Chapter 8: The Standoff
The pounding didn’t stop. It vibrated through the floorboards, through the bedframe, a discordant drumbeat shattering the fragile silence they’d built. Isaac froze beneath her, his body shifting from desire to defensive rigidity in a heartbeat. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that was utterly feral and completely new to her.
“Ignore it,” Violet whispered, her lips brushing his, a desperate plea.
“Can’t.” His voice was gravel. “He knows I’m here.”
The ‘he’ hung between them, toxic and heavy. The cold she’d complained about earlier was nothing compared to the ice that now slid down her spine. She saw it in his eyes—the ghost of the boy who used to flinch at slamming doors. But then his jaw tightened, and the ghost was gone, replaced by a sharp, protective anger. He moved to get up.
“No.” Her hand pressed against his chest. “You stay here.”
“Violet—”
“I’ve got a black belt in sarcasm and my uncle’s Louisville Slugger. Stay.”
She rolled off him, the sudden absence of his warmth a shock. She snatched his discarded t-shirt from the floor, pulling it over her head. It smelled like him—coffee, cheap detergent, and something wild she couldn’t name. She stepped into a pair of thin sleep shorts and padded to the corner, hefting Stiles’s old baseball bat from where it leaned against a pile of textbooks.
Isaac was on his feet, a silent shadow by the bed. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Actually, I do. This is my house. Well, my cousin’s. Same difference.” She gave the bat a practice swing. “And nobody bangs on my door like a SWAT team after midnight without receiving a performance review.”
She left him there, a pale figure in the moonlight, and walked down the dark hall. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs, but her steps were steady. The porch light flickered through the sidelight, strobing over the distorted shape of a man on the other side of the warped wood.
She unlocked the door and opened it just enough to lean against the frame, the bat resting casually on her shoulder.
The man on the porch was broad, with Isaac’s height but none of his grace. His face was a harder, crueler version, etched with permanent dissatisfaction. Camden Lahey’s eyes were wild, bloodshot, scanning the dark hall behind her.
“I tracked Isaac’s here,” he stated, his voice a rusty blade. “I know he’s inside. Where is he?”
Violet blinked slowly, tilting her head. She let her gaze travel over him with deliberate, clinical slowness. “Tracked who? Is he hot? Because if you’re here to deliver some mysterious, brooding stranger, I’ll need to see a photo first. I have standards.”
His face flushed a mottled red. “Don’t play dumb. My son. Isaac Lahey. You’re hiding him. You’re one of them, aren’t you? Corrupting him.”
A slow smile spread across Violet’s face. She twirled the bat lazily in one hand, the wood whispering through the air. “Corrupting? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me all week. But alas, your son isn’t here. And even if he were, I highly doubt I would be done corrupting in only a few hours. These things take dedication. A real artisan’s touch.”
He took a threatening step forward. The sour smell of old beer and rage rolled off him. “You little bitch. You think you’re smart? I’ll have you out of this town so fast—”
Violet yawned, covering her mouth with her free hand. It was a spectacular, wide, utterly bored yawn. “Let me stop you right there,” she said, her voice dripping with faux patience. “Threat assessment: One, my uncle is the Sheriff. This is his house. He taught me how to swing this bat. Two, I am holding said bat. Three, you are trespassing and causing a disturbance at”—she made a show of checking her bare wrist—“twelve-forty-seven in the fucking morning. Your move, Mr. Lahey. But choose your next words like they’re your last. I’m grading on wit, and so far you’re failing.”
For a long moment, he just stared, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked past her, into the dark house, as if trying to summon Isaac by will alone. Then he leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. “This isn’t over. He’s mine. You’ll see.”
“Wonderful. Send a postcard.” Violet began to close the door. “And maybe invest in a breath mint. The hostility I can handle, but the halitosis is a war crime.”
She shut the door firmly, sliding the deadbolt with a solid, final thunk. She didn’t move, her forehead resting against the cool wood, listening. She heard his heavy footsteps retreat, the crunch of gravel, the slam of a truck door, and the angry roar of an engine fading down the street.
Only then did she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The adrenaline evaporated, leaving her limbs slightly shaky.
She turned.
Isaac was pressed against the wall of the dark hallway, just out of sight from the door. The flickering porch light from the window slashed across his face. His eyes were wide, but the fear she’d expected was gone. In its place was something raw and brilliant—a mix of utter awe and unbridled amusement. A slow, incredulous smile was spreading across his face, transforming his usual brooding expression into something boyish and dazzling.
He pushed off the wall and took two steps toward her. He stopped just inches away, his gaze locked on hers.
“That,” he said, his voice low and rough with feeling, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”