38. Venetia
I race down the stairs, nearly tripping in my frantic rush to open the door before the visitor loses patience and walks away. No one ever comes to our house, and if they do, it must be for a serious reason. I don’t want Dad lecturing me later about being irresponsible.
West is right on my heels, asking the same question over and over, his voice a blend of confusion, frustration, and annoyance. Since he found me at that party, he’s refused to leave my side. He drove me home and insisted on staying the night, no matter how much I tried to push him out, telling him I needed some space.
I needed to shower, to process everything—the whirlwind of emotions he stirred in me. But of course, he didn’t listen. He never says he’s worried; West would never admit to something like that. Instead, he just implies he doesn’t want anyone noticing I came back from the party alone. After all, we’re still the inseparable lovebirds.
But we both know it runs deeper than that. Beneath the surface, there’s an undeniable shift between us. It’s more than just the incredible pleasure he gave me last night—though that’s worth talking about. It’s something deeper, something we can’t ignore.
I’m not exactly sure why or how it happened, but somehow, we’re no longer itching to claw each other’s eyes out—and that’s a definite change of scenery, one I’m not quite sure how to feel about.
I grab the door handle and swing it open, letting in the fresh, hot air. Today is warmer than usual, and although I’m not typically a fan of sunny days, it lightens my mood a bit.
Standing on the doorstep is a man in a black tracksuit and baseball cap, a wide grin on his face. He’s holding a bouquet of assorted flowers in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “Venetia Ross?” he asks, shoving the clipboard toward me before I can even reply. “Sign for the package, please.”
Blinking in confusion, still half-asleep, I stammer, “I didn’t—” but trail off, deciding it’s pointless to explain. He’s waited long enough for me, and I need to pull myself together. I grab the clipboard and sign it, muttering a quick, “Thanks.”
“What is this?” comes West’s voice, suddenly way too close to my ear. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I force a polite smile, hand the clipboard back to the delivery guy, and take the flowers.
“Have a nice day,” the man says, glancing nervously between my smile and West’s scowl. I don’t need to see it to know exactly how annoyed he looks.
He turns and heads back to his car, leaving me alone with the grumpy asshole. “What the fuck is this, Venetia?” West demands. Calm and unbothered, I step back inside, shut the door, and nudge him with my shoulder as I shove past him. It’s nine in the morning, and he’s already irritated. I honestly can’t fathom how he keeps up this intensity all the time.
“I don’t know, West,” I finally reply, walking into the living room, setting the flowers on the coffee table, and plopping down on the couch. “Maybe there’s a card in here?—”
“There better be,” he snaps, dropping down beside me. The impact jolts me, making me bounce as he leans in, his eyes burning holes into the bouquet. “So I know who I should be tracking down.”
I click my tongue in irritation, twisting the bouquet to find a small card tucked inside. A faint smile creeps onto my face as I pull out the tiny piece of cardstock and read the note.
Hope you’re doing well. I can’t stop thinking of you. I’m sorry for the things I’ve said. Love, (friendly) Eli.
“Is he fucking serious?” West grumbles, snatching the card from my hand. “‘Can’t stop thinking about you,’” he reads with exaggerated disgust. “And ‘Love, friendly’? What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
I ignore him, focusing on the flowers instead. Grabbing the bouquet, I rise and head toward the kitchen, trying to remember whether we even have a vase. I’ve never received flowers before, so I’m not sure.
He catches up to me, slapping the card onto the kitchen counter with a look of pure frustration. “Will you talk to me?” he urges. “I think I deserve an explanation.”
“There’s nothing to explain, West,” I say calmly, searching through the cabinets. “I haven’t spoken to Eli since the day I found out about our engagement. He probably just feels guilty for how things ended.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” he insists. “You’re my fiancée, and if he hurt you, he needs to learn a fucking lesson.”
A strange flutter stirs in my chest, and I bite my lip, suppressing the reaction I always have when he gets protective. “Relax, West. It wasn’t serious. And this,” I begin, finally pulling out a small vase perfect for the bouquet, “means nothing.”
He’s simmering, silent but tense, even though he knows it’s nothing serious. It’s as if he’s constantly on the hunt for something to set him off. “This fucker is sending you flowers, knowing you’re engaged, and writes about love. He’s clearly hoping for something.”
I laugh, filling the vase with water and placing it on the table. Carefully, I arrange the flowers, smoothing out a few petals. “Whatever you say,” I reply, a hint of amusement in my voice. “You know I’m not interested in Eli.”
He steps closer, and I turn to face him, trying to gauge what’s going on in that intense mind of his. I can practically see the dark, violent images flashing in his head.
Blood, guts, blood, Eli’s screams, more blood.
“It’s like he wanted to humiliate you,” West mutters, and I frown, surprised at his words, but he won’t meet my eyes. He’s focused on the flowers, his fingers pulling at the petals. “What are these? Is that actual fucking wheat?” He yanks out a stalk I hadn’t noticed. “And daisies? Dahlias? Is he kidding?”
“What is your problem?” I ask firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “These are pretty.”
At last, he meets my eyes, and a mix of emotions flashes across his face. With his usual irritated scowl and his hair a mess from sleep, he looks… adorable. And the fact that he’s arguing with me over flowers only adds to it.
“My problem is that this is ridiculous,” he says with a mocking laugh. “They don’t even look good aesthetically. Did he pick them out blindfolded?”
I bite back a chuckle. “Oh, please. You’re the one being ridiculous. What’s this about? Are you jealous?”
His eyes roll, and his nostrils flare, showing his never-ending frustration. “Because of that idiot? Hardly. It just annoys me.”
“What, exactly?”
“The fact that he had the nerve to send this junk to a woman like you.”
A smirk spreads across my face as my eyebrows shoot up. “A woman like me?”
He studies me, his gaze sweeping over my shorts and the thin T-shirt. It feels like he’s stripping me with his eyes, and I feel a strange blend of embarrassment and a warm flutter in my lower stomach.
“A woman who deserves more than this trash,” he says, and for once since this conversation began, there’s no mockery in his tone. He actually means it. “Something a lot prettier, a lot more thoughtful—something that would bring out a real smile, not that awkward one you forced.”
Funny how I look far from decent now, in my baggy shirt, swollen-from-sleep face, and tangled hair tied in a haphazard bun. Still, it doesn’t stop him from looking at me like I’m the prettiest in the world. It feels like he sees a completely different picture of me—the one I’ve always wanted to see in a reflection but never succeeded in seeing. It’s not the first time he’s hinted at how beautiful I am or how I deserve everything.
Realizing what he’s done, West clears his throat awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. His azure eyes lock onto mine for a moment, and a heavy silence falls over us.
I wait for him to say something, to correct himself, or remind me of his true nature, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands there, awkwardly glancing between me and the floor, like a high schooler caught in the act.
A strange sensation spirals through my system, followed by a prickling itch in my hands. I’m frozen in place when, suddenly, an invisible force nudges me forward. Without fully realizing it, I take a step closer to him. He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he notices, but when he steps toward me, I snap. The tension weighs heavily on my shoulders as I lower my head and briskly walk out of the kitchen, leaving him alone.
A force twists at my knees, urging me back to him. But I can’t bring myself to go. This is too much— he is too much. His words, his actions, the way he looks at me—it’s all too fucking much.
It was never supposed to be like this.
He evokes something pure, fresh, and unsettling inside me, and that makes me question everything I used to believe.
He evokes a feeling I’m not sure I can handle.
A feeling I don’t deserve.