Page 3 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

TWO

ROME

The plate in my hand is still warm.

Piled high with a bunch of sugary shit she loves so much.

French toast, orange juice, and a double chocolate chip muffin that’s close to the size of her head.

She hates eggs, so the only protein on the plate is two strips of bacon, and even that barely qualifies considering it’s mostly composed of grease and salt.

How this girl has managed to survive on carbs alone is a fucking mystery to me, but if tempting her with this crap is the only way to get her to eat something, then so be it.

Dallas tried to get her to eat a couple of hours ago, but that blew up in his face spectacularly, and he ended up storming off to “get some air”.

Now it’s my turn and, unlike my much more good-natured best friend, I’m not going to let her bratty attitude stop me from getting the job done.

I knock once.

No answer .

Figures.

I turn the handle and nudge the door open with my foot, without waiting for permission. It’s a dick move, but she gave up privacy the second she decided to stop eating.

The room’s darker than it was earlier. The heavy curtains are drawn, and I can barely make out her silhouette on the other side of the room. She’s lying on the bed, facing away from me with headphones on, and pillows surrounding her.

I take two steps inside and close the door behind me.

“Get up.” I order, my voice flat and clipped.

She doesn’t react. Just keeps staring at the wall, like I’m not even here. Fucking ridiculous.

She’s obviously still pissed we dragged her out of the hospital. Sulking because we made a call she didn’t agree with, even if it was for her benefit.

I roll my eyes and take another step toward the bed, already running through the speech I’m gonna have to give. Something short and to the point about how we’re not her enemies, how we didn’t do it to hurt her, and how this isn’t personal.

But then I see it - the tremble in her shoulders, and everything in me stills.

She’s not sulking. Not pouting. Not staging a silent protest. She’s mourning. And I feel like a fucking idiot.

She doesn’t need food. She needs her world back.

This sad little pile of sugar and grease won’t fix whatever is going on inside her head, and it definitely won’t erase the image of her sister lying in that hospital bed.

I stand there a second longer, staring at her back, thinking how fucked it is that all I have to offer her is this plate.

Not that it even matters, not that she’d expect anything more from me.

It’s not like Violet and I are friends.

She’s bratty, impulsive, too trusting for her own good.

She calls me bossy, says I’ve got control issues, and jokes that I probably alphabetize my socks.

But right now, she won’t even turn to look at me, and that concerns me more than it should.

I set the plate down on the nightstand, careful not to let it clatter.

It’s stupid, how quiet I’m trying to be, like I’m worried any noise might crack whatever thin thread is holding her together.

I take a step back, my mind already halfway out the door, but then she shifts and blindly reaches her hand back for me.

Her fingers wrap around my wrist, soft but certain.

“I’m not ready to talk,” she says, her voice small as she still faces the wall. “But will you stay and hold me? Just for a little while?”

I freeze.

This is a line.

One I promised myself I wouldn’t cross.

I was hired to bring her home and keep her safe. Not to crawl into bed with her like some opportunistic asshole.

But there’s a part of me, a quiet, insistent part, that wants to say yes before she even finishes the sentence.

It’s the same part of me that gravitated towards her the moment we found her in that shed.

She was sitting in the corner with her knees pulled to her chest and her hair caked with blood .

She was bruised, barely conscious, and yet somehow, still so fucking alive.

I moved closer and her wild green eyes locked onto mine like she was sizing me up.

She didn’t cry, didn’t speak.

She just stared and something in that look wrecked me.

Because she didn’t look like a victim.

She looked like someone who refused to die.

Even after everything he did to her, she was still in there.

Quiet, shaken, but not gone and I admired the hell out of her for that.

But she was a job, so I buried my feelings. Pretended they didn’t exist. But now, with her holding my wrist like I’m her fucking lifeline, that feeling is coming back, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Getting close to her is a mistake.

But it’s one I’m going to make anyway.

I ease forward and climb into bed behind her.

The mattress dips beneath me, the blanket pulling just slightly as I settle in.

She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her face buried in the pillows like she’s trying to stay hidden.

I slide one arm beneath her pillow, the other over her waist, and I hold her. Not tightly. Not tenderly. Just steady, like I’m giving her something to lean on without making a thing of it.

She exhales and I feel her start to soften.

Not a lot, but enough to know she needed this.

Needed me.

Even if I’m the last person who should be in this bed.

I’m the man who tells himself he doesn’t care, doesn’t get attached, doesn’t cross lines. Except I do. Because right now, I’m holding her like I’ve wanted to from the moment she reached for me in that shed. And I can’t even pretend it’s about the job anymore.

I feel it when the first sob hits her. Her whole body jerks with it. She tries to muffle it, tries to be quiet, like crying is something to be ashamed of. So I hold her even tighter.

She melts into me, and the scent of her hair hits me. Sweet and warm, like vanilla and sleep. Not a product or a perfume, just… her.

I breathe it in and I don’t know what the fuck comes over me.

Maybe it’s how fragile she feels. Maybe it’s the way she trusted me, of all people, with this moment. Or maybe it’s the part of me that’s been starving for her since the moment I laid eyes on her. But before I can stop myself, I lean in and press a kiss to the back of her neck.

It’s soft, barely there, but her whole body goes completely still.

Fuck.

I went too far. I can try to tell myself it’s harmless. That it’s just a quiet kiss she’ll forget about in the morning. But even as I think it, I know I’m full of shit.

She didn’t ask for that.

She asked me to stay, to hold her, to be someone who expected nothing in return, and I fucking blew it.

I’m an idiot.

I exhale, trying to reel it back in, trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter, that I can still be what she needs.

But then she shifts, and before I can process it, she’s reaching for my belt.

My brain blanks for a second, and then I freeze.

Because I know what this is, what she’s offering.

And yeah, maybe I’ve thought about her like that before, but not like this, not when she’s still reeling from everything.

I catch her wrist gently, before she can go further, and thread our fingers together instead.

She freezes, nods her head softly, and then breaks all over again.

Her sobs return, sharper this time. Messier. Like stopping her hand was worse than letting it happen.

I hold her tighter, not because I have to, but because I want to.

And for the first time since we met, I don’t feel bad about that.

I lie there for hours, staring at the wall, and listening to her breathe.

Now and then, she shifts in my arms, like she’s testing to see if I’m still here.

I try not to think too hard about why that makes me feel something.

Eventually, a thin strip of sunlight slips through the gap in the curtains.

It hits the far wall and crawls up - slow, warm and unwelcome.

It’s morning already.

She’ll be up soon, and she might be hungry.

I glance at the cold plate on the nightstand.

Shit.

I’d better make her something fresh.

Careful not to wake her, I untangle our hands, ease my arm out from under her pillow and slip out of bed.

She stirs a little but doesn’t wake up, murmuring something unintelligible before sinking her face deeper into the pillows.

I pause for a second, just to take one last look at her, then I walk out the door.

The hallway’s quiet as I head for the kitchen, plate in hand. Violet’s out cold, but I keep my steps light on the off chance she’ll hear me.

I round the corner and as I do, I catch the sound of something sizzling and the low hum of conversation.

Shit.

Walking into the kitchen, I see Niko leaning against the fridge drinking a cup of coffee and Dallas at the stove, barefoot and shirtless, flipping pancakes like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

They both look up when they hear me approaching.

Dallas gives me a slow, knowing grin. “Morning.”

I give him a grunt and head for the trash bin to toss the scraps before heading to the sink.

Niko tips his chin toward me. “She eat of it?”

“Not really.”

Dallas flips a pancake. “How is she doing?”

“Fine, she slept most of the night.”

They don’t say anything else right away, but I can feel them watching me.

I open the fridge to grab some bacon and throw it into a hot pan.

“Did she, uh… talk to you?” Dallas asks.

I glance over at him and can see the undercurrent of hope in his eyes as he finishes plating his pancakes.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “She wasn’t really in the mood to talk.”

“But she asked you to stay?” Niko asks.

I glance over at him. He’s not mocking me; he just looks curious.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just for a bit. I think she just didn’t want to be alone.”

Dallas nods like that answers something for him.

“It’s good you were there for her.” Dallas says. “I’m glad she trusts you.”

I grip the handle of the pan and focus on the sizzle. “Yeah. Can we be done talking about this now?”

“You’re cooking for her, aren’t you?” Dallas asks, smirking like he can’t help himself as he plates his pancakes. “You’re setting the bar kind of high, man. Next thing we know, you’ll be writing her poetry.”

I level him with a look. “Say one more word and I’ll crack this skillet over your big ass head.”

Niko huffs a low laugh and nearly spits out his coffee.

“Hey, my head is perfectly proportioned to my body; you’re the one freaking out because your heart finally did something human and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

I shove a few slices of bread into the toaster. “It did not-”

The smell of something burning hits me and I turn to find the bacon burning and thick smoke pluming off the pan.

“Fuck,” I mutter, yanking the pan off the burner and tossing it into the sink.

Dallas chuckles as he walks up behind me to have a look at the aftermath. “Pretty sure she’d prefer her food not incinerated, but you do you.”

I sigh. “I’ll go pick something up.”

“You should grab donuts. The pink ones with sprinkles are her favorite. Oh, and don’t forget donut holes. For me, not for her,” he adds with a wink.

I don’t answer. I just grab my keys and flip him off as I head for the door.

“Proud of you, man.” He calls out after me, making me pause. “For once, you didn’t let the job hold you back.”

I shake my head and push the door open.

The cold air hits me like a reset, but his words linger in the back of my mind .

I didn’t put the job first last night, and maybe there’ll be hell to pay for that.

But right now? It feels worth it.

Because for a few hours…

I had her.