Page 17 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

SIXTEEN

VIOLET

I don’t ask where we’re going, and as Rome drives through the city, he doesn’t offer.

The silence in the car is thick, like we’re both waiting to see who breaks first.

It won’t be me.

As we wind our way deeper into the city, I keep my arms crossed and my eyes locked on everything else but him. The buildings get taller, the streets get tighter, and somewhere along the way, the air changes and becomes brighter, louder, busier.

Rome turns the corner and pulls up behind a barricade where foot traffic takes over.

I realize where we are, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Red lanterns hang in rows overhead, hundreds of them, casting a soft, golden glow over the street. They move slightly with the breeze, bobbing like fireflies strung up on wire. Beneath them, the entire block is alive.

Booths line both sides of the street under white canopies, packed with vendors shouting in a mix of English, Cantonese, and Mandarin.

The scent of grilled meat and roasted garlic hits me first. Then comes the sweetness of candied ginger, fried dough, syrupy milk tea.

There are signs in the windows of buildings that tower around us, hand-painted banners with brushstroke lettering I can’t read.

Fire escapes line the sides of old brick buildings, some lit by warm yellow bulbs, others dark.

It's beautiful in a way that’s not polished or planned.

It’s layered and lived in and so freaking alive.

Rome finds a spot to park, and climbs out of the car without a word.

I scramble to keep up, and as soon as I step out onto the street, the noise swallows me.

Laughter, fryers popping, music coming from at least three different sources, and the colors. God, the colors .

I stand frozen in the middle of it all, overwhelmed but buzzing.

Rome comes up beside me. “You said you always wanted to go to a night market,” he says nonchalantly.

I glance over. “You remember that?”

“You talk a lot. Some of it occasionally sticks.”

We walk slowly, and Rome stays close with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders tense.

He lets me drag him from stall to stall without complaint. I don’t buy anything; I just browse while listening, smelling, and absorbing.

There’s a vendor expertly folding dumplings. Another is flipping scallion pancakes on a flat-top grill like he’s done it a thousand times. A little girl runs past us, with her mother following close behind, chasing a balloon down the street and laughing when it floats out of reach.

The noise, the lights, the smells, it’s overwhelming and somehow exactly what I need. My brain quiets. My skin stops crawling. I’m not waiting for my phone to buzz, or flinching every time someone passes too close.

For the first time in a while, the world isn’t suffocating.

Something sizzles behind me, and the scent hits. Sweet soy, toasted sesame oil, and something just starting to burn.

It smells exactly like the stir-fry I made last month. The one that had Niko hovering by the kitchen like he wasn’t waiting for a second plate.

For a second, I can almost feel the cold tile under my feet again. Hear the sizzle of the pan. See the way Rome leaned in to say, “You’re burning the garlic,” and still ended up cleaning his plate, anyway.

I don’t know when I stopped doing things that made me feel good. Cooking used to help. It gave me something to control. Something that made other people happy. Maybe that’s why I liked it so much.

I liked who I was in the kitchen. Focused. Present. Not afraid to take up space. I want her back.

And I think that’s why Rome brought me here. Not to cheer me up, not to fix me, but because he knew I needed a place to remember that I’m still capable of feeling good things.

We stop at a dessert stall. The glass case glows with rows of golden egg tarts, their glossy tops slightly cracked from the heat. The smell coming from the stall is unreal. Rich, warm, and buttery.

I hop in the line, unable to resist the temptation.

I glance back at Rome and he gives me a quick smile as he studies our surroundings. I fight the urge to laugh at how out of place he looks. Not only is his 6’4’ frame practically towering over everyone surrounding us, but his posture is stiff as hell, like he bracing for an ambush at any moment.

It’s sweet though, the way he brought me here. He pays a lot more attention to me than I thought he did.

I look back again, searching for him in the crowd, but I can’t find him anywhere.

Panic blooms in my chest and makes it harder to breathe.

He must’ve just stepped away.

He’ll be back.

It’s fine.

But it’s not, because now it feels like everything’s closing in on me.

The noise swells, the crowd shifts, and suddenly, paranoia creeps in. I study the crowd, checking every face like I’m expecting to see my monster staring back at me.

I don’t, but my eyes keep frantically searching for him anyway, like my body refuses to believe it’s safe, now that I’m out here all alone.

When I finally spot Rome again, a few booths down, my chest eases a little. Not enough to feel totally safe, but enough to breathe again.

Rome’s still here.

Still close.

The vendor helping him is an older woman, with long dark hair pulled into a braid and reading glasses perched on her nose. She says something to Rome, and he smiles at her as he responds. The woman laughs, quiet and knowing, then she points to something on her table.

Rome pays cash for it and tucks something into his jacket before heading back over to me.

I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead and pretend not to notice.

We find a spot to sit under a canopy of string lights strung between two buildings. There’s a small fountain nearby, bubbling faintly under the noise. The crowd thins here and the air feels cooler, softer.

Rome sits beside me on the edge of the curb and cocks a brow when he sees the over stuffed box of tarts I bought.

“What?” I say, narrowing my eyes. “They’re delicious.”

I pull one out and take a bite. The pastry shatters between my teeth. The crust is flaky, still warm, and the custard center is soft and just sweet enough. I nod in approval and keep chewing.

Rome watches me like he’s taking mental notes.

“You wanna try one?” I ask, shoving the box towards him.

“I don’t eat things that look like they belong in a dollhouse.”

I snort. “It’s an egg tart.”

He shrugs. “Still suspicious.”

I take another bite and feel some of the filling smear across my cheek. I plan to wipe it, but Rome gets there first.

He leans in, closer than he has all night, and swipes his thumb across my cheek. His touch is warm, firm, and way too gentle for a man as large as him.

He wipes it off on a napkin and tosses it in the trash without a word.

My skin burns where he touched me, and not in a bad way.

For a while, we say nothing. Then, without warning, he reaches into his jacket and sets something beside me. A bracelet. It’s black, handwoven, with a small dark stone set in the center.

“Is that for me?”

He shrugs. “It’s black tourmaline, figured it’d match the whole gloomy-loner thing you’ve got going on lately.”

I laugh once, softly, and slip it on.

It fits perfectly, like it was made for me.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says. “Different.”

I pick at the wrapper of my tart. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“Just… stuff.” I say, averting my gaze.

“Did something happen?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I just talked to my sister.”

His jaw flexes. “And?”

“She said some… things.”

“What things?”

I fidget with the bracelet on my wrist, trying to delay my answer. “That I’m confused. That you guys are just being nice and I’m misinterpreting your kindness for… something else.”

He goes quiet for a long moment. Then says, “Do you think that night meant nothing to me?”

“What?”

“That night when we brought you home from the hospital,” he says, his voice lower now. “When you asked me to stay.”

My stomach dips and I freeze.

I thought that was Dallas.

My grip tightens on the box in my lap, the cardboard creasing under my fingers.

The warmth, the safety, the way I finally let go.

It was all Rome and I never knew.

He held me when I broke. He stayed . He even went out to get me donuts in the morning, and I was a jerk to him.

My chest tightens.

I can’t believe that was him.

“That night meant something to me, Violet.” He says, his voice is low, steady, like he’s releasing a confession that’s been weighing on his chest for too long. “Still does.”

I meet his eyes, and something in me cracks.

I don’t think. I can’t. Not with his words echoing in my chest.Not with the way he’s looking at me, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll believe him.

So I move. Not fast, not certain, but honest.

I lean in, closing the space between us one breath at a time, and when he doesn’t pull back. When he stays perfectly still, letting me come to him…

I kiss him.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, like I’m testing a boundary neither of us has spoken aloud.

His lips are warm, still, but not pulling back, not stopping me. My hand drifts to his jaw without thinking. His stubble scrapes the tips of my fingers, rough and real and grounding.

Then he kisses me back. Slowly. Deliberately. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a warning and a promise all wrapped into one. His mouth moves over mine with a quiet hunger, restrained but deep.

His hand wraps around the back of my neck, anchoring me. I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, and in my thighs. Heat blooms low and steady beneath my skin. It’s dizzying.

His breath brushes my lips when he pulls back. I don’t open my eyes right away. My pulse is in my throat. My fingers are still digging into the fabric of his jacket.

I feel flushed, breathless, like I just did something reckless I can’t take back, but I don’t regret it .

When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me.

He doesn’t look confused, or angry, just… unreadable.

I don’t speak. Neither does he, but I can still feel the kiss lingering between us, like it’s echoing in the silence.

As we make our way back to the car, I let myself believe I can have this. That the life I’m building with him, with all of them , is safe, whole, and permanent.

But then I think about the fact that I’ve been lying to them, and I can already see the way he’ll look at me when the truth comes out.

He won’t be angry or disappointed; he’ll just be done with me.

And when that happens, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.