𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀 -
Intricate and witty, her life has twisted upside down after her father's past scarred his family. At the young age of twenty, Violet is informed that eight years ago, she was promised to marry a Mafia Don's son by h...
THE FEW THINGS - JP SAXE "you're one of the few things that i'm sure of."
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It was nine in the morning, and I had been down in the basement for the past eight hours; ever since Violet and I's last interaction. Without any sleep, hydration, or any source of energy for that matter, I continued to throw unnecessarily forceful punches at the bag in front of me.
I had no idea how long I intended to stay down here for. Originally, I just thought I'd hit Violet out of my system— just as I always did, especially when she first moved here.
Every morning since her arrival, after every word we exchanged, every touch we shared, every second that we were at least three feet apart in, I would go crazy. I felt so fucking consumed by her, and it was the sweetest and most cruel method of torture that anyone could have ever possibly used on me.
But now, no matter how many times my fist collided with the punching bag, it seemed to have no effect. The change done by her was irrevocable, and I had no fucking idea why. I'd only known her for two or so months, so why was she wrapped around my mind? Why had I come to trust her so fucking easily? Had I fucked up by telling her what I felt for her?
The questions remained unanswered, even as she descended down the staircase of the unfinished basement— where both the walls and floors were made of concrete— proving that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all. As she reached the bottom and stepped into the room, her gaze roamed across the unexpected sight before her; weights, targets, weapons, and punching bags.
"So this is what you've been hiding?" She inquired.
She looked beautiful. Even though it was decently early in the morning, a time where she usually wasn't awake yet, she looked so full of life. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat pony tail, and she wore a breathable light grey tank top.
I responded with a simple "Sure," my demeanour hinting at the underlying reasons for the space. It was mainly a kind of coping mechanism for me to drown out whatever I was thinking, not necessarily something I was trying to hide.
"Here," I handed her a gun from a side table, but her eyes betrayed her trepidation, her grip on the firearm slightly trembling. "You okay?" I asked, because if she wasn't comfortable with holding a weapon as strong as this, I wasn't going to force her.
She nodded, her determination outweighing her fear, and I walked over to one of the targets that hung on the wall. I began explaining how to position her body, and how to hold the gun.
