Brutal Obsession (29)

“Terrible,” I finish. “I hope not.”

But I don’t have to worry. An hour later, it isn’t Greyson who comes to get me—it’s Steele.





13





GREYSON





“What do you mean, someone broke into her apartment?” I glare at Knox. On one hand, I shouldn’t fucking care. But that persistent side of me that wants to claim her—publicly—rears its ugly head again.

He lifts one shoulder. “She called and seemed pretty upset. She wanted Willow to find somewhere else to stay…”

“Because her being alone in that apartment is a good idea.” Sarcasm is my default when I’m trying to hide my real feelings. It’s not a great sign that it’s choosing to come out now.

“Listen, man. Steele offered to go pick her up and bring her here. It isn’t ideal, seeing as how we’re in party mode…” He gestures to the beer bottle in my hand. “But whatever. She can hang out in one of the rooms upstairs if she wants.”

Violet didn’t call the police.

Which probably means she thinks I’m behind it.

I frown and shake my head. Then the first part registers. Steele went to get her? Steele offered?

I didn’t think I’d have to knock his teeth in, but I will if I have to. Happily.

Jesus, when the fuck did I get like this? All twisted up on the inside?

“When did he leave?” I bark.

Knox shrugs, but there’s something else there. A glimmer of triumph.

“You ass,” I groan. “You did it on purpose? Because of the bet.”

He snickers. “I can’t give you a leg up in this competition.”

No doubt he doesn’t care that Violet sucked Steele off at the stadium. If Steele opened his mouth anyway. I push my bottle into his hand and storm toward the door. I don’t really care what Steele wants—I need control over this situation.

I need to kick the shit out of Steele and remind him that there’s only one reason why Violet went down on her knees for him. Because I allowed it.

I get as far as the foyer, and then the front door opens, and Steele and Violet enter. She looks around and finds me almost immediately, then her gaze shifts away. Black leggings, and white sneakers. Under her unzipped coat, she wears an oversized blue Hawks shirt that hides her curves. Her hair is damp and braided, hanging over her shoulder. Not a speck of makeup, and definitely no hint of what happened between us not too long ago.

“You can stay in my room if you don’t want to hang out with us,” Steele offers.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, shedding her coat. “But I think I want something to relax.”

“I’ve got what you need,” I interject.

Her gaze flicks to me, eyes widening in surprise. I pull her jacket from her grip and tip my head, indicating that she should follow me. She does without a word. Her attention is fixated on my back. Her focus makes me feel like I’m stepping into a warm bath.

I lead her to the stairs and up, then down the hall to my bedroom. Knox has the largest, with its own bathroom. Steele, Miles, and I all share the one in the hall. I guess she’ll just have to deal with that.

She follows me like a lamb to slaughter, all the way into my room. She lets me close the door behind her and toss her jacket onto the bed.

“Sit,” I order.

She doesn’t. She stays in the center of the room, looking around like she’s never seen a guy’s room before. Maybe Jack was a different breed and never let her go over to the house he shares with some of his football buddies.

My room is neat and organized. It reflects my mind. I don’t like chaos, I don’t like uncertainty. And Violet is the biggest uncertainty I’ve faced. She’s unpredictable.

In here, I know where everything is. My desk is clear of papers, notebooks, and textbooks. The pens and pencils sit in a mug that says Number One Hockey Babe that was a gift from a nameless puck bunny. A thank you for an orgasm, probably.

The walls are cream, my bedspread quilted, dark-gray and soft. White sheets—I’m not a monster, and I’m not sixteen anymore. Black sheets are a red flag… and I go out of my way to eliminate all the red flags that might make someone run.

Well, not Violet. She had the chance to run because she’s seen past the veneer, and she knows what my family is capable of. When it comes to Devereuxes, you’re either in our good graces, not worth our time, or you’re our enemy.

Violet seems to have the uncanny ability to waver between all of those things. Exiled but worth my time. An irresistible enemy.

“You don’t have any artwork,” she says. “No pictures, even…”

I consider what I know of Violet Reece. I did some digging this week, just simple internet searches that gave me a variety of information. An article in the Times had a few quotes from her after a performance of Don Quixote with the Crown Point Ballet. She was raised by a single mom who sang her praises in public. Dad wasn’t on the scene, although another search turned up an obituary for him.

Violet was seven when he died.

She grew up in Rose Hill, New York. The same town I grew up in, although we went to different high schools—her the public one a town over, me to an elite private school. She lived in a house that would sell for a fraction of the price of my dad’s in the current market. It’s not a particularly bad neighborhood, but it’s isolated. The homes are old. I took a tour of it on a real estate website, clicking through staged photos. Still, even the real estate company couldn’t completely erase Violet.