Page 29 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

TWENTY-EIGHT

ROME

My voice keeps going.

Flat. Controlled. Like I’m giving a damn press conference.

“We’re just trying to look out for her.” I say, shaking my head.

I’m downplaying it, and every person in this room knows it.

But no one calls me out on it.

Not Dallas.

Not Niko.

And definitely not Atlas, who’s standing in the corner with his arms crossed, looking like he’s watching a slow-motion train wreck.

“She needs protection. Not… whatever this is.” Stevie waves her hand between the three of us. “And if you can’t give her that without complicating it, then maybe she shouldn’t be here. ”

Dallas rubs a hand down his face. Niko exhales through his nose. I clench my jaw.

“We get that you’re concerned, but Violet is her own person with her own feelings. You can’t expect us to just avoid her.”

Stevie glares at me.

“You’re being paid to keep her safe.” She hisses. “Not to get attached.”

The silence that follows feels like a closing door.

Thick. Final.

None of us say anything to dispute it. We can’t.

After Violet’s attack, Stevie needed her somewhere safe, but she knew she’d never agree to be sequestered away with bodyguards. The Reapers pitched the idea; they would propose the idea of her going into hiding, and the three of us would offer her a place to stay instead.

Dallas hated the plan from the start. He didn’t want to lie to her.

Niko and I weren’t thrilled either, until they threw in an exclusivity contract.

If we agreed, all our jobs from here on out would be for them.

No more chasing random clients, no more splitting focus.

With the added cash incentive, it was too good of an offer to pass up.

So we took it, and I didn’t think about the consequences.

Seems like I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

I let her kiss me. I let her crawl into my bed. I let myself fall for her. And now I’m forcing myself to downplay it because that’s easier than telling them the truth.

That I lost control. That I’d do it again. That I don’t regret a goddamn second of it.

Then I hear it. Not the silence. Not the breathing. Something else.

Ollie’s paws.

Light. Quick. Fading.

I go still.

I know that sound. I’ve heard it every morning since she moved in, and it only means one thing.

She’s awake.

I push off the wall and start for the hallway.

Stevie’s voice cuts in behind me. “Where are you going?”

I don’t answer, because if I stop, I might not go at all. I just move. Fast and focused, like I already know what I’m about to find.

The hallway’s empty when I step out. I round the corner just in time to see her bedroom door shut. Softly. Almost like she didn’t want anyone to hear it.

I stop in front of her door and press my hand against the wood like maybe I’ll feel something through it. Like I can sense her on the other side, reaching back.

But there’s nothing. No sound, no movement, nothing at all.

I could knock. I could say something. I don’t, because if she was listening; I don’t have an excuse for what she heard. Not a good one, anyway.

So I go back to my room. Lie down in the bed that still smells like her. Pull the covers up and pretend I don’t feel the cold spot where she used to be.

By the time I hear movement outside my door again, the sun’s already up.

Soft footsteps. Cabinet doors opening and closing. The clink of glass.

Violet.

I get up, throw on a sweatshirt and joggers, and race out of my room to find her.

When I step into the kitchen, I see her standing there cooking like nothing’s wrong.

She’s got her lavender hair tied back, sleeves pushed up, and she’s standing at the stove in a hoodie that’s way too big on her with Ollie laying down at her feet.

She doesn’t flinch when she sees me.

“Morning,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Want breakfast?”

My eye twitches.

She sounds… off.

“Violet.”

She glances over her shoulder, smile faint. “Hmm?”

“We should talk.”

She turns back to the pan. “What about?”

“Last night.”

She flips the eggs in the pan with no hesitation. “What about it?”

I take a step closer. “You left.”

“Oh, I figured you had plans. Thought I’d give you space.”

I watch her. She’s too calm. Too even. Her voice is soft, but there’s no warmth in it. Just… politeness and precision. Like she rehearsed every line.

“You don’t have to pretend.” I say.

“I’m not.” She says, sliding the eggs onto a plate and setting it on the counter. “You should eat.”

Then she brushes past me like nothing’s changed. Like last night was just a favor, not a memory burned into my skin. Like we didn’t spend the night pressed so close together I forgot where I ended and she began.

She doesn’t touch me, doesn’t look back, doesn’t pause.

I almost look at her wrist to check to see if she’s still wearing it. But I don’t, because I’m not sure I could handle it if she wasn’t.

I stare at the plate and my stomach turns. Not because of the food, but because I’ve seen this version of her before.

The one that smiles through pain. The one that keeps everyone at a safe distance by making it look easy.

That’s not the girl I carried into my bed last night. That girl trusted me.

This one?

This one’s just going through the motions.

And I don’t know how to reach her anymore.