Page 35 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)
THIRTY-FOUR
ROME
The walk to our security room is short.
Tristan’s already there when I arrive. The monitors in front of him cycle between feeds. Exterior, lobby, elevator, garage. I step inside and shut the door behind me.
“What do we have?” I ask.
“Traffic cams caught a black SUV idling near the east entrance the night Stevie and Atlas visited,” Tristan says without looking up. “No plates. No identifying marks.”
My spine locks.
“When?”
He taps a few keys and pulls the feed up on the largest monitor.
“Here.”
The timestamp flashes.
1:27 AM. Five days ago.
The same night.
The same fucking night she was in my bed, dusted in sugar and smiling like the world was finally quiet .
I step closer to the screen. The SUV’s windows are blacked out. No decals. No movement. But it’s there. Sitting across the street, engine on, lights off.
Watching. Waiting.
Stevie and Atlas left around 2:00 A.M.
I remember it now.
I didn’t check the cameras after I went back to my room.
I didn’t think I needed to.
“Zoom in,” I say.
Tristan does. The image is grainy; there’s still no plate, but the silhouette of the driver is visible. Big frame, white shirt, with a dark coat slung over the seat.
I stare at the screen like it owes me a fucking apology.
“How long was he parked there?”
“Thirty-seven minutes,” Tristan replies. “He never got out of the car and drove off just before 2:04 A.M.”
I scrub a hand down my face.
He didn’t need to get out of the car because he wasn’t here for Stevie.
He was here for her.
I should’ve noticed he followed them here, but I didn’t.
She was in my bed.
Exposed and unprotected.
I steady myself on the desk. “Any chance he came back later?”
“Working on the scans now.”
I nod once and back away from the monitor, like distance might help me breathe again.
It doesn’t.
She’s been in danger the whole time, and I was too fucking busy falling for her to notice.
I look in the mirror and can’t stand the reflection staring back at me.
He’s pompous.
Fucking arrogant.
Thinks he’s got it all under control, when in reality, he hasn’t been controlling anything.
My fist snaps forward before I can stop it.
Glass shatters under my knuckles, sending shards raining into the sink.
The pain doesn’t bother me.
Neither does the blood.
I’ve seen worse. Inflicted worse.
I flex my hand under the stream and watch the water run pink. It’s not enough to feel like penance, but it’ll have to do.
Violet is in danger, and that’s on me.
I was supposed to protect her, keep her out of harm’s way.
Instead, I was in bed with her with my head full of sugar and skin and her soft breaths.
I didn’t just let my guard down. I fucking dismantled it. And now she’s curled on the couch like something’s been carved out of her. Crying in silence while the man who broke her sends flowers to my fucking home like it’s a game to him.
I turn off the faucet, grab a roll of gauze, and wind it tight around my hand. Blood seeps through almost immediately, so I add a few more layers until the red disappears.
When it’s covered, I flex my fingers, swallow the ache, and step out of the bathroom like nothing’s wrong.
The living room is quiet when we come back.
Violet is still huddled in the corner of the couch with Ollie at her feet.
Stevie’s on the couch beside her with one arm curled around her.
Atlas and Cyrus are half-asleep in the armchairs.
Niko is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
Dallas is on the floor with Ezra sitting next to him mumbling something about Ollie chewing his shoelaces.
And Tristan is posted up by the window, keeping watch.
They didn’t leave.
None of them did.
Good.
Violet needs all of us right now.
Even if she won’t say so.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, just watching her. She isn’t crying anymore, but she’s not really present either. Her fingers are twisted in the blanket, and her eyes fixed on the edge of the coffee table like it might bite her if she looks away too long.
She’s freezing. I can tell by the way her shoulders bunch under the throw. So, I head for the linen closet.
When I come back, I’ve got the thickest comforter we own. Soft, worn, and still faintly smelling like the dryer sheet she always sneaks into the laundry.
I walk over without a word.
She doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring at the table like she’s underwater and everything’s muffled.
I crouch beside her and unfold the comforter slowly, careful not to make her flinch.
Then I tuck it around her. Wrapping it gently around her shoulders, and making sure her hands are covered too, because they always get cold first .
I know that about her. I know a lot of things I probably shouldn’t about her.
When I finish, I rest my hand on the edge of the couch, just for a second, to show that I’m here for her, and that I’ll always will be.
Her eyes flick to me, barely, but it’s enough for me to know she got the message.
I pull back and settle on the floor next to her.
When I glance up, Stevie’s watching me.
She says nothing; just studies my face like she’s trying to fit something together.
Then she shifts, tugs Violet just a little closer, and mouths-
Thank you.