Page 94 of Twisted Violet
I steady myself on the desk. “Any chance he came back later?”
“Working on the scans now.”
I nod once and back away from the monitor, like distance might help me breathe again.
It doesn’t.
She’s been in danger the whole time, and I was too fucking busy falling for herto notice.
I lookin the mirror and can’t stand the reflection staring back at me.
He’s pompous.
Fucking arrogant.
Thinks he’s got it all under control, when in reality, he hasn’t been controlling anything.
My fist snaps forward before I can stop it.
Glass shatters under my knuckles, sending shards raining into the sink.
The pain doesn’t bother me.
Neither does the blood.
I’ve seen worse. Inflicted worse.
I flex my hand under the stream and watch the water run pink. It’s not enough to feel like penance, but it’ll have to do.
Violet is in danger, and that’s onme.
I was supposed to protect her, keep her out of harm’s way.
Instead, I was in bed with her with my head full of sugar and skin and her soft breaths.
I didn’t just let my guard down. I fucking dismantled it. And now she’s curled on the couch like something’s been carved out of her. Crying in silence while the man who broke her sends flowers to my fucking home like it’s a game to him.
I turn off the faucet, grab a roll of gauze, and wind it tight around my hand. Blood seeps through almost immediately, so I add a few more layers until the red disappears.
When it’s covered, I flex my fingers, swallow the ache, and step out of the bathroom like nothing’s wrong.
The living room is quiet when we come back.
Violet is still huddled in the corner of thecouch with Ollie at her feet. Stevie’s on the couch beside her with one arm curled around her. Atlas and Cyrus are half-asleep in the armchairs. Niko is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Dallas is on the floor with Ezra sitting next to him mumbling something about Ollie chewing his shoelaces. And Tristan is posted up by the window, keeping watch.
They didn’t leave.
None of them did.
Good.
Violet needs all of us right now.
Even if she won’t say so.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, just watching her. She isn’t crying anymore, but she’s not really present either. Her fingers are twisted in the blanket, and her eyes fixed on the edge of the coffee table like it might bite her if she looks away too long.
She’s freezing. I can tell by the way her shoulders bunch under the throw. So, I head for the linen closet.
