Page 27 of Twisted Violet
I wait until he’s almost gone before I say, “Hey, Dallas?”
He stops and looks over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say. “For all of this.”
His smile is quiet, easy, but his eyes flicker like he’s feeling more than he’s saying.
“Anytime, V.”
He walks away, and I sit there with Ollie curled up beside me, his head heavy on my leg, the smell of lemon tea and old book pages in the air.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m crashing on someone’s couch.
I feel like I might belong.
And that freaking terrifies me.
NINE
VIOLET
This room was tailoredfor me.
I know that.
I can see it in every detail. The pale gray walls with lavender undertones. The floating bookshelves, already lined with the titles I reread when the world gets too loud. The throw blanket draped across the foot of the bed that I once told Stevie I wanted because it reminded me of the night sky.
Everything about this place is thoughtful. Purposeful. But knowing something was made for you isn’t the same as believing you deserve it, and every beautiful detail only serves to remind me that I don’t belong here.
Not in this apartment. Not in this quiet. Not in this life that feels like someone else’s.
Niko said he killed my attacker. He said it was his bullet that ended his life. But weboth know the man was already dead when he got there. Still, he looked me in the eye and gave me a version of the truth I could live with. And I let him. Because I didn’t have the strength to argue, and I didn’t have it in me to carry the weight of one more thing.
I let him clean up my mess. I let him lie for me. And now I’m here, wrapped in warmth I didn’t earn, in a room I don’t deserve, wondering if this is all I’ll ever be.
A liability. A burden. Something people constantly feel sorry for because it’s too broken to function.
I haven't unpacked yet.
I just shoved my duffel in the corner and spent the last two hours rearranging the books on the shelves over and over again. First alphabetically, then by height, then by color.
I glance at the closed door.
I haven’t left my wing since Dallas gave me the tour last night, so I haven’t seen any of them today,but I can hear them.
Rome’s footsteps are always easy to recognize. They’re measured and no-nonsense, like he has somewhere to be. Dallas usually hums when he’s walking around. He’s almost always off-key, but it never seems to bother him. Niko usually walks around when it’s late. I know it’s him because he barely makes a soundwhen he moves, and it’s like I can sense his presence more than anything.
They’re out there, and I’m in here, and honestly, that distance is the only thing keeping me sane right now.
The next morning,I wake up before the sun rises. The apartment is quiet. No creaking floorboards, no low mum of conversation, just stillness.
I tiptoe into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. There’s something sacred about being the only one awake. Like the apartment is letting me borrow time that doesn’t belong to me. I make a single piece of toast, butter it lightly, and pour half a glass of orange juice. Not a drop more. If I keep the dent in supplies small enough, they won’t notice.
I sit at the far end of the kitchen island with my back to the door, legs pulled up beneath me, and take slow, quiet bites.
Then I hear the soft shuffle of claws on hardwood.
Ollie trots out of one of the other wings, tail wagging like he already knew I’d be here. He doesn’t bark or whine. Just flops down dramatically at my feet like I’ve personally offended him by not making a second piece of toast for him.
