Page 40 of Twisted Violet
FOURTEEN
VIOLET
The rain hasn’t stoppedall morning.
It drips in slow, steady lines down the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the skyline until the buildings look like ghosts. I’ve been staring at the same drop for ten minutes, watching it race the others before it finally disappears into the sill.
My phone sits beside me on the windowsill, lighting up every few minutes.
Another incoming text. Another message I won’t be reading.
He’sbeen messaging me nonstop lately.
I delete them as soon as they come in, but they still leave a lingering effect on me.
It’s not fear exactly.Not anymore.Now it’s morphed into this strange pressure. Like I’m standing on a frozen lake, and every vibration of my phone deepens the cracks in the ice.
I try to ignore it, but deep down I know it’s only a matterof time before it inevitably rips the floor right out from underneath me.
It’s been a couple of weeks since the night in the kitchen with Niko, and I’ve spent most of that time pretending it didn’t happen. I tell myself it was nothing, just a late-night snack, but maybe that’s because the truth feels too raw.
Niko pulled me out of my head that night. Not with some grand gesture, not by forcing me to talk, but with the smallest distraction. Like he knew exactly how to reach me without making it worse. It wasn’t the first time, either. After the attack, when I could barely move or speak, he broke through the fog with ease. He didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He just… knew. The right words. The right silences. The exact thread to pull to bring me back to myself.
That’s why I’ve been avoiding him. Niko understands the dark places in my head in a way no one else does. When he looks at me, it’s like he can see all of it - the cracks, the shadows, the ugly parts I don’t let anyone touch.
And Ihatehow exposed that makes me feel.
My phone buzzes again.
I flinch and glance down at the screen.
It’s a video call.
From Stevie.
I hesitate just long enough for guilt to set in, then I swipe to answer.
Her face fills the screen, looking better than it has in weeks. Her hair’s clean and tied back. She’s sitting up in bed with a mug of tea in one hand and a blanket draped over her shoulders.
“You look like shit,” she says gently.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “You’re glowing.”
She smirks. “The fluorescents are very forgiving.”
I smile, then glance down at my fingernails before continuing. “Any news on the attacker?”
Stevie’s expression shifts. “Yeah. A little. We know he was hired through an agency. One of those black-market fixers who deals in contracted muscle. They didn’t give him a name or a photo of a target. Just instructed him to grab the girl and gave him cash and coordinates.”
My stomach tightens. “And?”
“That’s where the paper trail ends. Tristan said the payment logs were scrubbed. No client listed. Whoever hired him covered their tracks well. We’re still digging, but it’s slow.”
I nod, trying not to let the frustration show on my face.
“Don’t worry though,” she adds quickly. “Nothing else weird has happened in weeks. And now that we know someone’s after us, everyone has got their guard up.”
She says it like that should be enough, like the problem’s been cornered and locked away.
