Page 25 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

TWENTY-FOUR

ROME

The burn of the whiskey hits first.

Sharp, clean, and just shy of punishing as it slides down my throat.

It settles low, warm in my gut.

It’s late, well past midnight, and everyone else has already sequestered themselves in their rooms.

Not me, though.

I’m out on the balcony, drink in hand, staring out at the glittering skyline like it might have the answer to fix the mess that’s become my life.

I let Violet kiss me.

And worse, I kissed her back.

I told myself not to cross that line. Told myself it was too dangerous. Too messy. Especially now, while she’s under our roof, trusting us to keep her safe.

But when she leaned in and I felt the soft press of her lips against mine, every rule I swore I’d follow fucking incinerated .

I hate that I let it happen; I hate that I wanted it, and I hate that, even now, I still want more.

I run my fingers through my hair and tug on the strands, hard , like the pain will distract me from my thoughts.

I even bought her a bracelet that night. I don’t know why the hell I did it.

No, that’s a lie. I know exactly why.

The vendor told me it was meant to protect someone. That you’re supposed to give it to the person you care about most. And she was the first person who popped into my mind.

I didn’t buy it to impress her; I didn’t even expect her to wear it, but she slipped it on without hesitation and hasn’t taken it off since.

The selfish prick in me likes to think that means something.

And who am I to crush his dreams?

I take another sip, slower this time, and let the burn of the whisky remind me that nothing worth having comes without a price.

I’m on my second drink when I hear movement inside the apartment.

The kitchen lights are on, and Violet’s at the counter with her sleeves pushed up, working on something with that ridiculous level of focus she gets when she’s baking.

She reaches for a canister of powdered sugar, and the hem of her shirt rides up just enough to flash a strip of soft tan skin .

I should look away.

I don’t.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me.

It’s Stevie.

I let it ring out, then flip the screen facedown without checking the message.

That’s the third time I’ve done that today. Fourth, if you count the text I ignored last night.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake the tension.

Stevie knows something’s going on.

She has to .

It’s like she senses I’m circling something I shouldn’t be, and she’s absolutely right.

If I were smarter, I’d call her back. Set boundaries. End this now before it gets worse. But instead, I watch her little sister.

Violet turns to grab something, and there’s a smear of white powder across her cheek.

Of course she has something on her face.

She’s messy, easily distracted, and effortlessly warm. A walking contradiction to everything I am. Soft where I’m sharp, unpredictable where I’m rigid, and vibrant where I prefer clean lines and silence.

She doesn’t belong in my world, and yet here she is, bleeding light into everything she touches, including me.

I tell myself to look away. To go back to reminding myself why I don’t get involved, why I don’t let my guard down.

But then poof.

The mixer kicks on and powdered sugar goes flying everywhere, covering every inch of her like she’s some kind of walking temptation wrapped in sweetness and sin.

Then…

Christ .

She swipes her tongue over the dusting of sugar on her lips. Slow and absentmindedly, like she has no clue she’s lighting a match inside my fucking chest.

That’s it.

Fuck it.

I slam my drink down and push off my chair so fast, it slams into the glass railing behind me. I don’t even pause to think as I stride toward the kitchen, heat climbing my spine, something reckless sparking under my skin.

I’m going to burn when all this shit hits the fan, anyway.

Might as well enjoy the fire.