Page 10

B y the time the shop is closed for the day, it’s well after midnight. My body aches from dealing with Kline this morning, along with my impromptu drop off down at the river. I’ve pulled more than a few muscles and want nothing else but to soak in the bath for at least an hour to release the horrid knots.

With one last look around the store, I double-check the locks and that the security system is activated before retreating to the back and up the narrow stairs to my apartment.

Before I took over, the studio space was used as a storage facility with a greenhouse. I vaguely remember it once being clean and organized, but after my mother’s death— murder —it fell into disarray, boxes and trash littering every square inch. I’d often find myself hidden within the rubble, staring out the singular window facing the front of the shop to pass the time as my father worked downstairs.

I’d watch as patrons come in empty-handed, then leave with a bundle of flowers, their destination a mystery to me. Over time, I familiarized myself with frequent patrons, assigning them life stories to help ebb the curiosity of who they were buying the flowers for.

Even after what had happened, what I’d been forced to be a part of, I still wanted to believe the best in people. Wanted to imagine that not everyone hurt the ones they claimed to love. That not everyone was foul, or evil. I’d hoped in that decaying heart of mine that they were worthy of the beauty they took home. I think my mother would have wished that semblance of positivity on me.

Unfortunately, in my teens, I began to understand the conversations I overheard them having with my father. I came to the discovery that the majority of the men bought flowers for much more nefarious purposes. For some, it was an apology for their extramarital affairs or domestic abuse, while others were from Made men headed to notify the wives that their husbands were dead. An act sick in itself.

Though that’s what Noxus City does. It either corrupts or kills you; there is no in between. And soon enough, I, too, was infected with its venom.

Luckily, before it had time to consume me completely, there was one person who proved to be an antidote. Well, she most certainly wasn’t the cure, but she kept the toxin at bay long enough that when it overtook me, I didn’t turn into who I could have become.

Mrs. Ward, the kind cafe owner a few stores down, was who kept me alive. When I was younger, it manifested in her or her son, Ben, coming by the shop every few days to buy flowers. She would check on me and my mother, and there was more than one occasion I can recall her pleading with Mom. I never knew what it was about, but I will never forget the look on either of their faces. My mother, always apologetic and grateful. Mrs. Ward, angry and desperate.

Later, after Mom’s death, they came by even more, ensuring her fate wouldn’t befall upon me, and then taking me in so the state wouldn’t when my father was incarcerated.

Stepping onto the platform of my now beautiful studio apartment, I’m reminded of both the mother and son who made it a possibility. That turned a place so decrepit and full of pain, into a room of peace. Of strength. Plus, it’s a rather beautiful burn in hell to my father that I’m still here. Here, and content.

Dark hardwood floors run through the entire apartment, illuminated only by the low lighting of the various lamps littering the open space. Much like downstairs, the red brick continues here, making up the surrounding walls. Five different varieties of pothos hang in the corner by the window, affixed to the wooden beams that run overhead. Leather furniture fills the living room, accompanied by an old record player, an end table, and bookshelves teeming with medicinal manuals. There is a small kitchen along the far wall, complete with a black iron bistro table, while on the opposite side, rests my bed.

I turn to the singular door by the landing that leads to my bathroom. It’s small, but perfect, and houses my favorite part of the entire studio; the claw-footed bathtub. It only takes a few minutes to turn on the water, light the large pillar candles, and toss in a scoop of dried lavender flowers and Epsom salt.

When I finally strip from my clothes, the tension prematurely dissolves the second my feet breach the surface of the water. At the perfect temperature, I nearly melt inside the tub, my body and mind giving way to the myriad of events from the day. It’s then, a flash of gold and a bright smile steal my thoughts.

Jessica.

The muscles across my chest tighten.

I’ve never had a problem killing before. Never cared about the soul I sent to the gates of judgement. And while I still don’t, a part of me can’t help but feel something about taking the agent’s life. What that something entails, I’m not quite sure yet, but I know it doesn’t quite sit right on my shoulders. Doesn’t make me feel as though I’m relieving mother nature from another of her torturers, but instead, stealing a ray of sun.

Clearing my throat, I try to ignore the wayward thoughts and relax, but it only lasts a moment before I think of her again. Her clumsy fingers tearing jagged pieces of the croissant before sliding it into her mouth.

A supple little mouth with the most profound cupid’s bow.

Her lips alone are a sin, and I imagine them to be as sweet as she is. Soft and delicate, like the person they belong to. She would be such a pleasure to take. To dominate and control. I’d be interested to discover if she’s as talkative with my toys stuffed inside her. If she’d moan and beg for more, or whimper and say it’s too much.

I disturb the water as I shift beneath the calm surface, my pulse thrumming with my thoughts.

It should feel wrong to fantasize about fucking the woman I plan to kill, but I never claimed to be a good person. I am flawed and broken, selfish and needy much like the rest of humanity. And in this moment, I need her —the idea of her, anyway—tied to my bedposts, her body splayed open, ready for me to do whatever I desire.

How despicable would I be to wonder if the rest of her body blushes the same hue as her cheeks? How deplorable if I allowed myself a single taste?

I don’t get to ponder the answers to the questions I ask myself because the sound of my phone’s muffled ping alerts me of a message.

My eyes peel open, surprise slithering through me. I rarely get texts—too much evidence—so it can only be one of four people. One of which could be her.

Instinct, and perhaps something else I’d rather not identify, pushes me over the edge of the tub and toward my discarded clothes a foot away on the floor. I rummage for my phone, and the moment my hands wrap around it, it rings with an incoming call.

Regret burns my skin when I see the call is from none other than Alexi. For a breath, I consider ignoring it, but after his recent “gift,” I decide otherwise.

“Yes, Babin.” My voice is smooth but laced with the exasperation already working into my system despite my bath’s work.

“That’s no way to say thank you, Engred.”

I roll my eyes. Alexi and I have been acquainted long enough that he knows my name better than he does ninety-nine percent of those on his payroll, yet he insists on pretending he doesn’t remember anyone’s name—particularly women.

Childhood trauma is such a fickle thing.

“I have a feeling my gift is a hand you’ve been waiting to play.”

As long as I’ve known the Babin family, I’ve learned more about them than I care to. One of the more notable things is that they always have a contingency plan, usually in the form of blackmail or some type of debt—and not always the monetary kind. Without fail, they know the perfect time to play their cards.

The sound of liquid sloshing over ice flows through the speaker. “Well, you know I have to keep a few up my sleeve.”

“How long have you known what he was doing?” Curiosity gets the best of me.

“After the second woman. Sydney wanted him dead when she found out, but I told her to wait a little longer. I knew if I didn’t play him soon, though, she’d have her fucking cat scratch me to hell.”

Selina. Voice tight, I ask what I already know he likely won’t answer. “I see. And what was the point of waiting?”

Alexi sighs before rushing out a weak explanation. “Because I have my reasons that worked out in the end, and now you have this wonderful gift which was already found, by the way .”

My skin tightens with my furrowed brow. “This soon?”

“Your little drop-off oaf should watch the weather more closely, dear. Incoming storm has the winds high. He washed up only a few hours after you dumped him.”

I grunt, tapping the speaker button and placing it on the small stool beside the tub. Ben usually helps me with disposal and he actually is rather meticulous when it comes to the weather. But with it being so last minute, I didn’t want to disturb him or alert Mrs. Ward to Alexi’s latest task. I have a feeling she wouldn’t be happy about it.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I consider the facts. Kline won’t have evidence on him—at least none of mine, considering the drop off point is at the base of a sewage treatment—but it’s still a bit unnerving. Without the time for the water and its inhabitants to start the decay of his corpse, my signature cuts will be noticed. Though, they may be less noticeable because of what was done to him before he got to my door. Still, I can’t help but wonder…

“Who was called to the scene?”

“A local Georgia PD.” Alexi’s voice has a snarky edge to it. “But a little after that, a federal unit.”

“ Shit .”

Jessica didn’t come to my shop today by accident. They clearly had the vial analyzed. Luckily, though I want to stab Lexton for not fixing his address, it seems as though only the variant of glass was able to be picked apart. Realistically, however, it’s only a matter of time before they’re able to dissect Nikolai’s chemical components, leading to my plants. And if they are able to pair that with my delivery boy being found in the Savannah river, it won’t be long before I’m a suspect.

My only saving grace is that Kline was always paid in cash, leaving neither a paper nor electronic trail to connect us, only word of mouth. And no one in Noxus talks. Not to the police anyway.

“I’ll keep my ears open to make sure they don’t point any fingers.” He takes a thick swallow of his drink at the same time my phone vibrates. “But still, tick, tock. Twenty-eight days.”

He hangs up before I have a chance to respond, leaving me alone with a creeping sense of annoyance. This isn’t the first time I’ve killed someone for Alexi, but it doesn’t change the notion that I hate being at his beck and call. Even more so when he gives me time constraints.

With a sigh and a quick scrub, I exit the bath and clean up my clothes before drifting to the bed. I wrangle my curls into a loose bun at the top of my head before sliding between the silk sheets. The cool fabric feels refreshing against my naked flesh, and for a moment, my eyes drift closed, and sleep settles over me. But another buzz of my phone reminds me I have unread messages.

With one eye open, I unlock the screen and check to see who it is.

Unknown 12:51 a.m.

I realllllly hope you’re asleep and this message doesn’t wake you but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been thinking about you all day.

12:53 a.m.

Not like in a creepy way, but in a truly transfixed and mesmerized kind of way.

12:55 a.m.

I also hope I’m not coming off too strong, but I would like to ask you out on a date. A proper date that lasts more than a few minutes and also involves us eating, and maybe a hike.

1:01 a.m.

Or a movie. I also like those.

1:01 a.m.

I don’t even know if you like the theater. You probably don’t. Too many people around.

1:05 a.m.

Okay, I’m going to stop now. I blame the Four and the fact I was so caught up in my head about you, I lost to Berks and took a few too many shots to get over the loss.

1:13 a.m.

Last thing. You are beautiful. And also a fucking mystery. And I am literally driving myself crazy with wanting to figure you out.

1:13 a.m.

Throwing my phone into the toilet now.

My eyes rove over the messages three more times before a long forgotten smile takes control of my lips and my heart does a strange squeeze.

I shouldn’t find anything this woman—my target —does endearing, but alas, I do. And there is absolutely no plausible reasoning for why I respond, but I do that as well.

Perhaps regret will come tomorrow, but for now, I feel something new. Something foreign, and I can’t fight the temptation not to grab onto it.

How exciting.