Brutal Obsession (72)

I grit my teeth and put it screen-down, then flick it onto silent.

Her mother might be on par with my dad for biggest asshole.

When I turn back around, Violet’s in bed. I click the light off and climb in beside her, earning a surprised yelp.

“What?”

“What are you doing?” Her voice is guarded again. “You have your own bed.”

“This is a truce.” I get closer, adjusting my pillow, and hook my arm around her waist. “Get comfortable.”

“This is embarrassing,” she says. “What if I fart?”

I snort. “Good thing I’m fully aware that females have bodily functions.”

She shifts.

Bad idea.

Her ass shifts against my groin, waking up my cock. I shut my eyes and try to think of something else, but it doesn’t work. She moves again, and instantly I’m hard.

I’ve never met an aphrodisiac that has the same effect as her body. And as much as I want to sink into her warmth again, I’m not going to do it. I am fucking exhausted—mentally and physically.

She makes a noise, but I shush her.

“Ignore my hard-on. It’ll go away.”

Her laugh is breathy, and she rolls into me. Something I wasn’t expecting for someone who wasn’t sure she wanted me in her bed a minute ago. Now we’re face to face, and it strikes me that I haven’t slept with anyone before. Overnight.

There was no use for that.

I wish she would tell me what’s bothering her. If I pry now, she might actually tell me. But instead of opening my mouth, I lean forward and kiss her.

When’s the last time I’ve done this? Just kiss someone for the sake of their lips on mine?

I don’t like that Violet is pulling my strings—and soon enough, the charade we’re building is going to crash down around us. But for now, I grip her side and kiss her while her hands roam my upper body. Every touch seems to light me up inside, until I’m burning.

And then, eventually, we break apart.

We breathe in the silence.

Sleep comes not long after that.





32





GREYSON





I rise before Violet. I quietly brush my teeth and pull on different clothes, then sit on the unused bed. I grab her phone from the charger and open it, still sort of miffed that she hasn’t thought to put a password on it.

Some people are far too trusting.

Like Violet, asleep in my bed. I glance back at her and take in her hair scattered across her face, her full lips, parted as she takes in long, deep breaths. Her eyelids twitch, like her eyes are moving in a dream, and her fingers are curled into her pillow.

Other than her tense grip, she seems relaxed.

My hand aches, but I’ll deal with that later. Both hands are still wrapped. People kept commenting on them last night when I was trying to keep one eye on Violet. The normal rush from being at the center of attention didn’t come, because she wasn’t paying attention to me.

When the hell did my brain flip to only giving a shit about her?

I don’t like it.

I go to her texts, and a conversation with Mia Germain catches my eye. The director of her last show, from the video online. If she’s done with ballet, why is she talking to her? Then I see the appointment time, the doctor’s name, and my throat gets tight. I look back farther, but that seems to be her only correspondence.

I Google Dr. Michaels. He’s in Vermont. This town actually, which might explain Violet’s weird mood… and why she came along on this trip in the first place. Did Mia Germain infuse some hope in her, then the doctor—an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in working with athletes—took it away?

Well, I guess that solves some of the mystery. I erase my search history and move on. I click onto her social media and follow myself across the various platforms. I snoop through her emails, which proves to be slightly more fruitful.

Her academic advisor has sent her the form to graduate. My thumb hovers over the delete button, and then I glance back up at Violet again. She rolls away from me, burying her head in the pillow.

I go back to her texts.

The ex-boyfriend has sent a slew that has me grinding my teeth. There are a lot from immediately after the accident: I’m so excited to see you when you get back and we’re going to have an awesome junior year and then a few weeks later: Fuck, Violet, I miss you. I don’t care about your leg, just take me back. I’m sorry. Then they stop up until her return to school. A big gap.

I delete his thread and block his number.

What did he say to her? The line that he crossed to make her end things with him? For a second, I envision holding him down and cutting off his tongue. The imagery is satisfying, if a bit violent.

Like her.

I set aside her phone and circle around to the other side of the bed. I peel the blankets off her, letting them all slide to the floor. Sheets, comforter. Until all that’s left is her. I crouch beside it, level with her knees, and inspect her left leg more thoroughly. The scar is silver and straight down the front of her shin. I reach out and brush my finger over it.

How long was she in surgery?

When did they tell her she wouldn’t dance again?

I carefully lift her leg, shifting her weight, until she rolls onto her back. I wait a handful of seconds, but she doesn’t stir.