Page 32 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

THIRTY-ONE

VIOLET

The water is too hot.

I scrub at the same plate for the third time, letting the heat bite into my skin until my fingertips sting. The soap suds slide over porcelain and disappear down the drain in lazy spirals.

It’s mindless. Soothing in a way. Something to do with my hands so the focus isn’t on the ache still tucked beneath my ribs.

The apartment phone buzzes, sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet like a blade. I dry my hands on a dish towel and cross the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Miss Warner?” a voice says through the speaker. “You’ve got a delivery downstairs.”

I blink. “I didn’t order anything.”

“It’s addressed to you.”

I pause .

“Okay,” I say, too confused to say anything else. “I’ll be right down.”

The moment I step into the lobby, I see it.

A massive bouquet of roses.

At least three dozen, maybe more. Deep red. Dramatic. Wrapped in expensive paper with gold ribbon curling down the sides. They’re sitting on a rolling cart beside the desk, looking completely out of place next to the matte concrete walls and polished steel security posts.

The front desk attendant smiles politely. “These came for you.”

I walk over slowly, like the flowers might bite.

The scent is immediate. Overpowering, syrupy, invasive.

I force my expression to stay neutral as I scribble my name on the tablet and accept the bouquet.

“They’re beautiful,” the guard offers.

I nod, but I don’t agree.

I hate roses. They’re showy and impersonal. A lazy default when someone wants to look thoughtful without trying. And the moment I lift them into my arms, the weight of that truth hits hard. One of the guys bought me roses.

They probably meant well, but it just proves what I’ve been worried about all along. They don’t really know me, not in the way I want them to.

The elevator ride back up is quiet. The roses feel like they’re expanding with every floor, taking up more space in my arms, more air in my lungs.

When I make it to our floor, I set the bouquet on the kitchen island, and stare at it for far too long.

An hour later, I’m curled up on the couch when I hear the elevator ding.

Dallas strolls in first, his hands full of dog treats, with Ollie trotting by his side. Rome and Niko follow behind him, both dressed down in plain tees and joggers, mid-conversation about something I don’t quite catch.

They all stop short when they see the bouquet on the counter.

“Who are those from?” Rome asks, shifting his weight like he’s bracing for an answer he won’t like.

I force a small smile. “There’s no note. You tell me.”

Dallas shakes his head. “Wasn’t me. I would’ve picked violets. Obviously.”

Niko frowns. “We all know you hate the smell of roses.”

I blink. “Wait. None of you sent them?”

They all shake their heads in unison.

A chill creeps across my skin, blooming at the base of my neck and crawling down my arms.

They didn’t send them.

None of them did.

I stare at the roses. The petals seem sharper now, too red. Too perfect.

A sick feeling pools in my gut. My heart thumps hard against my ribs, faster now, like it already knows something I don’t.

I take a step back. Then another. My breath quickens.

I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know , but my hands move anyway, numb and shaky as I reach for my phone on the counter.

My thumb unlocks the screen.

And there it is… a new message from an unknown number.

The phone slips from my hand and hits the hardwood with a dull thud.

The noise makes all three of the guys look at me, but I can’t speak.

My heart stutters and then takes off, pounding so fast it feels like it might break free from my chest. The edges of the room go blurry. The air feels thick. Heavy. Unbreathable.

Because it’s him.

He knows.

Where I breathe. Where I sleep. Where I thought I was safe.

The color drains from my face as my eyes lock on the flowers like they might open their petals and swallow me whole.

Rome says my name.

A question.

I don’t answer.

Because the words are stuck somewhere in the back of my throat, blocked by panic and disbelief and fear so loud it drowns out everything else.

Not here.

Not where I thought I was finally safe.

I press my back into the couch, curling into myself as the weight of it all crashes down.

He found me.

He fucking found me.