I close the door on her fury.
The library is filledwith afternoon light when I find her.
She’s in the leather armchair by the window, legs curled beneath her, book open in her lap. Byzantine mosaics, a text I chose specifically, knowing she’d be unable to resist.
The blue dress fits exactly as I imagined, the soft fabric skimming her curves without clinging. The color brings out the gray-green of her eyes, and makes her auburn hair look like fire. She’s left it down today, and the urge to come over and sift it through my fingers is almost unbearable.
I walk slowly, deliberately. My footsteps silent on the thick carpet.
She doesn’t hear me approach, too absorbed in the book, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed in concentration. When she reaches a particularly interesting passage, she bites her bottom lip.
Just like I told her I noticed.
I stop behind her chair. Close enough to smell the shampoo in her hair.
“Enjoying yourself?”
She startles violently, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as the book tumbles from her grasp and falls to the floor with a soft thud that echoes too loudly in the quiet room.
We both reach for it at the same time
My hand closes over hers on the spine, the contact I’ve craved hitting me hard.
Her skin is warm and soft, the faint calluses on her fingers scraping lightly against my palm, and something in my chest cracks open just a fraction.
I don’t let go. Instead I pull her up until she’s standing.
She steps right, and I block her path. She tries left, and I block her again.
“Let me pass.” Her voice is steady, but I can see the pulse hammering at her throat.
“Ask nicely.”
Her jaw sets. That stubborn set of her chin, the defiance I’ve been methodically dismantling for two weeks. But something in her eyes wavers. She’s calculating, weighing whether fighting is worth it.
She decides it isn’t.
“Please.”
The word costs her. I can see it in the tight line of her shoulders, the way her fingers tremble beneath mine.
I don’t move.
“Again. Like you mean it.”
Fury flashes across her face. For a moment, I think she’ll spit at me, claw at my eyes, go for my throat with her bare hands.
But then she defies my expectations.
“Please.” Her voice comes softer this time, more broken.
I use our joined hands to pull her closer. She tries to step back, but I’m already there, closing the distance so she can’t escape. She retreats until her shoulders hit the bookshelf.
“You’re settling in.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t have a choice.” Her voice shakes, but defiance still threads through it. That fire that refuses to go out no matter how many times I smother it.
“You always have choices, Violet.” I lift my free hand slowly, letting her see every inch of the movement. “You’re just learning to make the right ones.”
