Chapter Eighteen Violet
Chapter Eighteen
Violet
The house felt different with Grayson here. For once I didn’t feel like the walls were closing in on me.
Every night since seeing the SUV across from my house, since the text, since the memories clawed their way back all those weeks ago, my home had felt like a coffin. But now . . . now, with Grayson here, I could breathe.
He’d asked twice if I wanted him to go. I told him no. And when he looked at me, I didn’t feel like this broken thing. I felt like someone of worth.
The storm rolled outside, rain streaking down the windows, thunder a low, distant growl. It was as if everything that was happening in Sweetwater Lake was coming to a head, and Mother Nature wanted everyone to know.
I lay in bed, watching as he got up to get us water, totally nude, every hard line and masculine muscle on stark display in the shadows that filled the room.
I watched him as if I were starved. And I realized that I had been .
. . longing for someone to touch me, to talk to me, and especially to see me as someone who could be loved.
When he came back in, a glass of water in each hand, his chest caught the streetlight that came through the window, broken up and blurry because of the rain.
My gaze snagged again on the scar under his ribs.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside me, and without thinking, I reached out and brushed it with my fingertips.
He went rigid for half a second before exhaling, his hand coming to rest gently over mine.
His eyes flicked to me, unreadable. “Happened when I was a kid.” I wanted to ask more, but I certainly couldn’t push when I’d been evading my childhood issues. “The why doesn’t matter anymore.”
The lie was obvious, but the way his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist made it impossible to press. Not tonight.
He got under the covers with me and murmured, “Come here.” And I did.
He started kissing me slowly, gently. Even though we’d just had sex, right now, the way he touched me, how he pushed my thighs open and settled between them, told me where this moment was headed.
The sex this time wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic.
It was thorough and slow, like the burn of whiskey when you took that first sip.
Grayson kissed me until I couldn’t think straight, until the voices in my head went silent.
He pressed against me, then slid inside, his pace steady with patience, as if every part of me deserved to be memorized.
His lips scattered promises across my skin. Grayson slid a hand between my legs and pressed it firmly to my inner thigh, pulling me even more open for him to thrust in and out of me deeply. He made love to me as if he knew what I needed.
When I came, I bit down on his shoulder, holding in my cry and just riding out the pleasure. Grayson followed me over the edge, a guttural sound tearing from his throat that made something low in me unravel as my orgasm peaked.
Long moments after we both came down from our high, we lay tangled together, his weight half on me, half beside me, our breaths syncing in the shadows. For the first time in my life, I welcomed sleep, because it felt like the nightmares couldn’t touch me.
And just like that, I let my eyes close. At first I slept soundly, with no dreams . . . nothing to force me awake in sheer panic and fear.
But it didn’t last. The demons found me.
Candles surrounded me, the scent of their smoke filling the air. Children were lined up on handmade, rickety benches, their tiny bodies shaking, partly from the cold in the room, partly from the uncertainty of what any of this meant.
Marcus’s shadow blotted out the light, as if his very presence were a black hole. His voice, demonic and echoing, drilled into me like a pickax slowly trying to get to my insides.
“You are His vessel. His key. When the body opens and the blood runs, Vienna, you will kneel and give our god what He requires.” Marcus held out his hand to me, and as if he were the puppeteer and I the doll, I slipped my hand into his much bigger one. “My sweet Vienna.”
I jolted awake, sweat slicking my skin as I sat up and exhaled a shaky breath. His words echoed in my head. My name ripped from my throat before I could stop it.
“Vienna!”
Grayson stirred beside me, his hand on my shoulder instantly. Even in the darkness, I could sense his confusion. His worry. God, he’d heard me. He hadn’t been asleep.
“Violet,” he said, his voice low and steady. “What’s wrong? You okay?”
I blinked down at him, my vision swimming. For a second he looked like Marcus in the darkness. But then the lightning flashed, and I became more awake, sleep fading in the distance. It was Grayson lying beside me, not the evil cult leader I’d once seen as a father figure.
“Bad dream,” I muttered, forcing the words past my dry mouth, praying to a god who would never listen that Grayson hadn’t heard the name I said out loud.
His hand stayed on my shoulder, thumb drawing slow circles over my exposed skin. For long seconds he was silent, but then he pushed himself up to a seated position. “Vienna . . . you said Vienna. Is that your real name, or were you talking about the city?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
His gaze searched mine, unreadable in the low light. “You said a name. Vienna.”
I forced a shaky breath out and shook my head. “I don’t know,” I lied, but it sounded like acid on my tongue.
He studied me a beat too long, and I knew he was aware I wasn’t being truthful.
But he didn’t press. I turned into him, and we lay back down.
I pressed my cheek to his chest, hoping he couldn’t feel how hard my heart was pounding.
His hand slid into my hair, steady and warm, and eventually his breathing evened out again.
But there was no way sleep would come for me, not for the rest of the night. And so I lay there holding him as he slept, while all I could think about was how he’d heard my real name from my own lips.
At last the rays of morning sun crept through the blinds, soft and thin, and I still lay awake, my head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart.
I shifted slightly and Grayson stirred, stretching with a low groan, his hand automatically finding the curve of my waist, his fingers curling into my side as if he wanted to keep me close. “Morning, baby.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the endearment. “Good morning,” I whispered.
For a while we didn’t move, just embraced the early hours when the day hadn’t fully started and we could be in this comfortable silence. The world outside was quiet, damp from the storm that had ended hours before.
This kind of silence was made for secrets to be revealed.
“You keep so much locked away,” he breathed, as if reading my mind. “Was Vienna someone you used to know? Someone you lost?”
I didn’t even inhale as I thought about his questions.
He smoothed his palm over my hip as if to soften the question. “I don’t mean to pry. But I’m here if you want to open up. I can tell it weighs on you. I just want to help ease your burden.”
I swallowed hard. Tell him. Just tell the truth.
The words sat on my tongue, heavy like pebbles refusing to go down.
But I knew this was what I wanted. “I grew up in a place . . .” I started, then faltered.
“A place that wasn’t safe.” I sat up, resting back against the headboard, and pulled the blanket to my chest, feeling exposed and bare.
Grayson shifted, moving to rest against the headboard, but stayed silent. Finally, his gaze flicked to mine. “Sweetwater Lake isn’t safe?”
“It used to be, but . . . that’s not the place I’m talking about.”
He was patient as he waited for me to continue.
But the silence stretched until it felt like another lie. Another brick in the wall I’d built between us.
I sat up straighter, dragging the blanket higher around me. “Grayson . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
His gaze locked on mine, steady, unreadable. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I cut in, my voice breaking. “If I don’t, it’ll eat me alive. You deserve to know what you’re stepping into.”
He stayed still, watching me, his hand warm on mine. His patience was comforting and gave me strength.
“I grew up in a place no one should ever have to experience,” I whispered, staring out the windows through the slits of the blinds.
“In Ohio. A cult. They called themselves a family, and for the longest time I believed that to be true. But the older I got, the more I saw it for what it is. It was nothing but lunacy wrapped in control, fear, and blood worship. Marcus . . . the leader, he led the group.” I envisioned the sacrifices, but didn’t say that part out loud.
“Marcus saw me as something special, a vessel for the god they worshipped. He raised me to believe I was that vessel. That my life was to be given to the Blood God.”
“Violet,” he said my name softly, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m so sorry.” He sounded so genuine, so . . . human.
I couldn’t stop. “When I was a child, I thought it was normal—candles, chanting, rituals. By the time I was old enough to know better, I knew I had to escape. So I ran when I could, and I’ve never stopped looking over my shoulder, waiting for them to come for me.
I thought maybe I could disappear in a town like Sweetwater Lake.
But they found me,” I whispered on a shaky breath.
“What’s happening here, in town . . . all of this—it’s them.
They’ve come for me.” I forced myself to look at him, to see his face and gauge whether he thought I was insane.
’Cause it sure as hell sounded like something a crazy person would say.
Grayson’s jaw was set, his eyes sharp but not disbelieving. He looked clinical, maybe even analytical, as if he were rolling all this information around in his brain and dissecting it. He looked like a man putting puzzle pieces together and figuring out how to solve it. For me.
“You’re saying the murders—”
“Yeah, they’re connected. No doubt about it,” I breathed, feeling this massive weight lift off my shoulders.
“Connected to Marcus. To the Bleeding Ground cult. And to me.” For a moment he said nothing, and the quiet pressed in until I thought I might scream.
Finally, he exhaled and dragged a hand down his face.
I recounted the symbol carved in the tree, then admitted to the heart on my doorstep.
I told him every gritty, grisly detail until I was crying and felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ, Violet,” he finally said. His voice was low, steady. “Talk about fucked up.”
I laughed then, a short burst of dark humor.
“This isn’t just paranoia talking. You’re saying they’re here, hunting you.” He didn’t phrase it like a question.
I nodded, my chest tight. “Yeah. It’s all connected. They think I’m the Vessel, and my death—my sacrifice—will bring about a being they worship known as the Blood God. The SUV. The texts. They want me back. They want my life.”
“The texts? They’ve been sending you shit?”
I gritted my teeth, hating to talk about this but feeling relief to be getting it all out. I showed him the text I’d gotten, watched the anger cover him before he hid it quickly.
He swore under his breath, sharp and guttural. Then he shifted, taking my face in his hands so I had no choice but to look at him. “You should’ve told me sooner.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Shit, baby. I’m so sorry. You’re telling me now, and that’s what matters.”
“You . . . believe me?” I don’t know why I was so shocked.
“Of course I believe you.”
The relief that hit me was so sharp it was painful. I watched the change in Grayson’s expression. He wasn’t the man I’d just been intimate with, the man I cared for more than anyone else. Now he looked focused, intense, and ready to act.
“I’ll make some calls,” he said, his tone clipped in that FBI way, already calculating. “I’ll get more eyes on your house, pull every camera in the city and see if I can see the vehicles on your street, get the plates from the last two weeks. If they’re stalking you, we’ll find them.”
The words we’ll find them made something twist in me. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t walking away. “You’re taking this to the FBI?”
His hands were still on my face, firm and warm. “I’m taking this to the people who can help. You’re not alone in this, Violet. Not anymore.”
And in that moment, even with my chest aching and my secrets bleeding out of me, I believed him.