Shit.
Greta’s dark eyes narrowed on mine, her expression pinched into a scowl as she glared at me through the gap. I expected her to scream or even hit out. Instead, she stepped back, gesturing for me to follow.
Well… okay then.
The inside was just as depressing as the outside, with mould growing on the walls and the general stench of damp. The house was quiet other than the distant sound of running water, so after a moment I followed through the dark hall, finding Greta in the kitchen doing some washing up.
She still hadn’t said a word, and I was worried if I broke the silence, it may set her off. The kitchen was a mess of pots and pans, and it smelled faintly of something burnt.
“I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said quietly, not turning as she continued to wash whatever was in the sink.
“Because of Violet,” I replied, keeping my tone the same level as hers.
Greta paused, shoulders tight. “You can’t have her. She’s mine.” A knife gleamed in her dripping hand when she turned, water trailing down the blade like blood.
I glanced at the knife before returning my attention to her.
“I’m not trying to take her away from you.” I’d already accepted that if I wanted Violet, I’d have to accept her crazy mother.
“Then why are you here?” she asked with a frown.
“It’s… complicated.”
She pressed her lips together, taking a single step forward, the knife held out like a challenge. “You’re not a good man.”
“No,” I agreed, holding my ground. “I’m not.”
Greta blinked, confused. “You admit it?”
“I’ve never denied it.” I met her stare. “Good men are tied to rules. They have boundaries they refuse to cross because of some twisted sense of morality. I don’t have that problem, especially when it comes to your daughter.”
Greta’s arm held strong, our eyes locked in some strange, silent battle. I was worried that if I looked away, she’d stab me.
“Mum, what are you doing!?”
I didn’t move, not willing to lose the stare-off.
“Not again!” Violet cried out. “Put the knife down!”
Again?What the fuck had I missed?
Greta exhaled sharply, the sound closer to defeat than anger. Looking away, she dropped the knife into the sink before walking out. The slam of the door echoed through the bungalow a moment later.
When I looked back, Violet was standing there, her hair damp, cheeks flushed, and a towel clutched tight around her body.I’d been watching her from afar, but up close it was like a punch to the gut.
There was a faint mark on her cheek, and when I went to brush my thumb over it, she flinched. “What happened?” I asked, the words sharp with barely contained anger. “Who hurt you?”
She straightened, tilting her chin up in that stubborn way of hers. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
The defiance in her tone didn’t quite mask the tremor beneath it. I studied her face, the tension in her jaw, and reluctantly nodded.
You grovel.
It must be hell, because there was no other explanation for the fact that I was actually taking relationship advice from Roman–fucking–Antonov.
“What are you doing here, Ryder?” Violet demanded, those familiar green eyes making it very clear that she was pissed with me. She even kept a careful space between us, but fuck that.
I stepped forward, and she stepped back, repeating this dance until she hit the kitchen counter. Her hands came up like she might push me away, like she believed I’d stop. But not this time. This time, I closed the distance until her palms pressed against my chest, my arms bracketing her hips so she was trapped, unable to run away.
