Chapter Thirty-One
Violet
Five days.
The bruises have faded from violent purple to a sickly yellow-green, mapped across my ribs and hips. The ache in my lungs is subtle, but there, a reminder with every breath. The cold from the canal seems to have reached my marrow.
But I’m walking and breathing on my own. And I’m here.
Cassie, her wrist in a stylish blue brace that matches her honorary Team USA jacket from Paige and Rissa, is fussing over me backstage. “Just remember, Vi. It’s not just you up there. It’s all of us. The whole country. Don’t… you know. Don’t let the pitch drop on ‘free’.”
She means it as a joke, but the pressure behind her eyes is real.
We don’t talk about the van, the warehouse, or the water. We talk about breath control and camera angles.
It’s just easier that way.
My mind drifts back to two days prior. Back to the gold medal game.
I was discharged against medical advice.
Mom argued with me, the nurses, and with God.
The real Ollie, what a shit show that all was, had threatened legal action.
But even so, I’d sat in the stands, wrapped in a blanket, every bruise screaming in protest with the roar of the crowd.
I didn’t see the intricate plays or the strategy. I only saw her.
Skye.
A blur of fury on the ice. Every shift was a declaration, and every check was a promise. When the final buzzer sounded, and the team swarmed Paige, Skye had simply stood center line, head bowed for a moment, before being swallowed by her weeping teammates. She looked up, once, scanning the crowd.
Our eyes met across the distance, but she hadn’t smiled. She gave a single, slow nod. The weight of it held me upright more than the painkillers.
Now, the hushed anticipation of the closing ceremony crowd is a physical hum in the air. The stage is dark, waiting for the light.
My name is announced, a smooth roll in Italian, then English.
“Solace eseguirà l’inno nazionale degli Stati Uniti.”
“Solace will now perform the United States of America’s National Anthem.”
I walk to the center microphone, and the distance feels longer than any runway. The spotlight hits me, blinding. Sixty thousand faces blur into a sea of darkness. The silence is respectful and terrifying.
I find the first camera lens, take a breath that still hurts, and begin.
“Oh, say can you see…”
My voice, weaker than I want, carries clearly and true on the perfect acoustics.
It’s technique and muscle memory, pushing past the tightness in my chest. I don’t think about the words, about bombs or ramparts.
I think about the cold black water. I think about the pull of the blocks.
I think about the desperate hands that hauled me back up from all of it.
“…the twilight’s last gleaming…”
My gaze sweeps the sections where the athletes sit, a riot of colors and flags. And there, in front of the USA block, a figure in her white-and-blue team jacket. Skye. The gold medal, heavy and bright, hangs from her neck.
She isn’t watching the flag; she’s watching me. Her expression is unreadable from a distance, but her posture is rigid. She’s the only one who didn’t fight me on being here on this stage. She knew it was a lost cause.
Just like I didn’t fight her when she wanted to stay in the hospital with me and miss her last practice before the big game.
Thankfully, Rissa and Paige went with her and worked on a few things at the practice arena the morning before the game. I still can’t believe the stick I threw in Skye’s spokes while she was here in Milan for the Olympics.
What a crazy thing to say.
The song builds, climbing toward its difficult peak. The fear of failing the country, as Cassie had mentioned, is nothing compared to what we have already faced. This is just a song. I have already survived the silence.
“O’er the land of the free…”
My left hand, which has been resting at my side, lifts into the air. Not a dramatic gesture, but a deliberate one. My fingers trace the neckline of my bodysuit, finding the sturdy leather beneath it.
Skye’s collar.
I’d asked for it this morning, and she put it on me without a word, her knuckles brushing my throat; the lock clicking shut with a sound more final than any contract.
Now, my fingers find the delicate clasp of the ornate, jeweled half-mask that covers my face. Half of my face. The half Aethelgard had owned.
A final concession to the old brand, and the old fear.
“…and the home of the brave.”
As I hold the last, long note, I undo the clasp.
I let the mask fall.
It drops silently to the stage floor, a glittering piece of my discarded armor.
The final note ends on my lips, and the final chord from the hidden orchestra hangs in the air.
For a second, there is pure, stunned silence. Then, the applause erupts, a wave of sound that has nothing to do with the quality of my performance. It’s the shock of the reveal. The bruised, bare-faced woman standing under the lights, no longer hiding.
My eyes find Skye in the crowd. I see the slight, sharp intake of her breath. I see her hand go to the gold medal at her chest, her fingers curling around it.
Not a smile, but fierce, blazing pride that cuts through the short distance between us. Her mouth moves, but I can’t quite make out the words.
I don’t bow to the crowd. I give one slow, deliberate nod.
To Skye, to my mother crying somewhere in the VIP box, to Ollie, who is probably already drafting the press release, and I turn to walk off the stage, leaving my mask behind on the polished floor.
My hotel room is a ghost of itself. Suitcases stand by the door, zipped and tagged.
The flowers have been given away; the get-well cards are packed carefully between layers of soft sweaters.
The only signs of the past three weeks are the medical kit on the bathroom counter and the deep ache that lives in my ribs.
I stand in the middle of the emptied-out space, getting dressed in the loose, comfortable clothes I’d worn here: soft leggings, an oversized hoodie, and my hair in a messy bun on top of my head. Moving slowly, I pull the hoodie over my head and freeze when I hear a knock sound at the door.
“It’s open,” I call, my voice still a little thin after giving everything I had left to my performance on the world’s biggest stage.
Skye steps inside. She’s already in her travel gear. Dark jeans, a simple black tee, and her Team USA jacket unzipped. The gold medal isn’t around her neck, but I know it’s in her bag.
Her presence takes up the whole room, solid and real, where everything else feels foggy.
Her eyes do a quick, tactical sweep of the packed bags, my timid stance, and the wince I can’t fully hide when my hands go over my head. She closes the door behind her.
“How are you?” Not a casual question, but an evaluation.
“Tired. Sore.” I manage to get the hoodie settled, the soft fabric a relief against my skin. “Ready to sleep in my own bed.”
She nods, taking a few steps closer. Her gaze is intent, searching for the things I won’t say. The nightmares that aren’t about hitting bad notes.
“The flight will be rough. You need to keep moving. Walk the aisle.”
“Yes, Captain.” A faint smile touches my lips.
Before she can reply with one of her typical, gruff directives, another knock comes. This one is more rapid, a rat-a-tat-tat that screams “Long Island Ollie is back.”
Ollie doesn’t wait for an answer; she breezes in with a phone in each hand and her tablet tucked under her arm.
“Alright, listen up. We’re on the clock.
Wheels-up in three hours, but with the traffic outta this city?
Forget about it, we gotta bypass the circus.
I’ve got a car waiting downstairs in forty-five.
Violet, those pills, did you take ‘em? With food, not just with a sip of water like last time.” She points two fingers and motions from her eyes to mine.
“I saw you, don’t think I didn’t see you.
I will personally turn this plane around if you get airsick because you’re pulling a diva stunt and—”
“I took it, Ollie. With toast.” I point to the empty plate on the desk.
“Good girl. Usin’ that head for holdin’ up somethin’ besides air.” She finally looks up, her eyes darting between Skye and me before analyzing the room. Ollie misses nothing. “Hey there, Olympian. Thanks for bailing me out even though I didn’t need it.”
Skye huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you looked like you had it completely under control behind those bars.”
Ollie waves a hand at her. “You just caught me in my thought process, doll.” She clears her throat. “And thanks for the added witness statement of them coming at me and me needing to shoot them as self-defense.”
“It was a tough witness statement to write, with the unloading of the clip being self-defense.” Skye rubs a hand over the back of her neck. “But the police weren’t asking any further questions at that moment in time.”
Ollie and Skye share a long look as though they’re having an unspoken conversation.
“I know you’re still plannin’ shit, Toots.” Ollie narrows her eyes at Skye. “And if I didn’t have all this new fame and fortune hitting me and my girl over here, I’d be dippin’ my toe into that pool with you.”
“I’ve got it covered.” The darkness returns to Skye’s eyes, and her jaw sets tight as she clenches her teeth.
The professional mask on Ollie’s face softens just a fraction when she looks back at me. “You feeling okay, kid? And I mean, really. No funny business. No, ‘everything’s fine’ when you’re seein’ double. Spill.”
“Just the usual aches,” I reassure her. “I’m okay.”
Ollie’s gaze lingers on my face, the bruises now only faint shadows under my makeup.
“You better be.” A slow, fierce grin spreads across her face.
“What you did today, ditchin’ the mask… honey, you lit a fire.
” She adjusts her tablet and presses a few buttons on her phone.
“The headlines are already writing themselves. ‘Lockwood’s Unmasked Triumph.’ I’ve fielded twelve offers since you walked off that stage. ”
Skye, who has been standing silent and observant, finally speaks. “She doesn’t need offers. She needs rest.”
Ollie turns the smile on her. “And she’ll get it.
On a beach somewhere very secure. After we’ve negotiated from a position of strength.
” She looks back at me. “Forty-five minutes. Don’t be late.
I’ll be downstairs charming the police escort.
” With a final nod, she’s gone, and the room is suddenly quieter in her wake.
The silence she left behind is charged.
Skye closes the distance between us. She doesn’t ask again how I am. She simply lifts a hand and brushes her knuckles ever so gently down the side of my face, trying her best to avoid the bruises. Her touch is warm, grounding.
“You sang well,” she whispers.
“I had a good reason to finish the song.”
Her dark eyes hold mine. The intensity in them isn’t about the game, the medal, or the threat. It’s about the dock, the water, and the breaths I didn’t take. It’s a look that sees the cracks and promises to stand guard over them.
She leans in, and her lips meet mine. Not a demanding kiss, but a sealing of a promise. A confirmation of life. Her hand cradles the back of my head, and I melt into her, the last of the stadium’s adrenaline dissolving into a sweet, steady warmth.
“When you were mouthing words to me on stage,” I whisper into her mouth. “Did you say I love you?”
Skye smiles at my question, her lips warm from our kiss. “This isn’t some shitty romance book, Vi.”
My heart wants to shatter, but it doesn’t. Her telling me she loves me would probably send me running. I’ve only been away from Theo for three weeks, and I hardly think now is the time to be falling in love with someone else.
“But I would prefer you weren’t spending a lot of time on the beaches.” Her tone is like ice when she speaks. Like what she’s saying is final, and I need to be listening to her demands.
“I’m going to be careful—”
“I don’t want you on the beaches,” she repeats. “I want you at my condo.” She swallows. “I want you to move in with me.”
I go silent, feeling everything I had just thought turn on its axis.
“Violet?”
“I can’t feel my toes.”
She pulls back, just an inch, my own hand coming up and my fingers curling into the heavy nylon sleeve of her jacket. I clutch the fabric, feeling the crisp embroidery under my fingertips, anchoring myself in the reality of her.
The scent of clean cotton and ice, the solid strength of her shoulder under my palm.
“Is ‘I can’t feel my toes’ code for yes?”
Ignoring the pain that’s coursing through my body, I latch myself onto Skye, holding her tight as though this will all disappear if I let go. Like I’ll wake up from a dream that I can’t quite call a nightmare.
With everything that went on here in Milan, I still managed to find Skye. I managed to get my secret out there without being killed, close one though, and I feel like all the weight I’ve been carrying is now at the bottom of the canal.
This isn’t a nightmare; it’s a beautiful, beautiful dream.
“Yes, it means yes.” My mouth presses into her neck.
She runs her hands down my arm and leans her forehead against mine, our breath mingling. “Forty minutes,” she murmurs, her voice vibrating against my skin.
“I know,” I breathe back, not letting go of her jacket.
“My team will help pack your stuff and get you moved in.”
I laugh. “I will pay movers to do that. But I’ll thank them for being voluntold to do it, anyway.”
Now it’s Skye’s turn to laugh. A sound I haven’t heard since before she found out I was Solace. I’ve missed that.
“So...” She swings our hands in front of us. “Does this mean hockey is your favorite sport now?”
This question takes me back to the first time we actually talked. Texting and FaceTiming in our hotel rooms, swapping questions, and getting to know each other.
“Hardly.” A smile tugs at my lips as I tilt my chin up to look at her. “But I would pay good money to see you attempt a couples skate in a sparkly leotard.”
Skye leans in, kisses me softly, and has me cackling when she looks me dead in the eye and says, “Meatloaf.”