Chapter 6 Violet #2
I pause, my hand on the banister. Don't turn around. If I turn around and see those eyes, I'm done for.
"There's leftover soup in the bakery's fridge. Heat it up if you get hungry later."
It's such a simple gesture, but it hits me right in the chest. When's the last time someone thought ahead about whether I might be hungry? Planned for my needs without me having to ask?
"Thank you," I whisper, and flee upstairs before I can embarrass myself by crying over soup or doing something really stupid like going back down there and kissing him again.
I make it to the apartment. Close the door. Lean against it.
Cold shower. I need a cold shower. An arctic, freezing, get-this-alpha-out-of-your-head shower.
Because that grumpy baker downstairs with his incredible hands and his acts of random kindness is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the fact that I'm already half gone for him after one meal and one accidental kiss.
This is a disaster.
I push off the door and head for the bathroom, already cranking the shower to cold.
Sunday stretches out in front of me with nothing to do and nowhere to be.
I've been free for exactly two days, and I have no idea what to do with myself.
Back with Mark, Sundays had rules. Make coffee, but not too strong. Read the paper, but only the parts he approved of. Exist quietly and don't cause problems.
Now I can do whatever I want, and it's weird. Freeing and terrifying all at once.
I spend the morning exploring the apartment, taking inventory of what the previous tenant left behind. Books, mostly romance novels. Kitchen supplies that look actually used. A life that involved cooking real food and reading for fun.
I wonder who she was. What made her leave.
By noon, my stomach is growling and I'm faced with a choice. Go downstairs and risk seeing Garrick, or slowly starve to death up here.
Since dying of hunger seems dramatic even for me, I remember the soup he mentioned. The one in the bakery fridge.
I can sneak down, grab it, and come right back up. Easy.
Probably.
As I heat it up, there's a little twinge of something when I realize he's probably not downstairs. Disappointment, maybe? I push the feeling down immediately. It's only because I'm not used to having so much time alone, that's all. Nothing more.
The soup tastes even better reheated, rich and nourishing and exactly what my battered system needs. I eat it slowly, savoring every spoonful and trying not to think about what happens when it runs out.
The afternoon crawls by and I try reading some of the romance novels, but the happy couple makes me twitchy.
The hero keeps declaring his undying devotion and the heroine keeps believing him, and I want to shake them both and explain how these things actually work in real life.
Next, I attempt to watch a movie, but the sound of the TV in the empty apartment feels too loud.
Finally, I give up and sit by the window, watching the occasional car drive down Main Street and wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with the rest of my life.
This is what freedom looks like, I remind myself.
No one telling me what to wear, what to think, where I can go.
No one monitoring my phone calls or questioning my every decision.
No one backing me against the kitchen counter with that calm, reasonable tone explaining why I'm wrong about everything.
So why do I feel so lost? And why am I sitting here like some tragic heroine in a Victorian novel, staring out the window and contemplating my existence? All I need is a fainting couch and a case of the vapors to complete the picture.
The sun is starting to set when I hear the stairs creaking outside, followed by a knock on the door. My body tenses, every muscle screaming at me to hide as my heart hammers against my ribs. I press myself against the wall beside the window.
"Violet? It's Xaden."
His voice rumbles through the door, deep enough to feel in my chest. It's the same kind Mark used, promising safety before delivering pain.
"I brought dinner. Figured you might be getting hungry."
I stand there, frozen. Either this is sweet or I've stumbled into an elaborate kidnapping scheme involving comfort food. With my luck, it's fifty-fifty.
Slowly, I unlock the door. Crack it open with the chain still on.
Xaden stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like heaven. His dark hair is messy, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes. His eyes are doing things that make my stomach flip.
"Hi," he says, like showing up at my door with food is perfectly normal. "Mind if I come in?"
Every self-preservation instinct screams no.
But he smells good. Not just the food. Him. Something clean and warm and dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence.
And I'm so tired of being alone.
I undo the chain. Step back.
He moves into the tiny apartment like he owns it, all controlled grace and barely contained energy. Sets the bag on the table. Glances around without judging, just noticing.
"How are you settling in?"
"Fine," I lie.
He doesn't buy it. Just waits, giving me space to fill the silence or not.
And somehow that makes the truth easier.
"Actually, I don't know how to do this." I lean against the counter because standing unsupported feels like too much work. "Be alone without being lonely. Be free without being lost."
He starts unpacking food, his hands steady and sure. "Yeah. I remember when I got out of the military. That first week, I bought six brands of toothpaste because no one was telling me what kind to get."
A laugh slips out. Rusty and surprised.
"It's overwhelming," he adds, quieter. "When your world shrinks down to survival, and then suddenly you're supposed to know what to do with freedom."
Something unknots in my chest. "Exactly. I finally escaped but I left my roadmap behind." I should stop talking. But the words keep coming. "I don't know who I am when no one's telling me who to be. And I'm scared if I get it wrong, I'll end up back where I started."
"You won't." Not a question. Just certainty.
I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
He reveals containers of lasagna and garlic bread. "Homemade. Way too much of everything, so I hope you're hungry."
"I am." And it's not just about food.
He serves us both, and I realize we're standing too close in this tiny kitchen. His arm brushes mine as he reaches for plates. The contact sends electricity straight through me.
I step back. Give myself space to breathe.
We eat standing at the counter because sitting feels too formal, too date-like. But standing means I can't stop watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his hands hold his fork. The way his eyes keep drifting to my mouth.
"Did you make this?" I ask, needing to say something before I do something stupid.
"Guilty. My grandmother's recipe."
"Seems like grandmothers are a theme here. Garrick mentioned his yesterday."
Xaden moves to lean against the counter beside me, close enough that his scent wraps around me.
"Liam's grandmother is why he became a vet.
She had this ancient Border Collie she adored, and when it got sick, twelve-year-old Liam announced he'd become a vet so no one would ever lose their best friend. "
The sweetness of that image makes my chest tight.
"What about yours?" I turn to face him, which is a mistake because now we're too close and I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Is this her recipe?"
"She always said a good sauce can't be rushed." He's watching my mouth again. "Let it simmer. Let it breathe. And then, one shredded carrot. Cuts the acidity."
"Wait, seriously? There's carrot in this?"
"Melted right in. Balance." His voice drops lower. "Balance is underrated."
He's definitely not talking about sauce anymore.
I should move. Put distance between us. But my body has other ideas, swaying slightly closer like his gravity is pulling me in.
"She used to say some people need feeding even when they don't know how to ask for it."
The words hit different. Too knowing. Too close to true.
"I can ask for help when I need it," I say, defensive.
"Can you?" He straightens, and suddenly he's right there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been taking care of everyone else for so long you've forgotten how."
The accuracy steals my breath.
I should tell him to back off. Instead I tell him about Mark. About the three years of control and fear and losing myself piece by piece.
Xaden's jaw tightens. His scent spikes with anger, sharp and protective. "He hurt you."
"Yes." The word comes out smaller than I intend.
He moves then, not closer but to the side, giving me space while staying close enough to ground me. Leans against the counter with his arms crossed, every line of his body screaming barely controlled fury.
"What made you finally leave?"
I take a shaky breath. "I realized he was going to kill me. Maybe not that day, but eventually."
"Jesus." His shoulders go rigid. "You said his name was Mark. What's his last name?"
I freeze. "No. I'm not giving you more info."
His gaze flicks to mine. Holds. Then he nods. "Fair."
"Last thing I need is you showing up on his doorstep with a side of garlic bread."
A ghost of a smile. "How did you get out?"
"Waited until he went to work. Packed what I could carry. Drove until Dolly gave up." I huff a laugh. "Turns out my car had better instincts than me. She broke down here. In front of the bakery."
"Could've picked worse places."
"Yeah. Could've ended up at a gas station in the middle of nowhere with nothing but vending machine burritos."
"Lucky for you, you got cinnamon rolls and Meredith instead."
We finish eating in charged silence. I'm hyperaware of every time he moves, every glance, every breath.
He starts packing up containers and I move to help, which means we're back in close quarters again. Our hands brush reaching for the same container. This time neither of us pulls away immediately.
His fingers are warm. Callused. Strong.
I look up and he's watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"Can I ask you something?" My voice comes out breathy.
"Shoot."
"Why are you being so nice to me? All of you. You don't know me. Don't owe me anything."
He pauses, wiping his hands on a napkin. Taking his time with the answer.
"Maybe because we recognize something," he says finally.
The answer should make me feel better. It doesn't. Because help has never been free in my world.
"Do you think Garrick would mind if I helped in the bakery tomorrow?" I ask, needing to change the subject before I do something stupid like kiss him. "Basic stuff. Cleaning, organizing. If I'm staying upstairs, I should pull my weight."
Xaden's eyes flicker with something. Amusement maybe. "You want to work in the bakery?"
"Seems fair."
"Garrick would probably be relieved. He's been running solo for months." He leans back, studying me. "And trust me, if Garrick didn't want you around, you'd know it. The man doesn't do polite tolerance."
Oddly reassuring.
"I should let you get back to your restaurant." I walk him to the door, hyperaware of how small the apartment is, how close we are in the narrow hallway.
"Thank you for dinner. And for the conversation. It's been a while since I talked to someone who didn't make me feel crazy."
"You're not crazy, Violet. You're healing. There's a difference."
He pauses at the door, and something reckless takes over.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him. Not his cheek like the accident with Garrick. His mouth. Intentional and sure, even if my heart is trying to break through my ribs.
His lips are warm, slightly parted in surprise. For a second he's frozen, and then he's kissing me back, gentle and careful like I'm something precious that might break.
I breathe him in. Coffee and something darker, richer. My omega purrs so loud I'm surprised he can't hear it.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and I could drown in this. In him. In the way he tastes like safety and want and everything I shouldn't be reaching for.
Then he pulls back. Not far, just enough to break the kiss. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing uneven.
"You don't have to," he says quietly. "I didn't come here for that."
"I know." The words come out steadier than I feel.
I step back, giving us both space to breathe. My lips are tingling. My whole body is humming with want and fear in equal measure.
He searches my face, looking for something. "Violet..."
"Goodnight, Xaden."
He hesitates, like he wants to say more. Then he nods and leaves, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
I lock the door and lean against it, fingers touching my lips where I can still feel him.
This is too soon. Way too soon. I barely escaped one alpha and now I'm kissing another one like I didn't learn my lesson the first time.
But these alphas are getting to me. Garrick with his grumpy kindness and incredible hands. Xaden with his steady presence and the way he sees through my walls. Even Liam, who I haven't spent much time with yet, but who smells like chamomile and comfort.
They're all getting under my skin, making me want things I swore I'd never want again.
Making me feel things I'm not sure I'm ready to feel.
I just don't want to be hurt again. Can't survive being broken twice.
But god, that kiss. The way he held my face like I mattered. The way he pulled back because he wanted me to be sure, not because he didn't want me.
Mark never pulled back. Mark took what he wanted and made me feel grateful for the attention.
This is different, and so are they.
At least, I hope they are.
I curl up on the couch, touching my lips again, tasting possibility and terror in equal measure.
Please let them be exactly what they seem.
Because if they're not, if this all falls apart, I don't think I'll survive putting myself back together again.