So no, I'm not backing down for a minute. The moment I touched her, she became mine to protect, my war to fight.Anyone who comes for her doesn't get a warning. They don't get to tell the story.
I grip the wheel. The engine hums beneath my hand, ready but waiting. City lights bleed across the windshield, echoes of motion we haven't made yet. Two worlds pulling at me: one I was born for, and one I'm afraid to lose.
Chapter 13
Silent Flowers
Fee:
The bed still smells like him, warm cedar and black pepper, that understated spice that burns through every logical thought I've ever had. But the space beside me is cold, and I'm trying very hard not to calculate how long he stayed after I fell asleep.
I roll onto my side and notice Anton's pillow looking too perfect, too untouched. He must've slept for what, an hour? Two? Before slipping away again into the darkness that claims him when he's not with me.
The business doesn't sleep, and neither do the men who kill for it. I knew what I was getting into. Mostly.
Anton's absence comes with a box and a note waiting on the pillow beside me.
I trace the cool metal box. The smooth satin ribbon slides loose between my fingers. The hinges open without sound.
Nestled inside against black velvet rests a camellia pendant. Titanium petals catch the morning light, each curve etched with such detail, capturing the beauty of the flower that represents silent love. Interesting choice, romantic.
There's something in the center, a barely visible seam. A hinge hidden perfectly within one of the petals, so fine it disappears when closed.
This was meant for our first date. We never made it that far. So I'll start here. A silent flower that stays close to your pulse even when I'm not. A silent flower that will keep you invisible.
I click the hidden hinge, and the camellia opens like a mechanical bloom. Inside gleams a titanium USB drive, nearly obscured by the petals; it's a VPN, not just jewelry, but protection, digital camouflage.
Of course he knows I hack systems. He probably knows everything: my first day of kindergarten, my favorite ice cream flavor, how many times I've watched Pride and Prejudice.
And what else do I know about him? He kills for money as an assassin for the Basovs; he lost someone he loved; he moves through the world like a ghost until he wants to be seen; he used to be fun; I've caught glimpses of it, on the rare occasions when he has smiled.
I snap the camellia closed and slip the chain around my neck. Protection wrapped in romance. It's the most Anton thing in the world, deadly and tender in the same breath.
He gives me a digital cloak and calls me his little sun. He stitches my wounds with surgeon's hands that have ended lives. He makes love to me like I'm something sacred, then disappears to handle business that will probably end in blood.
And somehow, that makes perfect sense to both of us.
We're all a little psychopathic in this world. The only difference is whether you use it to survive or to destroy. Anton does both. So do I, in my own way.
Sliding off the bed, I test my weight carefully. The bathroom is only a few steps away, close enough that I don't need the crutch if I'm strategic about it.
The water feels too cold against my skin as I splash my face, but I need the contrast—something to shock me back into my own body. I dry off with a towel, the Egyptian cotton impossibly soft against my cheeks.
The mirror doesn't lie. His black T-shirt hangs off one shoulder. The pendant rests against my collarbone, and beneath it, a dark purple mark where his mouth sucked hard enough to brand me. My fingers trace the bruise, remembering the sharp pleasure-pain, the possessive growl against my throat. Lips still swollen from his kisses.
Thoroughly loved by a gentle and rough lover, both in the same man, the same hands, the same breath. My contradiction. Anton.
The stitches on my foot don't throb as much this morning. Progress. I gingerly test my weight again, pressing my toes against the cool tile. The pain spikes, but not like yesterday's white-hot agony. More like an angry reminder.
Not three days yet.Dr. Esposito's warning echoes in my head, but I'm not exactly known for patience. I slide into a pair of jeans, a struggle that involves more hopping and cursing than I'd care to admit, and keep Anton's T-shirt on because it smells like him.
Compromising with myself, I grab one crutch instead of two. My laptop needs the other hand, and my brain needs coffee if I'm going to tackle calculus.
I grab my purse and loop it crossbody style. The final exam is today, and I refuse to flunk the class just because someone tried to kill me.
The kitchen lies across what suddenly feels like miles of hardwood floor. With my laptop tucked under one arm and the crutch awkwardly positioned under the opposite, I start my slow journey.
My foot protests with each step, but I make it to the counter without dropping anything.
