Page 40 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

THIRTY-NINE

VIOLET

Stevie and Atlas walk me up to the guesthouse, but they don’t hover.

They don’t ask if I’m okay.

They don’t need to.

Because I think, they finally see it.

Not just the pain I carried.

Not just the cracks in my voice or the scars on my skin.

But the strength that came after.

I didn’t kill him. But I didn’t have to. I looked my monster in the eye… and I walked away before he could take anything else from me.

That was my choice.

And whatever happens to him in Ezra’s basement is none of my concern.

The guesthouse is beautiful.

Stevie designed it, so of course every detail feels intentional .

The floors are warm-toned hardwood, the kind that don’t creak under bare feet.

The walls are a soft, dusty sage. There’s a window seat tucked in the corner of the living room, and a line of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with all of my favorite books.

Romance. True crime. Even the manga collection I thought I lost in the move.

There are scented candles by the tub, a diffuser on the dresser, and a woven blanket in my favorite shade of lavender draped perfectly at the foot of the bed.

It’s peaceful.

Cozy.

Seriously cute.

I can feel how carefully she built this place to make me feel like I belong.

And I do.

Or… I should.

But somehow, it still doesn’t feel like mine.

It’s not comfort or beauty missing.

It’s them.

The noise.

The chaos.

Niko, always adjusting the thermostat too low and pretending it wasn’t on purpose. Dallas, sprawling across the entire couch like he owned the place. Rome, moving through a room without touching anything, yet still taking up all the space.

This place is perfect. But I miss the mess, the presence. The feeling of being seen, even when I didn’t want to be.

I sit on the bed, arms wrapped around my knees, and let the silence settle. It doesn’t crawl across the floor like it used to. Doesn’t strangle. Doesn’t bite. It just exists.

Soft and still.

You’re safe now, I remind myself. This is your home.

And yet, all I can think about is the one I left behind.

The clack of Rome’s keyboard in the office. The ghost of Niko’s cologne in the cushions. Dallas humming off-key while he cooked pancakes with too much syrup and not enough patience.

Their place was chaotic. Claustrophobic. A mess of mismatched mugs and weapons stashed in drawers.

But it felt like home.

I don’t sleep much.

But I don’t dream either.

Which feels like a win, all things considered.

By morning, I’m craving something familiar. So I pad into the main house with the half-formed idea of making breakfast for everyone.

I step into the kitchen and find that someone’s already beaten me to it.

Marta, their private chef, greets me with a smile.

“Good Morning Miss Alex,” she says warmly. “Your sister and the boys are probably still sleeping, but I wanted to make sure you had something fresh to eat on your first day home.”

She hands me a plate stacked with avocado toast, bacon and perfectly crisp hash browns.

It smells delicious. Tastes even better. But it feels like someone else’s version of home. Perfectly plated. Perfectly seasoned. But not mine.

I sit at the dining room table and eat in silence. There’s no sarcastic comment from Rome about carbs. No gentle glance from Niko across the table. And no Dallas dramatically dropping three plates of food in front of me like he’s worried I’m wasting away.

Just me, a fork, and a meal I didn’t ask for.

God, I miss them.

And I hate that I do.

Stevie walks into the dining room a few minutes later, in leggings and a messy bun, holding a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

She takes the seat across from me and studies me for a long, quiet moment.

“Sleep okay?” she asks.

I nod.

She studies me for a moment. “You alright?”

I poke at my hash browns. “I will be.”

She nods. “Can I ask you something?”

I glance up.

She hesitates for a second. “How did you feel about the guys?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

I thought I’d moved past it.

I thought I’d shut that door, but the ache in my chest says otherwise.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, stabbing at my toast. “It doesn’t matter how I felt. It was all a lie anyway.”

Stevie doesn’t argue. She just sips her coffee.

“You should know…” she says gently, setting her cup down. “They sent the money back.”

I freeze and look up to search her eyes. “What?”

“The night I confronted them,” she says. “As soon as I left the building, they wired it back. Every cent. And they cancelled the exclusivity contract with us.”

I stare at her.

“That doesn’t mean I should forgive them,” I whisper.

“No,” she agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

She pauses.

“But it is something to think about.”

She leans forward, her voice steady, warm. “Whatever you decide… I trust you, Alex. You don’t need anyone’s permission. Not mine. Not theirs. You’ve already proved you’re more than capable of standing on your own.”

My throat tightens.

I look down at my plate, blinking once.

Then, I nod.

Because for the first time in years…

I get to decide what comes next.