He did? When?
I’ve been too busy studying the planes of his face to hear him. Tracking the curve of his mouth, the way shadows pool in the hollow of his throat, the scar across his knuckles I’ve never noticed before.
Stop noticing things. STOP.
“Fine,” I manage. “I slept fine.”
And he smiles. Not the almost-smile. Not the smirk. An actual, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and transforms his entire face into something devastating.
“That’s good, Violet.”
My name in his mouth. The way his accent curls around the syllables, softening the hard ’t’ into something almost like a caress.
I misstesoro. Miss the possessive warmth of it. ButVioletsounds… good. It sounds good.
You’re losing your mind.
A shiver runs through me, partly my body betraying me, partly the chill of still-damp hair dripping down my back.
Elio stands without a word and shrugs off his jacket, charcoal gray today, before draping it over my shoulders.
His fingers brush my collarbone. And there is nothing I can do to stop myself from leaning into the touch.
Half a second. Maybe less. But enough for both of us to notice.
His hands still. My breath catches.
Then I’m pulling the jacket tighter around myself, drowning in the scent of him wondering when the smell of my captor became something that made me feel safe instead of terrified.
He takes a steps back, his posture rigid.
“Call your mother.”
The words hit me hard, and I look up to find Elio holding out an expensive looking phone. Nothing like the cheap one I smashed against the wall days ago.
“Tell her you’re safe.”
And just like that, whatever strange warmth had been building between us evaporates.
“You want me to lie to my mother.”
“I want you to reassure her.” He sets the phone on the table between us. “The alternative is she continues worrying. Possibly contacts authorities. Start making inquiries that would be... inconvenient. For everyone.”
The threat isn’t subtle. It doesn’t need to be.
I pick up the phone with shaking hands and dial.
She answers on the second ring.
“Violet? Violet, is that you? Oh thank God, I’ve been worriedsick, you haven’t called in three weeks and you know how I hate text messages. I tried the number you gave me but it just kept ringing and ringing?—”
Her voice. Jesus Christ, hervoice. It sounds like Sunday dinners and burnt coffee and the apartment in Southie where I grew up. It sounds like home.
My throat closes. For a moment I can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but clutch the phone and try not to shatter.
“Ma.” I force the word out. “Ma, I’m fine. I’ve just been buried in work. The cathedral restoration, it’s—there’s a lot of damage. More than we expected.”
Elio watches from the doorway. Leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, perfectly still. Predator-still.
