“Darius!” Her face goes scarlet. She buries it against my shoulder.
My heart aches at how adorable she is around me. How different from the guarded girl who keeps everyone else at arm’s length.
This version of Violet—soft and open and trusting—is mine alone.
I carry her to the kitchen and set her down on one of the stools at the island, making sure she’s steady before stepping back.
“You must be hungry,” I say, moving to the fridge. “I’ll cook for you.”
She’s quiet as I pull out bacon, eggs, bread, cheese. As I move around the kitchen, I can feel her eyes on me, tracking my every movement.
“Your wounds have healed.”
I glance at her over my shoulder, amused. “Yes. I told you they would.”
She bites her lip, her fingers plucking at the edge of the shirt—my shirt—nervously.
I turn back to the stove and crack eggs into a pan. The bacon sizzles beside them, filling the air with the scent of breakfast.
But I find the silence between us heavy and uncomfortable. I look over my shoulder again and see her staring at the counter, her fingers plucking at a loose thread on the cloth napkin I put out for her. Over and over. A nervous habit that I recognize.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” I say firmly, “stop.”
Her fingers go still. She looks up at me, and the sincerity in her eyes makes my chest tight.
“What happens now?” she asks quietly.
I turn the burner down and face her fully, leaning back against the counter. “What do you mean?”
“Last night. We—” Violet swallows hard. “And now it’s morning and I’m wearing your shirt and you’re making me breakfast and I don’t”—she takes a shaky breath—“I don’t know what this is. What we’re doing.”
My jaw clenches. “You regret it.”
“No!” The word bursts out of her, fast and desperate. “No, not—” She stops and sighs heavily. “Not exactly regret, but…”
I round the island in two strides, and my hands land on her shoulders to spin her toward me.
“But what?”
The words that leave her mouth feel like claws dragging across my chest. “This can’t happen again.”
My grip tightens. “Violet—”
“It doesn’t matter if we’re not related by blood.” Her voice is tense. “The pack will never accept something like this. And my mother will kill me. Literally.”
She tries to slide off the stool, and panic floods through me.
No. She can’t leave. Not like this.
I move before I can think, picking her up and setting her on the counter. I plant myself between her legs, forcing them apart to accommodate my body.
“You’re not going anywhere.” My voice drops to a low, commanding tone. “This stays between us. Nobody has to know.”
“We’ll be caught.” Her voice wavers. “Eventually, someone will—”
“No.” I lean closer, my hands grasping the counter on either side of her hips. “I’ll make sure of it. I know you feel this, too, Violet. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
She stares at me, and for a moment, I see the want in her eyes. The same desperate need that’s tearing me apart.
