Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore by Emily Krempholtz - 12

He dreamed of the way her magic smelled, his sleep soaked with the scent of blackberry and almond as if she’d steeped herself in his sheets like tea. With every breath, he became more convinced she was right there next to him, and then suddenly she was.

Nathaniel knew this was not real. He knew he was imagining this.

He did not care.

He greedily took in the sight of her, eyes gluttonous for her hair, her lips, the flash of her gaze beneath her lashes. His hands took their fill too, skating reverently across soft bare skin, cataloguing curves that those loose-fitting shirts—and his own brittle intentions—had tried and failed to hide in the light of day.

Because of course he had noticed them; of course he had, and here in the safety of the dark he could admit she was a gorgeous little thing. He could savor the amber of her eyes in a way he couldn’t the night they met, glass shattering around them. He could luxuriate in the warmth of her hand against his without his own thoughtless words from his thoughtless brain tumbling from his mouth like hurdles for him to trip over. His lips could skim her neck, drawing sounds from her throat that he bottled like specimens for later study.

“What is it that you want from me?” she asked again, but this was more than the conversation he’d spent the rest of the day wishing he could redo. This time, her voice was hoarse with desire, her head thrown back in wanton surrender. This time, he could nip at the skin there, soothing the bite with his tongue almost languidly, like he had the rest of his life to do it, like there was no urgency to the way he made her his.

This time, his words did not catch in his throat, because this time, here in the dark, there was no reason to suppress what he already knew.

“You.” He molded himself to her, his body humming as she moved against him, threading her legs with his. She was graceful. Sensuous. His. “I want you , Violet.”

She murmured his name like a promise, and aching to hold her to her word, he ground his hips against hers. This woman would undo him, he realized with prophetic certainty. She would overturn everything he thought he understood. With the same mad conviction, Nathaniel knew that once she led him to the sharp edge of that cliff, he would gladly plummet so long as he fell with the taste of her on his lips.

“I’ll tell you what I want,” Violet said to him on a sigh then, and this too was an echo, a redo, some alternate (and infinitely better) version of their interaction that day. This Violet knew things—things about the way Nathaniel felt and thought and wanted , things Nathaniel barely admitted to himself in the light of day. Her fingers traced his collarbone, nails scratching lightly at his chest as her attention—and hands—drifted lower. She smirked, her eyes alight. “I want— oh! ”

Her exclamation was dismayed, and it struck a sour and unexpected note in Nathaniel’s consciousness. It wasn’t the kind of oh one wanted to hear from one’s bedfellow. The dream began to slip from him.

“Tell me,” he begged, his mind clinging to her even as he staggered on the edge of waking. He was achingly hard, he realized dimly, and there was a muffled sound that came from—

He sat up in bed, eyes wide as he blinked away sleep.

Hell and Undersea, that had been unexpected.

Nathaniel registered the sound that had woken him, a muffled cry from the other side of his bedroom wall, and realized it was one of the rooms they’d leased to Violet—clearly she’d made it her bedroom. His dream-soaked thoughts remained lewd for only a second before he heard the noise again and realized it for what it was: a nightmare.

He didn’t like the thought of her in distress. She was smiles and sparkling eyes to him, not cries of dismay in the dark. What troubled her, he wondered, his mind still deep enough in the dream to be unburdened by the confines of propriety, and how could he put a stop to it? He could admit, at least to himself—and especially after that display of his imagination!—that he was attracted to Violet Thistlewaite. There was nothing wrong with that; people were attracted to other people every day. Nathaniel was a scientist, and he knew that, in large part, he could blame the dream on biology. But what field of science could possibly account for the urge that struck him then, to march to the hallway door that separated her half of the house from his and break it down so he could wake her and offer comfort ?

Nathaniel Marsh had been told—by family, friends, lovers—that he was not the comforting type, and he believed it to be true. The fact that he wanted to be for Violet Thistlewaite—even if just here in the dead of night, even if just a little—surprised him. Concerned him. It was more than science somehow. More than something he could quantify. How much of his persistent preoccupation with her these past weeks was the result of actual dislike, he wondered then—and how much came from the way she challenged the status quo of his own feelings?

Moons, can’t you find it in you to at least try to like me? Violet had asked. Even a little bit?

With a defeated sigh, Nathaniel pressed his hand absently against the wall that separated them, as though this could conceivably console her. If only she knew that liking her was not at all the problem.