Chapter 11 #2
“Let him have his pride, Violet.” We step outside into the cool evening air. “Give him space to deal with this his own way.”
My throat is too tight to argue.
Ethan walks me to my car, his hand steady on my elbow. When we reach it, he opens the driver’s door for me.
“Go home,” he says gently. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”
I slide into the seat and grip the steering wheel.
“Ethan.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Where does he live?”
He goes still. “Violet—”
“Please.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. Then, he sighs and pulls out his phone, tapping on it before showing me the screen.
An address. Not far from my place.
“Don’t go tonight,” he says quietly. “Let him heal first.”
I nod, but we both know I may not be able to stop myself.
He closes my door and steps back, watching as I start the engine and drive away.
The penthouse is dark when I get home. Cinnamon greets me with her usual enthusiasm, and I pick her up, holding her close as I sink onto the couch.
I should listen to Ethan. Should give Darius space. Should let him deal with this on his own.
But every time I close my eyes, I see his back torn open. See the blood running down his skin. See him standing there taking it without a sound.
Because of me.
I try to sleep. I really do. But every time I start to drift off, I see the whip coming down. Hear the crack echoing through the hall. See Ryker’s smirk.
At nine o’clock, I give up.
I make a quick phone call to Emma, the neighbor I met in the elevator one of my first days here, and then head to the kitchen, searching for what shifters need to heal faster. Protein. Lots of it. Red meat especially.
My hands move with purpose now as I pull ingredients from the cupboards and refrigerator. Two thick ribeye steaks that I bought on sale earlier this week. I season them heavily with salt and pepper, then heat oil in a cast iron skillet until it shimmers.
The steaks sizzle when they hit the pan, the sound loud in my quiet apartment. Cinnamon wanders over, her nose twitching at the smell.
“Not for you, baby,” I murmur, flipping the first steak.
I cook them rare. Barely seared on the outside, still red and bloody in the middle. The way shifters prefer when they’re healing. The way their bodies can absorb the nutrients fastest.
While the meat rests, I roast vegetables. Not because he needs them, but because I need to do something with my hands. Need to keep moving or I’ll fall apart.
When everything is done, I pack it carefully into containers. The steaks. The vegetables. Utensils for some reason.
He probably hasn’t eaten. Probably went straight home and tried to will away the pain through sheer stubbornness.
The thought makes my chest ache.
I grab Cinnamon’s leash. “Come on, girl.”
She bounds toward the door, tail wagging. I drop her off with Emma, who is more than excited to look after my puppy tonight.
Cinnamon starts licking her face, and she laughs. “Go. We’ll be fine. Won’t we, you precious little baby? Come on. We’ll watch some tv.”
“I took her out a little while ago, so she should be good for another hour or two. Here are some snacks for her.” I hand her a small bag, which she takes.
“Go.” She shoos me gently. “She’s in safe hands.”
I drive to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Antiseptic. Bandages. Pain medication even though I know he won’t need it with his shifter healing. The clerk doesn’t ask questions when I pile everything on the counter.
Soon, I’m back in my car, the address from Ethan’s phone burned into my memory, containers of food on the passenger seat next to the pharmacy bag.
Darius’s apartment is a five-minute drive from where I live, and the building is exactly what I’d expect for an alpha heir: sleek and modern, all glass and steel, with a doorman sitting at a desk in the marble lobby.
I take a deep breath and walk through the entrance, arms fully laden.
The doorman looks up as I approach. His eyes are amber, distinctly shifter. He’s older, maybe late forties, with graying hair and the kind of build that says he was once a warrior.
“Can I help you, miss?” His tone is polite but firm. Professional.
“I’m here to see Darius Moonvale. Penthouse.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’m Violet. Violet Moonvale. Alpha Alaric’s stepdaughter.”
His entire demeanor changes. Recognition flashes across his face, and he quickly gets to his feet.
“Miss Violet. I apologize. I didn’t realize—” His eyes take in the food containers, the pharmacy bag. “Of course. Please, go right up. His apartment is the only unit on the top floor.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you.”
He nods, already moving to press the button for me. “Have a good evening, miss.”
I step into the elevator. The doorman gives me a small nod as the doors close.
The hallway on the top floor is quiet. Plush carpet muffles my footsteps as I walk to the only door, the penthouse suite.
I stand there for a full minute, unable to move.
What am I even going to say?
Before I can decide, I force myself to knock. The sound of movement inside makes me freeze.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Shirtless. His hair is damp, suggesting he just got out of the shower. Water droplets cling to his collarbone, trailing down the defined lines of his chest and abdomen.
But all I can think about is his back. The wounds that I know are there, hidden from view.
His dark eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker in their depths. One of surprise, I think. Then, something else. Something that makes my skin flush hot despite the situation.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice rough.
I push past him before he can stop me. “And you shouldn’t have done what you did today.”
The apartment is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, lights twinkling like stars below. The furniture is modern and expensive: leather couches, a glass coffee table, abstract art on the walls. Everything is immaculate and perfectly arranged.
Except for the bloody shirt thrown over the back of an armchair.
The shirt that was clean when he walked away from the training grounds. When he walked away from me.
My stomach clenches.
Darius closes the door softly behind me. “How did you know where I live?”
“Ethan told me.”
“Of course he did.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at his injuries. “You need to go home, Violet. It’s late.”
“No.” I head to his kitchen, setting my load down on the marble counter. “Have you eaten?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Have. You. Eaten.” I start opening cabinets, looking for a plate. “Because I brought food, and you’re going to eat it.”
“Violet.”
“Where are your plates, Darius?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, he moves to the cabinet beside the sink, pulls out a plate, and sets it on the counter.
I open the first container, and the scent of cooked steak fills the kitchen. His eyes track my movements, and I see his throat work as he swallows.
“You made this?” His voice is quieter now. “For me?”
“Yes.” I arrange both steaks on the plate and add the vegetables beside them. “Red meat. Helps with healing.”
As I hand it to him, our fingers brush. Electricity shoots up my arm, and I see his pupils blow wide before he looks away.
He stands at the counter, staring down at the food he’s holding. After a few seconds, his eyes glance up and meet mine. There’s a raw look in them, like this simple act of care has undone him more than anything else could.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
I nod, emotion clogging my throat.
He sits on a barstool at the island, takes the knife and fork I hand him, and cuts into the steak, eating in silence.
I watch him. Watch the way his jaw moves, the muscles in his throat as he swallows. Watch relief cross his features as the protein hits his system, his body already using it to heal.
He finishes both steaks and most of the vegetables. When he’s done, he sets the utensils down and looks at me.
“Thank you,” he says again, and the weight of those two words makes my chest ache.
I smile, taking the plate and setting it in the sink. When I face him again, I say bluntly, “Let me see your back.”
His jaw locks. “It’s fine.”
“Darius.”
“I’m healing. It’ll be gone by morning.”
“I don’t care.” I move around the island to him, close enough to smell both soap and the dark scent underneath that is purely him. “Turn around.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse. His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense, searching for something.
Then, he turns slowly, presenting his back to me.
My breath catches.
The welts are healing, that much is true. But they’re still visible. Angry red lines crisscrossing the broad expanse of his back. Some have scabbed over. Others still look raw.
“Sit over there,” I say, gesturing toward the living room. “Please.”
He moves to the couch and sinks down, his movements cautious. I follow, pulling all my supplies out of the pharmacy bag.
I kneel on the couch beside Darius, angling him so I can reach his back properly. I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad and press it to the first wound.
His entire body goes rigid, muscles tensing beneath my touch. But he doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t flinch away.
I work methodically, cleaning each whip mark with meticulous precision. The pad turns pink with his blood; I have to use three new ones.
Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are our breathing—his controlled and measured, mine too quick.
My fingers brush his skin as I work, and every touch sends heat racing through me. I try to ignore it. I try to focus on tending to his injuries and not on the way his muscles flex beneath my hands. On how close we are to each other.
When I finish cleaning the wounds, I reach for the bandages.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says quietly. “They’ll heal by morning.”
“I’m doing it anyway.”