“My beautiful brother is sane,” Bronson jokes, I think. “This is the smile”—he points to his smile— “of a killer, Bella.”
Twilight reference.
I lift a brow at him. “It’s not funny when there is truth in it.” I let out a little giggle, because he’s such a contradiction. “I’ve never watched Twilight.”
He gasps in mock horror. “What?”
I smile at him, at the flowers, at the easy conversation. “I know the references because I’ve seen memes, and I follow Tyler Warwick, thatHoa Hoaguy, on Instagram, but I’ve never actually watched Twilight or read it.”
“Hoa hoa hoahoa,” Bronson sings.
I crack up laughing, swatting him.
“Movie night?” he adds.
“Sir will be so pleased,” I tease.
Smiling, Bronson and I dissolve into the market. Every time I stop to look at an arrangement, he is close, winks at me or nods at the blooms. I use my phone’s Notes app, to snap a picture of the flowers I like, and jot down their names.
Peony.
Carnation.
Banksia.
Such pretty names.
I continue walking, glancing back at Bronson every few stalls. He is always a few paces behind my left shoulder, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, casual, eyes coasting over the top of everyone’s heads, watchful.
The stall attendants natter until we pass, then they stop and stare. I don’t blame them. Bronson is a looming, tattooed angel. A beautiful paradox, somehow charming and formidable, charismatic and psychotic. And me? A waif in obscenely expensive ballet flats.Plus,we are at the centre of Clay’s security detail. I sometimes forget that the entire city knows who the Butchers are—that The District is like Gotham, owned and run by a corrupt empire.
Henchman Jeeves strolls along the perimeter. Scattered around him, I can see four henchmen positioned within earshot. They fill me with more unease than the hustle and bustle of the flower market—I grew up on the coast in Carnarvon. I spent hours at market stalls with my mother, finding trinkets and straw hats, buying cheap jewellery that made my fingers go green.God,I loved her. I hated her,andI loved her with the same true, unbidden intensity. When she was around, when she was happy and present, she was fun.
Free.
Kind of like Bronson.
Clay does not permit outings like this—not for me—not without a two-week briefing and a blood-oath and all the X-Men present. I imagine Clay here now, practised smile in place, mind chewing through a million strategies, recalling meetings, planning… stuff? I don’t know what.
But this is what normal people do, what I used to do. This is how they act. Shopping with my fiancé’s brother.Normal?Yikes, I’m nearly convinced by the illusion until I catch sight of yet another henchman, stationed near a wall of blossoms, subtly scanning the crowd.
How many are there?
This man taps his ear.
Bronson halts beside a messy trestle table displaying blooms and stems that look homegrown.
"Alright, Sister Fawn. Thoughts?” He strong-arms the florist into letting him arrange things himself, plucking flowers from their positions. “This one reminds me of Maxipad.” A stiff-looking native comes first, sharp and upright as a blade, then a white rose, then a small teardrop thing in a bruised-pink hue. “This one is my Outlaw’s favourite colour.”
I laugh at him, snapping some photos before accepting asmall brochure. We continue to peruse. It feels nice, but something is missing…
Oh, right—Clay.
I try to stay present and not dwell on his absence. There are so many beautiful options and no sense of urgency from Bronson. So we wander and wander,almostmindlessly now that I have accepted the henchmen and the press of eyes.
Then I gasp, noticing a large stall with a silk cloth, the entire table covered in blooms that look so crisp and clean they appear almost plastic. This stall looksdifferent.
As I approach the display, a lady in a black suit, her brown hair pinned into a neat bun, appears from behind the satin banner. I touch one of the plastic-looking flowers, feeling its softness. Itisreal. It’s almost peach in colour, similar to a rose but with tighter folds and more layers of petals.
