Chapter 31 Violet
Violet
Char snaps her fingers an inch from my face, close enough that I catch a whiff of her fresh manicure and the faintly acrid burn of hot sauce clinging to her skin. “Earth to Violet!” she calls, voice pitched higher than usual, eyebrows raised.
I blink slowly, dragging my attention back to her. “What?”
She narrows her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Are you gonna actually listen to me, or are you just gonna keep staring into space and let your tortilla chip get soggy?”
I glance down, and sure enough, I’ve got a chip balanced on the rim of the little red salsa ramekin, the bottom half soaked through and drooping like a wet leaf.
Char sighs, plucking the chip from my fingers and popping it into her mouth. She crunches down loudly, watching me with that look she gets when she’s debating whether to pop me upside the head or restrain herself in public.
“You’ve been weird all afternoon,” she says, wiping salt from her fingertips. “Spill.”
I should tell her.
If anyone could help me untangle the knot my brain’s turned into, it’s Char. She’s always been good at cutting through my bullshit and forcing things into neat, solvable pieces.
But that’s exactly the problem.
If I dump this on her, she’ll go all in trying to fix it– and there’s nothing she can actually do. This isn’t the kind of mess you solve with a pep talk and a margarita. This is something I have to work through on my own.
And I don’t even know where the hell to start.
So, I stall, picking at a little scab of dried salsa stuck to the wooden tabletop while I try to assemble a sentence that won’t make me sound completely unhinged.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
Char’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “Bullshit. I know you, Vi. When you’re tired, you get mean, not…
whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely at me, hand circling like she’s trying to define the problem.
“You’re all twitchy and vacant, like one of those stray cats in the alley behind our apartment. ”
She’s not wrong.
My head’s been a blender since the minute I got out of bed this morning.
The drive back from the lake with Kane was a nightmare of uncomfortable silence, neither of us speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. The kind of silence that presses in from all sides until you feel like you’re suffocating.
When he dropped me at the apartment and muttered that he’d be back ‘later’, I spent two straight hours lying flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling like it might spell out answers if I looked hard enough. Trying to convince myself I’d imagined everything about last night.
That I was just drunk.
Or tired.
Or high on the smell of peonies and whatever chemical cocktail Kane uses to keep his floors so stupidly shiny.
But I didn’t imagine it– I know what I saw. Whit is Rogue.
The thought still hits like a brick to the sternum every time it surfaces. There’s no other explanation. The way he moved, the way he looked at me… he’s the masked man from that night in the warehouse. I’m sure of it.
The same one Kane has allegedly been hunting for the past six months.
I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do with this information. I wish I could tell Char, but the thought of her getting caught anywhere near the blast radius of this mess is even more terrifying than dealing with it alone.
The only reason I’m not still fused to my bed right now is because she called this afternoon and said we still needed to ‘debrief’ after the Gauntlet, and I couldn’t say no.
So, I dragged myself out here to this loud, sticky-table patio bar where the margaritas are cheap and the salsa tastes like it came out of a jar.
As soon as we sat down, Char ordered a pitcher and two baskets of chips like she was gearing up for a full interrogation, and for the last thirty minutes, she’s been grilling me like it’s her job.
“You’re doing it again,” Char groans, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blink and shake my head, forcing myself back into the moment. “Sorry.”
She leans forward, lowering her voice, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Seriously. What happened after the Gauntlet? Did Kane freak out about the fight? Did he punish you or something?” Her eyes widen, the drama queen in her already revving up.
“Wait– is it something freaky? Are you traumatized? Did he–”
“It’s nothing like that,” I cut in, maybe a little too sharply.
A couple at the next table glance over before quickly looking away again.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “It’s just… it was a long night.” I roll my lower lip between my teeth. “Two long nights, actually.”
Char spears a lime wedge with her straw and starts tearing it apart, the pulp shredding under the plastic tip. “Did you two, like, have a blowout fight or something?”
“Not exactly.” I reach for my margarita– mostly melted at this point– and take a big enough sip to send a sharp brain-freeze stabbing behind my eyes. The alcohol doesn’t help, but it buys me a second to figure out what I’m actually willing to say out loud. “The trip to the lake house was… intense.”
She perks up immediately. “Intense how?”
I squint down into my drink, trying to distill the last twenty-four hours into something that won’t send Char into full investigative journalist mode. “It was just weird seeing him outside the city, you know?” I say finally. “He’s… not who I thought he was.”
“You mean he doesn’t sleep in his tactical boots and bark orders at random wildlife?” Char snorts.
“Actually, he does,” I joke, managing a half smile. “But he also buys, like, a dozen vases of peonies because he misses me when I’m gone.”
Char stops shredding the lime wedge, her whole expression softening. “That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“Yeah.” I swirl my straw around the glass, watching the half-melted ice orbit lazily around the rim. “That’s the problem.”
She props her chin on her hand and studies me like I’m some newly discovered species. “You do realize you just said that out loud, right?”
I glare at her. “Don’t make it a thing.”
She holds up both hands in surrender. “No judgment! I just never thought I’d see the day where you were, like, genuinely confused about a guy being nice to you.”
“It’s not about him being nice,” I mutter, my voice dropping. “He’s not. It’s about… I don’t know. Not knowing what’s real anymore.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “Uh, is this about the fight? Or did you guys get into it about the pack stuff again?”
“Both, I guess.” I avoid her eyes, chewing on the end of my straw like I might be able to bite the truth back down where it belongs. “There’s a lot I’m trying to figure out.”
Char lets the silence stretch for a moment, the noise of the patio filling the space it leaves– traffic humming past, glasses clinking, someone at the bar laughing too loudly. Then she reaches over, squeezing my arm.
“If you need to talk, you know you can, right? Even if it’s just to bitch about him.”
I nod, feeling grateful and guilty at the same time. “I know.”
We lapse into quiet for a few minutes, the conversation around us blurring into background noise. I keep thinking maybe if I wait long enough, Char will drop the subject, but she just sits there picking at chips, waiting me out.
She always wins this game.
Finally, she says, “So, Kane’s brother…”
My head snaps up before I can stop it. “What about him?”
Char smiles demurely, all wide-eyed innocence. “Is he single? Because, like, I know you’re spoken for and all, but a girl can look, right?”
My stomach does an unpleasant little flip at the mention of Whit, but I force out a snort. “Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Char pouts immediately, disappointed. “You’re supposed to be my inside source. What’s the point of sleeping with the boss if you can’t get me juicy gossip?”
“Trust me,” I mutter, reaching for my drink again. “That’s not how any of this works. Sorry.”
She sighs dramatically, then tilts her head, studying me again. “Okay, real talk? You’re being weird.”
“I know.”
“Like, apologizing for nothing weird.”
I groan and press the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing hard like I can physically scrub my brain clean. “I know.”
“Stop it!” she snaps, smacking my wrist. “You’re freaking me out, Vi.”
I drop my hands and look at her. “It’s just been a lot, okay? Maybe I’m not cut out for this… domestic bliss thing.”
Char snickers immediately. “Two nights at the lake and you’re calling it domestic bliss?”
I pick up a tortilla chip and snap it cleanly in half between my fingers. “Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”
She studies me for another second, then nods, a little too understanding.
“Fine,” she says, picking up her drink. “But if he ever does anything truly psycho, you’ll tell me, right?
” She points her straw at me for emphasis.
“Like, tie you up in the basement psycho,” she clarifies. “Not tie you up in bed psycho.”
I choke on my margarita.
Char grins, clearly delighted with herself. “So, both then?”
“Shut up.” I glare at her over the rim of my glass, but the tension that’s been wound tight in my chest all afternoon finally cracks. A laugh spills out– a real one, not the polite, fake version I’ve been managing all day.
“Feel better?” she asks.
I nod, wiping my mouth with the back of a hand. “Yeah. A little.”
She checks her phone, then grabs her bag and pushes to her feet. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
I blink up at her. “But it’s not even that late.”
“Yeah, but I’m out of drink money,” she says, slinging her purse over a shoulder. “And I’m not risking you wandering into traffic because you’re stuck inside your own brain.”
I laugh under my breath and stand, following her through the bar and out onto the street. The early evening heat is still radiating off the pavement, the air thick with exhaust and fryer grease from the restaurant next door.
The walk back to the Tower is only a few blocks, but Char fills the distance with a steady stream of chatter– complaints about her job, the latest disaster in her search for a new roommate, and gossip from the fight circuit.
I let her words wash over me without really absorbing any of it, content to nod along and offer the occasional uh-huh or no way without having to think too hard.
When we reach the Tower, she stops at the curb and turns to face me, hooking her pinky through mine the way she used to back in high school.
“You sure you’re good?” she asks.
I nod, though the motion feels stiff and mechanical. “I just need to talk to Kane. Figure things out.”
She pulls me into a tight hug, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Call me tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I hug her back, letting myself linger a second longer than usual.
Char gives me one last suspicious look before climbing into her car and peeling away from the curb, waving out the window as she goes. I watch her disappear down the street, then turn and head inside.
The lobby is quiet, the polished tile floors reflecting the overhead lights in a glossy glare. I cross the space quickly, the security guy at the desk giving me his usual long, silent stare as I pass.
The elevator is mercifully empty on the ride up.
The mirrored walls throw my reflection back at me from every angle– hair tangled from the breeze, eyes shadowed, my whole face looking twice as tired as it did this morning.
By the time the doors slide open on the twenty-ninth floor, my stomach has started doing slow, nervous flips.
When I reach the apartment door, I pause with the key halfway to the lock and take a couple slow breaths. Then I enter, toeing off my shoes and dropping my bag in the entry before heading down the long hallway toward the living room.
I expect the place to be empty, but when I reach the end of the hall, I stop short.
Kane is sitting on the couch.
He’s still in his black enforcer uniform, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed slightly like he’s been staring at the floor for a while. When he hears me enter the room, he lifts his head, eyes dark and unreadable as they lock with mine.
“We need to talk,” he says.
The words hit me square in the chest.
I nod, stepping closer, every speech I’d rehearsed on the walk home dissolving into static.
“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “We do.”