Page 19 of A Violet Obsession

When my palms start buzzing, I want to cry. What now? Why, after a decade of silence, are they suddenly back?

The black, electric SUV glides up to the curb so quietly that I almost don’t register it. Both passenger side doors open at the same time, and two men in dark suits exit in tandem, moving toward me with a coordinated stride that sets off every alarm in my body.

I turn to run, but a hand clamps around my bicep. The force of it wrenches me sideways, and before I can plant my feet, the second man has my other arm. They lift me nearly off the ground, my tennis shoes scraping uselessly against wet pavement as they haul me toward the open back door.

“Stop!” I scream. “Let me go! Somebody⁠—”

A palm covers my mouth. I bite down hard, and the man’s grip falters for half a second before he shoves me forward. My shoulder hits the edge of the door frame, and the door slams. The SUV surges forward, and the acceleration pitches me sideways across the leather seat.

“Ms. Jenkins.” The measured voice is familiar.

The shock of recognition freezes me in place.

“Or should I call you Ms. Stewart? That is your real name, correct?”

Alaric Voss sits across from me, his posture relaxed. He offers a small smile, but his pale blue gaze has the same unsettling intensity I’d noticed during the auction. “Forgive the theatrics.” He adjusts a cufflink. “But we need to have a chat. I would have taken a more traditional approach, but the police have made that rather inconvenient.”

“What do you want?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

“Straight to the point. I appreciate that.” He tilts his head. “I want the Veridian Amethyst.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“No?” He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. I flinch back, and he pauses, an amused smile on his face, before pulling out his phone. “I’m prepared to be generous. Give me an account number anywhere in the world, and I will reward you generously. The authorities and Richard Tate’s band of alternative-dimension, crystal zealots will likely still want a word with you, so I’d suggest starting over somewhere new. Somewhere without pesky extradition treaties.”

A bright smile spreads across his face. “You can use my jet. Tell me what you did with the necklace, and you can be on your way tonight.”

The buzzing in my palms crests and then vanishes.

“I don’t⁠—”

The SUV jerks to a violent stop.

9

FINN

Well, that didn’t go the way I expected.

That’s what’s really bothering me as I watch Lily walk toward the door. I’d expected tears. A rehearsed story designed to make me feel like the asshole. Some kind of play. An ask of some type—money, help, etc.

Instead, she looked at me with those mesmerizing eyes and volunteered to get out of Emma’s life.

The odd part is, I believe she means it.

I’m on my feet before I’ve made a conscious decision, weaving through the tables toward the door. The smart move would be to let her go. Report back to Emma that her long-lost friend has baggage, monitor things digitally, and stay out of it.

I shove through the door just as the bus doors close. Lily’s copper hair shining in the gray light through the window.

Fuck.

I sprint to my truck. Following the bus is easy. I hang back far enough that even if she’s watching—and I doubt she is—she won’t spot me. But my shoulders grow tighter the farther we travel, moving past the last strip of gentrified coffee shops and yoga studios, entering blocks where half the storefronts are boarded up.

She lives here?

Something hot twists behind my ribs. She was taking the bus, so I’m assuming she doesn’t have transportation, and the idea of Lily walking these sidewalks alone at night makes my hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles ache.

The bus pulls up to a stop in front of a check-cashing business, and Lily steps off. The street is nearly empty. I stop against the curb at the end of the block and watch as her shoulders hunch inside her coat.