot you don’t really like my cooking.”

Fuck.

“That’s not it,” I say quickly. “I just…”

I trail off, then sigh.

She looks confused, maybe even a little hurt.

I don’t tell her the truth… it’s not the food I avoid, it’s her.

She’s soft in a way I’m not built for and eventually, I’ ll break her.

“I just don’t want you to waste your time.” I say.

The words slip out too soft, too honest.

She frowns. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time.”

“Thank you, but really, I’m okay.”

Violet nods as she chews on her lower lip, but says nothing else. She just leans against the counter, picking at the edge of her sleeve like she regrets walking in here.

I should’ve just let her make me something.

I’m such a fucking asshole.

I go to toss the packaging, and when I glance back, her eyes aren’t on my face anymore; they’re on my chest.

My muscles instinctively tighten under her gaze, like they’re enjoying having her eyes on them.

She stares at the ink that crawls over my chest and ribs and spills down onto my arms. A tiger, sharp and angry. A camellia bloom carved in red. And a demon wrapped in smoke.

“Your tattoos.” She says softly. “They’re beautiful.”

“Thanks. Painful too.”

For a second, I imagine her with ink of her own. Something sexy and artistic, hidden in a place that no one else can see. And fuck, I shouldn’t be picturing that.

She tugs at her sleeve again. “They look like it.”

Her gaze is slow, curious, and it lingers a little too long. She clenches her hands like her fingers want to touch the ink, but she doesn’t trust her control over them.

I let the moment stick.

“You ever think about getting one?” I ask, casual.

“A tattoo?”

I nod.

She hesitates, barely, but I notice .

“I never wanted one.” She says a little wistfully.

“Why not?”

Her shoulders lift in a small shrug.

“Fear of needles?” I offer.

Her brow furrows. “Something like that.”

I nod once, but I’m watching her now and I notice the way her shoulders tense and her eyes flick away.

She’s lying.

I’m just not sure about what.

Vi doesn’t speak again. She just stands there, quiet in the kitchen’s silence, with her gaze fixed on something that isn’t there.

I catch the shift.

The way her shoulders sink, the way her eyes dull and her fingers still, like her mind’s slipped somewhere she doesn’t want to be. Somewhere heavy. Somewhere haunting.

I know that feeling, and now I understand why she offered to cook for me in the middle of the night.

It’s that need to do something, anything, to push off the weight pressing down on you. To distract yourself. To feel useful. Even if it’s only temporary.

“You know what.” I say, getting her attention. “I’m still a little hungry. Mind throwing together a grilled cheese for me?”

Her face lifts, just slightly, and she nods her head.

She moves quickly, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if she isn’t fast enough.

I sit at the island while she works, watching her.

She moves like she knows exactly what she's doing. Calm, focused, like the kitchen is hers, and always has been.

Butter hits the pan and sizzles on contact. The smell spreads instantly, rich and sharp and warm.

While she’s distracted, I let myself take a long look at her.

Violet is beautiful in a haunting way. Like a ghost who doesn’t know she’s still here.

Ethereal and out of place in the best possible way.

Lavender hair cascading down her back like silk, skin lit soft by the kitchen glow, eyes shadowed with things she doesn’t say out loud.

There’s a sadness in her that makes her seem older than she is. Like she’s lived through too much.

She moves with this careful grace, like she’s trying not to take up too much space, or get in the way. Like she’s been told her whole life to shrink, and even now, even here, she forgets she doesn’t have to.

She’s pretty even when she isn’t trying to be.

Her fingers brush mine when she passes me the plate, barely, but it’s enough to remind me just how dangerous this is.

“I’m going to head back to bed.” She says, offering me a soft smile, as she heads out of the kitchen. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Thank you for the food.”

As soon as I hear her door click shut, I take a bite of the sandwich, and it’s good.

No, fuck that, it’s the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.

And that’s a problem, because now I’ll want more.

And the last thing a man like me should ever do is want.

Especially when it’s something he knows he shouldn’t have.