Chapter 9
NINE
VIOLET
Iarrived in Athens yesterday, ready to get to work. The file—which wasn’t a file at all, but a flimsy note—that awaited me at the check-in counter wasn’t overly enlightening. It provided instructions on my next steps and gave me a rough background on the nameless patient.
Subject in their early forties. Needs a second chance.
I thanked the concierge, then accepted my room key and paid the hotel fees while I pondered on the ridiculousness of the note.
A “second chance”? What was this, the screenplay of a telenovela? Yes, I’d had some incredibly cryptic cases in the past, but this took the cake and was beyond silly. I started to wonder if maybe I should ditch this case and go straight to sabbatical.
I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t do such a thing. It might not have been much to go off, but I’d received even slimmer files with criminals I’d evaluated in the past. I’d visit the patient, see what the deal was, and then I’d focus on me and what mattered to me.
Until then, I was saddled with uncertainty about how long I’d be staying and whether I’d need a temporary apartment. Selfishly, I hoped it would require a long-term commitment because I wanted to find them.
Lykos Costello.
The man who’d held my heart within his grasp and never let go. After so many years, I needed closure. I needed to move on.
And even more crucial was that I found her: my daughter.
Sunrise spilled over the hills, catching on the whitewashed houses that climbed the slopes like scattered seashells. Blue shutters and tiled roofs gleamed in the light as the town slowly rose from slumber. From the ridge, I could see the sea, a stretch of brilliant turquoise beckoning me closer.
I usually would have taken a cab, but nervous energy coursed through me and it was such a beautiful morning with mild temperatures that I decided to walk to my destination.
I pulled out my phone and punched in the address. My destination was a mere twenty minutes away, so I followed the blinking dot, weaving through narrow cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
The scent of fresh-baked pastries and coffee drifted from cafés that were just opening their doors. A few locals passed me without hurry, most wearing linen shirts, sandals, and sunglasses already perched on their noses.
I, on the other hand, was dressed for a boardroom.
My fitted blazer clung to my shoulders, my pencil skirt hugged my curves, and the heels clicked awkwardly against the cobblestone.
My wardrobe had seemed perfectly reasonable when I left my hotel, but now, as I made my way over the uneven stones, not so much.
Each step required the kind of balance usually reserved for tightrope walkers.
I should have turned around and gone back to the hotel to change into something more sensible.
But my phone died since I hadn’t charged it last night and I wasn’t certain whether the hotel or my destination was closer.
I decided on the latter after I bought an old-fashioned city map at the nearby kiosk, and kept on going.
Thirty minutes—and more than a few curious side glances—later, I realized just how badly I’d misjudged both the terrain and the dress code.
I might’ve looked like a million bucks, but climbing hilly streets, navigating sun-warmed pavement, and pretending I wasn’t slowly losing feeling in my toes didn’t bode well. By the time I finally reached my destination, my heart was racing and my blood pressure was through the roof.
I paused at the gate of a vast property, tugging at the sleeves of my blazer, and attempted to compose myself.
The gate creaked open and I wobbled my way up the path. Loose gravel shifted beneath my shoes, and I cursed the day Manolo Blahnik was born.
I had barely reached the top step when the door swung open.
Three figures appeared, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
Because there was the man who had lived in both my dreams and my nightmares for the past decade.
I blinked, worried maybe heat and dehydration had gotten to me. Then I blinked again, but the three figures still stood there.
Lykos Costello still stood there.
I had made a career out of stitching together minds that were quietly falling apart. Been successful in that career, even.
It was delicate work. People often thought therapy was about dispensing advice or offering wisdom, but in truth, it was something closer to archaeology.
You brushed dust from buried memories. You excavated fragments of pain that people had spent years trying to forget.
And above all, you moved slowly, carefully, terrified that one wrong touch might collapse the fragile structure that kept a person functioning.
For years, I’d believed I understood fractures.
Then I’d met this man and suddenly my own mind became ruined. The consequences of a single night’s actions had sealed it that way.
He looked as good as I remembered. Older, yes.
I cataloged him, taking stock of the ways in which he’d changed.
He wore a three-piece suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. Late-morning sunlight spilled across the front steps, catching his edges in pale gold and sharpening the lines of his face as our eyes locked.
Silver threaded through his thick dark hair, glinting among the locks that I’d once run my fingers over, trying to tame.
He had been handsome then; he was devastating now. His was the kind of beauty that felt dangerous. Brooding. The kind that made people do a double take and then quickly look away.
I had never seen another man with hair quite like his—thick, and completely unruly—or dark, piercing eyes that seemed capable of pinning you in place without a single word.
His jaw was cut from stone, shadowed by a subtle five-o’clock stubble, and his shoulders stretched the clean lines of his jacket with effortless strength.
The raw power rolled off him in quiet, barely restrained waves.
He wasn’t overly bulky, nor was he lean in the way male beauty standards favored. His body carried the solid strength of a man who knew exactly what he was capable of—and had nothing left to prove.
The kind of physique that made hearts race. It had certainly made mine race once ten years ago.
And judging by the sudden, traitorous thud against my ribs, my heart hadn’t completely learned its lesson.
“Lykos,” I breathed. “What… How…”
A freaking Ph.D. and I couldn’t find the words to form a question.
Darkness flickered across his expression, immediately replaced by something colder. Something akin to hatred.
“What are you doing here?” His deep voice unlocked a long-buried trove of awareness.
Goose bumps rose along my skin, a shiver rippling through me as the air between us tightened. I fought the instinct to lean closer, to close the distance and bask in the raw magnetism he emanated. The same pull I had felt the minute I met him—dangerous, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
Back then, I hadn’t questioned it. I had let it engulf me without hesitation, drawn in like a moth to a flame.
But that was years ago, and I’d since learned my lesson.
Instead of surrendering to the urge, I forced my feet to move the other way. One deliberate step back. Then another. The space between us felt wrong, almost painful, but I held my ground.
I was no longer that fragile twenty-one-year-old girl who mistook intensity for safety, who believed strength meant protection and attraction meant love. I had been naive then, touch-starved and desperate for someone to stand between me and the world.
I wasn’t her anymore.
Not after everything that had happened.
At this age, I knew better. And yet… my pulse still quickened in his presence.