Page 36 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

THIRTY-FIVE

VIOLET

The world comes back to me in pieces.

The weight of Stevie’s arm around me.

The people in the room, surrounding me.

The quiet murmur of words I can’t make out.

And then… I sense Rome step into the room.

The air shifts as he moves towards me, and his footsteps soften the closer he gets, like he’s afraid he’ll spook me.

I feel the brush of fabric first, then the weight of a comforter settling over my shoulders.

He doesn’t speak or touch more than he has to, but I know it’s him.

He moves like someone who’s memorized every part of me.

I don’t look at him. I can’t. Everything in me feels raw, like my skin’s been peeled back and all of my nerves are now exposed.

But in my head, something cracks open, and now… I can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s morning, I think.

The lamp is still on, but the light through the windows is different. Pale and soft, like the city hasn’t decided if it wants to wake up yet.

Everyone’s still here.

Stevie’s beside me, her arm heavy and warm where it wraps around my back. Her fingers twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s dreaming.

Rome’s still on the floor, his head tipped back against the couch, with his eyes closed and one hand resting near the hem of the comforter.

Ezra’s sleeping on the other side of the coffee table. Dallas is curled on the floor with Ollie half-draped over his legs. Niko is posted against the wall, observing everything. Atlas and Cyrus are knocked out in the armchairs. And Tristan is at the kitchen table tapping on his phone silently.

No one left.

Not when I broke, not when I stopped speaking, not even when I couldn’t look at them.

They all stayed.

I blink hard, staring at the seams of the blanket between my fingers.

This is the weakest I’ve ever been.

The most exposed, the most humiliated, the most honest, and it’s also the most love I’ve ever felt.

Not just from Stevie and The Reapers. But from them . The men I swore were just doing a job. The ones I told myself didn’t actually care.

Rome didn’t have to kneel beside me and cover me in warmth like I was something precious. But he did.

Dallas didn’t have to sit on the floor like my pain had knocked him over too. But he did.

And Niko didn’t have to stay with me when he’s never been the kind to sit still. But he did.

My throat tightens.

If this is what love looks like, quiet and steady and unexpected and real , then maybe I’ve been wrong about what I deserve all along.

Maybe I’m not a burden.

Maybe I’m just… loved.

I awake again sometime later from noise in the kitchen.

I hear a low curse, the clang of a pan, and something sizzling a little too loud to be intentional.

I sit up slightly, careful not to jostle Stevie, and peek over the back of the couch.

Dallas is standing in front of the stove with a spatula in one hand and a dish towel in the other, looking like he’s preparing for war.

His hair is a mess, his T-shirt is wrinkled, and his eyes are still puffy from sleep. But, he’s trying and it’s endearing as hell.

He tosses something in the pan and immediately recoils when smoke billows upward .

I watch him fan it with the towel like that’ll help, muttering under his breath.

Rome walks past the hallway and pauses, blinking once at the chaos before continuing on like this is par for the course.

The corner of my mouth lifts.

Dallas flips what looks to be a very sad attempt at a pancake and glares at the pan like it betrayed him.

“I can help,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Everyone looks up.

Dallas turns, blinking like he’s not sure he heard me right. “You… want to?”

“I think I need to,” I murmur, pushing the blanket off of my legs. “Before you burn the whole place down.”

He steps aside immediately, handing me the spatula like it’s sacred.

I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and grab a clean pan.

The kitchen smells like sugar and burnt batter and something else I can’t quite name.

Home, maybe.

Rome appears again, this time with a mug in his hand. He sets it quietly on the counter beside me. I glance down. It’s my favorite tea.

He doesn’t say a word, just walks away.

I keep cooking.

Dallas sticks by me, watching me like he might learn something, even though we both know he won’t.

By the time I plate everything, eggs, toast, actual pancakes that aren’t charcoal, everyone else has stirred.

Ezra claims the first plate with a low whistle. Tristan mumbles something about “finally edible,” and Niko gives me the closest thing to a smile I’ve ever seen on his face.

They’ re eating my food.

And for the first time since those flowers showed up, I feel like I can breathe again.

Not because everything’s fixed, not because I’m healed, but because they’re still here.

And maybe that’s all I’ve ever needed.