Chapter 8 Violet
VIOLET
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The gruff edge of Jude’s voice makes needle-like goosebumps erupt on my skin.
The heavy helmet on my head smells like him—leather, wood, and inescapable danger. It’s suffocating, but I still look around, searching for someone.
Anyone who’d be able to save me.
“Violet.”
I grow still, my gaze flashing to him. He’s already on the monster of a bike, his legs on either side, and his gloved hands grabbing the handlebars.
He has another helmet on, so I can’t see his face, but with the slight tilt of his head, I can tell he’s regarding me as if I’m an annoying insect beneath his boot.
Even though my heart hammers loudly, I lift my head. “I don’t want to.”
“Do you believe I give a fuck what you want?”
“No, but—”
“If you don’t get on the bike, I’ll change plans, drive to your place, and give your sister a little visit. Let’s see if you’ll regret your choices by then.”
My body tightens up, the nightmare from last night and Mama’s words about killing whoever loves me playing in my head on a loop.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper-yell, my hands balling into fists.
He tilts his head to the side farther, his domineering gaze sliding to my hands before he wrenches his attention back to my face. “Was that a threat? You’re capable of those?”
“Don’t go anywhere near Dahlia.”
“That depends on your cooperation. Or lack thereof.”
I let my fists relax and begrudgingly hop onto the bike. It takes me a few moments to get situated behind him.
I grab onto the back of the motorcycle with both hands as it revs beneath me, vibrating through my aching muscles. I’m conscious not to get too close or to touch him.
Only bad things happen whenever we touch.
“Where are we going?”
No reply.
Instead, he kicks the bike into gear, then stops, and I slam against his back, my hands grabbing onto both sides of his leather jacket at his waist for balance.
I’m about to pull back again, but he speeds away, the force of gravity not allowing me to move unless I’m in the mood to fall over.
My heartbeat escalates in frightening increments as he increases the speed until everything is a blur of light, faces, and the rotten town.
I lift my head and when the air slaps me from every side, I can breathe in the sharp tang. I sink my fingers deeper into his sides until I feel every ridge of his muscles, every contour, and every strong line.
The man is built like a weapon and he knows it.
“Can you please slow down?” I try to shout over the wind.
“Why? Does this scare you?” He goes faster, sliding between cars, and I slam my eyes shut as gravity shoves my head against his back muscles.
Even though the helmet separates us, I can feel how taut and rigid he’s built.
Everything about him is.
And yet I can still feel his warmth and inhale the masculine scent emanating off of him and flooding my senses.
“Don’t be scared yet. There’ll be plenty of chances for that.”
He goes even faster, as if testing those limits.
Seeing how far I can last before I fall.
I close my eyes half of the time, scared we’ll crash or that he’ll send us flying off a hill.
In my doomsday thoughts, I don’t feel when we leave Stantonville and only realize we’re in Graystone Ridge after seeing the sign between the grand angels and horses monument in the town center.
I’m dazzled by the lights, the chic restaurants, and the absolute absence of…well, the constant rotten smell lathering Stantonville’s streets.
The cobbled pavements and the bright signs give me a fuzzy feeling, like the start of a fairy tale or a distant fantasy.
Dahlia has always said we should come here for our movie and dinner nights, but I shut it down. Not only because it’s expensive, but I also don’t like seeing a world I can never belong to.
Like a dream that will never come true. I’d rather stay exactly where I belong—in Stantonville.
We leave the town center behind too soon as Jude takes a few turns.
He stops in the driveway of a house on a suburban street. It’s located on the hill, the highest of all the other streets.
My lips part upon seeing the rest of the town from up here, its glinting lights mesmerizing like a movie scene. The air smells of pine and nature, courtesy of the tall trees lining the neighborhood.
“Are you going to continue hugging me for long?”
I startle at Jude’s gruff voice, letting him go and hopping off the bike. “I was only trying to stay alive. You drive like a madman.”
My feet actually wobble when they touch the ground, probably from having my body fully pumped with adrenaline during that wild ride.
“A madman, huh?” He towers over me, peering down at me with menace.
I lower my eyes and start to remove the helmet. “I didn’t mean to call you names.”
“You did.” His glove brushes against my hand as he pushes it away when he sees me struggling, and he removes the helmet and places it on the motorcycle.
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, and the leather glove feels like burning fire even though he’s not touching me directly.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to his skin on mine.
Or his glove.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to anyone touching me.
He bunches his fingers in my hair and drags my head back, and then his lips brush against mine.
The slightest graze.
Like a promise—or a threat.
His lips are softer than they look and they feel so full and all-consuming. Imploring, dizzying.
And I’m frozen again, my mouth trembling beneath his, and I’m consumed by the sensation.
The pull.
The heat.
I’ve had full-blown sex that didn’t feel as intoxicating as his lips barely touching mine.
No.
I snap out of it and pull back, sliding a palm over my tingling lips. “W-what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Look away from me again and I’ll kiss you. And it’ll escalate to something worse the more you indulge in that distasteful habit.”
“You…wouldn’t.”
“Try me and see how far I’ll go.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
I drop my hand, and his rich brown eyes slide to my lips, darkening, peeling off my outer layer and settling beneath my clothes, my skin, into my bones.
He’s…dangerous.
Because why am I reacting to him this way?
I’ve never been into physical touch or sex. Hell, I’ve avoided it like the plague and only succumbed to peer pressure in college because, apparently, if you keep your virginity after eighteen, society deems you a weirdo, and your classmates give you pitying looks.
The few times I let some frat boys fuck me were a disappointment.
No.
I actually disliked it.
Being exposed, touched intimately, and feeling ugly throughout it all.
I had body dysmorphia, no matter how much they praised me and told me I ‘feel so tight.’
It didn’t help that I had flashbacks of the noises I heard when Mama was being fucked while I was cooped up in the closet.
Whenever I heard the guys breathing heavily on top of me or growling and moaning, I only had flashbacks of the men in Mama’s life.
I even slammed both hands to my ears during the last time I had sex, because I could hear the one man who loved punching my mama and leaving her bleeding after he was done.
Because the guy I was having sex with smelled like him—cheap cologne and strong cigarettes.
I even started humming like I did back then while doodling sketches in my notebook in the near darkness to drown out the sounds.
Needless to say, the guy called me a weirdo for ruining the mood and left as if his ass were on fire.
I just lay in bed, stared at the ceiling, and laughed, but then started crying because that’s what Mama did after they left.
Then I threw up. I usually do after sex, and since I barely find pleasure in it, I stopped it altogether after the “weirdo” episode, choosing not to poke a bear I didn’t need to.
So, as a certified sex avoider, why the hell did my stalker’s lips just now make me feel like that?
I don’t know what that was, but it was different from my usual disgust, and I definitely have no bile gathering in my throat.
“Follow me.” Jude’s words snap me out of my thoughts, and I have no choice but to trudge behind him and toward the house.
He doesn’t have to say the “Or else…” for me to understand that my actions will determine Dahlia’s fate.
While I have little to no regard for my own life, Dahlia is the only person who’s ever cared about me, loved me, and made me feel like I’m important. I’d never let Jude or anyone else hurt her.
Ever.
No matter what I have to go through.
I follow him into the house, my steps careful, and I slide my glasses up my nose.
The air is laced with something clean and expensive, a faint trace of musk and cologne clinging to the walls.
The entrance spills into an open floor plan, warm lighting cascading over polished wood floors leading to an off-white staircase that disappears into darkness.
It’s beautiful but odd.
This isn’t the kind of mansion or penthouse I imagined someone like Jude would live in. Two stories, sleek and modern, like something out of a magazine. Muted grays and blacks, soft ambient lighting that doesn’t feel harsh, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a high-end showroom.
And yet…as I glance around, my chest squeezes with unease.
Something feels off.
The house is too sterile and perfect, like no one really lives here.
Like it was put together with intention but has never actually been touched.
My footsteps are too loud as I trail behind Jude, gripping the straps of my backpack tighter. The thick silence presses against my ribs with each breath.
I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but Jude has a way of integrating silence and using it to make me uncomfortable.
It doesn’t help that the house feels wrong. There’s no lingering scent of home-cooked meals or any worn-in furniture. Just…nothing.
We walk toward the living room, and I take it in—a charcoal-colored sofa, a glass coffee table, and a massive flat-screen mounted on the wall.