Page 41 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

FORTY

NIKO

Three Months Late r

Dr. Kim never asks what I’m thinking.

He just waits.

It’s annoying at first. The silence. The way he stares like he already knows and wants to see if I’ll admit it. But after six sessions, I’ve figured out he’s not trying to trap me. He just knows I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Today, I guess I’m ready.

“I used to like the dark,” I tell him, eyeing the corner of his chair. “It made things simpler. Easier to disappear. Safer.”

He nods, waiting.

“It changed after a job. A kid was involved. Wasn’t supposed to be. Everyone said the house would be empty.” I pause. My throat tightens. “It wasn’t.”

Dr. Kim doesn’t react. Just keeps listening.

“I found him in a closet. Hiding behind coats. Holding a stuffed lion covered in blood. He couldn’t have been older than four.”

The room’s too quiet.

It always is when I talk about this.

I don’t explain how his eyes were green like Violet’s. I don’t explain the way I froze. Or how I lied to keep him hidden. Or how I sat there and watched my boss drag him out.

I just say the only part I haven’t said out loud yet.

“I didn’t stop it.”

There’s a long pause.

Dr. Kim leans forward slightly. “You were a soldier. Under command. That doesn’t make it okay, but-”

“No. It doesn’t.” I say, finally meeting his eyes. “He begged me for help, and I just sat there. So now… every time the lights go out, I see him. I see what I let happen. And I remember I didn’t save him.”

There’s a long silence.

Then I say the part I never thought I’d say.

“I did the same thing with Violet. I shut down. Her sister was pressing us, wanting to know what she meant to us. Vi was in the hallway listening, and I said nothing, even though I already knew how I felt about her.”

“And how do you feel about her?

“Until Vi…” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t think anyone could look at me and see anything but the worst parts. And I didn’t give a damn if they did.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. My throat feels scraped raw, but the words keep coming.

“She makes me want to be… better. Not for me. For her. So when it matters, when it really matters, she knows I’ll be there.”

When I get back to the apartment, Ollie rushes up to greet me. Tongue out. Tail wagging.

Dallas is on the couch, flipping through channels. Rome’s in the kitchen with a glass of something brown and expensive.

Rome nods toward me. “Therapy?”

I nod back. “Yeah.”

He lifts his glass slightly, like a quiet show of respect, then sips.

Dallas speaks without looking up. “I saw her this morning.”

My spine straightens. “Where?”

He shrugs. “Little bakery downtown. She was working. Looked good. Happy.”

The word sits heavy in the room.

Rome leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Stevie said she moved out of the guesthouse two weeks ago. Got her own place and everything.”

Dallas tosses the remote onto the couch cushion beside him. “I didn’t go in. Just… watched her through the window.”

The silence turns sharp. Thick with things we’ll never say out loud.

Finally, I ask, “What’s the name of the bakery?”

Dallas glances at me. “Why?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t have a good one.

Dallas sighs, then tells me.

I nod once .

And say nothing else.

The first night I show up outside of the bakery, she flinches.

Not visibly. Not in a way most people would catch. But I’m not most people and she’s not just anyone.

She’s got her keys looped around her fingers, her phone tucked under her arm, and her eyes are scanning the street like she’s memorizing the shadows.

When she sees me, standing on the sidewalk, hands in my pockets, she stills for half a second.

I don’t say anything. I just fall into step beside her as she makes the walk from the back door of the bakery to the lot where her car is parked.

Three minutes.

That’s all I get.

I don’t ask her how she’s been and she doesn’t ask me why I’m there.

She just unlocks her car, gets in, and drives away.

I stay until her taillights disappear.

Then I go home.

It becomes a thing after that.

Every night, closing time.

Same corner of the lot.

Same three-minute walk.

She never says much.

Sometimes she nods.

Sometimes she just looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she isn’t sure she wants the answer to.

But she lets me walk her.

Every time.

It’s not about safety.

Not really.

The neighborhood is quiet. There are cameras, streetlights, and the police constantly patrol the area.

It’s about showing up for her, even when she doesn’t ask, especially when she doesn’t ask.

Some nights are harder than others. The dark still messes with my head. But I show up anyway. Because she’s worth it.

She’s worth everything.

One night she turns to me, halfway through the walk, and says, “You don’t have to do this, you know…”

I shrug. “I know.”

She studies me for a second. “Then why do you?”

I hesitate.

Then say the only thing that feels true. “Because I want to.”

That’s it.

No conditions.

No expectations.

She nods once, then unlocks her car.

And this time… she doesn’t leave right away.

She sits there in the driver’s seat, engine off, watching me through the mirror like she’s trying to decide something .

Then she reaches across the console and pops the passenger lock.

I hesitate.

It’s new.

Different.

I open the door and slide in. The car smells like her. Like vanilla and and sugar and warmth.

She keeps her hands on the wheel and stares out the window.

“You seem… different.” She says quietly.

I lean back, watching her profile in the dim glow from the parking lot light.

“I’m finally dealing with all the shit in my head.” I say, nodding. “Started going to therapy.”

Her eyes flick to me. “That’s good. Has it been helping?”

“I think so.” I pause, tapping my fingers against my knees. “It’s been hard, but I like doing the work.”

She bites her lip, eyes still locked on the windshield. “Is that why you’ve been showing up here at night? Some sort of exposure therapy for the dark?”

“It’s part of it,” I admit.

She hesitates, fingers brushing over the stitching on the steering wheel.

“What’s the other part?” She asks softly.

I glance at her. “You really want to know?”

She nods.

I close my eyes, and allow myself to be pulled back into the memory.

“Before I met Rome, I was involved in a gang that dealt with some nefarious shit. Violent assaults, extortion, assassinations. I was young, na?ve, and eager to please. On this particular night, my crew was assigned a hit job. It was supposed to be clean. A rival gang leader and a few of his soldiers. We were told his family was gone for the weekend. Everyone was sure of it. I was sure of it.”

Her hands tighten on the wheel, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“Then I heard it. A kid crying. Muffled, somewhere in the drywall. I followed it to a closet, found a panel half-hidden behind some coats. He couldn’t have been older than four. He was curled up with a stuffed lion soaked in someone else’s blood.”

Her breath hitches, but she stays quiet.

“When he saw me, he begged for his mom, and I didn’t know what to do. Women and children had always been a hard line for me, but I should’ve made an exception then. I should’ve ended it for him so he wouldn’t have to live through what came next.” My jaw locks.

“But I couldn’t do it. So I told him to be quiet, then I shut the panel, and waited in the dark for everyone else to clear out.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, as the memory scrapes against bones.

“My boss came into the room for a final sweep and when I told him it was clear, he sensed the lie immediately. He shoved me out of the way, ripped the panel open, and dragged the kid out by his hair. As he was struggling, he looked right at me and begged me for help. And I just… watched.”

The silence in the car is thick.

“I didn’t intervene when he killed him. I didn’t even cry. I just sat in the dark watching the life drain from his eyes. And now? Every time the lights go out, that’s what I see. Not peace. Not quiet. Just that little boy and the reminder that I failed him.”

I lift my head to meet her eyes. “That’s why I’m here every night. Because I know I failed you, too. So, I’m going to do everything I can to prove that I’ll never let you down again.”

She holds my gaze, steady and unblinking, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me.

Then, slowly, she reaches into her glove box and pulls out a folded up piece of paper and tosses it into my lap.

I glance down.

It’s a sketch. A delicate line work design of a crescent moon framed by a scatter of 9 tiny stars.

“I’ve got an appointment with Sean next Wednesday after work.”

My fingers trace the edge of the paper, careful not to smudge it.

It’s beautiful. And more than that, it feels like a piece of her she’s letting me see.

She starts the engine, the low hum filling the quiet between us.

“You should come,” she adds casually, but her eyes flick to me like the words matter more than she’s letting on.

It takes me a second to answer.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll be there.”

I fold the sketch carefully, set it back in her glove-box, and slip out of the car in the cool night air.

The dark is still heavy, but it doesn’t press as hard. Not when she’s here with me.