Page 88 of Twisted Violet
They probably meant well, but it just proves what I’ve been worried about all along. They don’t really know me, not in the way I want them to.
The elevator ride back up is quiet. The roses feel like they’re expanding with every floor, taking up more space in my arms, more air in my lungs.
When I make it to our floor, I set the bouquet on the kitchen island, and stare at it for fartoo long.
An hour later,I’m curled up on the couch when I hear the elevator ding.
Dallas strolls in first, his hands full of dog treats, with Ollie trotting by his side. Rome and Niko follow behind him, both dressed down in plain tees and joggers, mid-conversation about something I don’t quite catch.
They all stop short when they see the bouquet on the counter.
“Who are those from?” Rome asks, shifting his weight like he’s bracing for an answer he won’t like.
I force a small smile. “There’s no note. You tell me.”
Dallas shakes his head. “Wasn’t me. I would’ve picked violets. Obviously.”
Niko frowns. “We all know you hate the smell of roses.”
I blink. “Wait. None of you sent them?”
They all shake their heads in unison.
A chill creeps across my skin, blooming at the base of my neck and crawling down my arms.
Theydidn’t send them.
None of them did.
I stare at the roses. The petals seem sharper now, too red. Tooperfect.
A sick feeling pools in my gut. My heart thumps hard against my ribs, faster now, like it already knows something I don’t.
I take a step back. Then another. My breath quickens.
I don’t want to look.I don’t want toknow, but my hands move anyway, numb and shaky as I reach for my phone on the counter.
My thumb unlocks the screen.
And there it is… a new message from an unknown number.
The phone slips from my hand and hits the hardwood with a dull thud.
The noise makes all three of the guys look at me, but I can’t speak.
My heart stutters and then takes off, pounding so fast it feels like it might break free from my chest. The edges of the room go blurry. The air feels thick. Heavy. Unbreathable.
Because it’shim.
He knows.
Where I breathe. Where I sleep. Where I thought I was safe.
The color drains from my face as my eyes lock on the flowers like they might open their petals and swallow me whole.
Rome says my name.
A question.
