“We’ll see.” She chewed her lower lip. Her voice was small as she sat up on the bed, covering herself with the towel. “But first, I need clothes.”
“Do you really need them?” I said in a dark whisper.
She pulled the towel tighter around her like I hadn’t already seen what was underneath.
“Fine.” I went to my dresser and grabbed a white shirt and a pair of Nike sweatpants, and tossed them onto the bed. “Dress.”
“Turn.” Her eyebrows arched.
I grinned and held up my left hand. “Married.”
“Cute.” She crossed her arms over the towel. “Turn or no game.”
I adjusted my mask with irritation. “Didn’t know the Italians taught you torture.”
“They taught me everything.” She lifted her chin in pride.
Good for her.
It was on the tip of my tongue, my response.
Instead, I said nothing.
I held back.
And then I turned.
After a few seconds, I heard her plop on the bed; the casualness of it made me smile beneath my mask. “Ready.”
She was devastating, even in sweats with wet hair and tear-stained cheeks. Then again, she would be, she’d always been that way, all classical beauty that demanded to be seen. Hell, she was a weakness I hadn’t seen coming because I would do anything to keep her safe, and it bothered me that I’d done the exact opposite.
I’d married her.
Securing a cellmate.
She didn’t understand.
But she would.
And then I would have her hate.
I grabbed another checkers set from the dresser and brought it over to the bed.
She frowned. “Do you really have a checkers set in every room?”
“Actually, yes.” I shrugged and started setting out the pieces. “It calms me, and it makes sense. It’s rational, it’s win or lose, strategy, it’s concentration. And it’s always the same.”
“I take it you enjoy consistency and a challenge?” One black eyebrow arched up. Her eyes were so damn swollen.
“Yes, a little of both.” I looked away from her grief-stricken face. All it did was remind me of things I couldn’t change, and a burden so heavy that she was sick with it, one she wouldn’t share with a stranger like me, one she would bear on her own while she grieved.
“Ladies first.” I cleared my throat.
She made her first calculated move. Her fingers were trembling, maybe this was a bad idea, but I knew her—I knew if she went to bed right now, she’d just think about Breaker, she’d blame herself, she’d dream of him.
Was it so selfish to want her to dream of me instead?
To want her to lean on me?
Hug me?
Let me take away the pain?
The room was thick with it; a heaviness descended over us as we played, and no matter how many times I tried to ask questions and get her distracted, her chin wobbled like she was just barely holding it in.
“What did you love about him?” I finally asked as we started our second game; she lost, then again, it wasn’t fair she was barely concentrating.
A tear spilled from her cheek to the checkerboard, and I was instantly angry I’d missed the chance to wipe it away.
“Everything.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. “I loved everything about him. He was…” She locked eyes with me. “…mine. The one thing that I had in the Family that I claimed when I first saw him was Breaker himself. He was so… broken when he came to us. He smiled, and he fit in perfectly, but at night he cried.”
“Did he ever tell you why he cried?” My body tensed.
“He said he was broken.” Violet reached for another checker and clutched it in her hand. “And I told him it was okay to be broken because when you’re broken, all you need is a best friend to help you find the pieces and put them back together again. And I promised him I would.”
“He was lucky to have you as a best friend, Violet, and more…”
“He was mine,” she said again, this time louder. “My dad has politics, my mom has my dad, Ash has his rage, Izzy has Maksim. Everyone has someone or something that they’re good at. He was my one thing; don’t you get it? He was it; he was mine! And he was stolen from me!”
A mixture of a scream and a sob pierced the room as Violet threw the checkerboard against the dresser. The red and black pieces clattered to the floor, almost in slow motion.
I didn’t move.
She shoved at me.
And I let her.
She pounded her fists into my chest.
I welcomed the pain.
And then she was sobbing against my chest again. I pulled her into my arms; I wondered if she knew I mourned him too?
The way she saw him was more than he deserved.
“I’m so angry…” Her body shook against mine.
“Then be angry, Violet. Bruise me, beat me, scar me—you have to let it out, or it will destroy you.”