Page 32 of The Black Lotus (Fatal Florals Duet #2)

TWENTY-FIVE

SERENA

A ster still hasn’t told me where he’s taking me on our date. He said to dress nice, but not fancy. He wants to take my mind off everything and give us a night to breathe, to date, to be normal. I snort, glancing at myself in the mirror. Well, whatever normal is for two serial killers.

After his shower, Aster left me alone in our bathroom to get ready.

As much as we’ve been in here, I haven’t really looked at the massive space.

We’re usually distracted with one another's bodies. Not that I’m complaining.

It’s bigger than mine, boasting a huge shower that could easily fit five Asters in it, with charcoal walls and grey tiled floors.

Definitely a man's bathroom, but I do love how dark it is. The toilet is in a separate room right off to the side of the huge tub we frequently bathe in. Past the double sink is a huge closet that I have since added my clothes into, and his home is slowly becoming ours. I just need to find a dedicated place to do my art. I haven’t picked up a brush since Zephira broke into our lives, and I miss the feeling of creating.

I swipe red across my lips, a sad smile looking back at me as I think about the last time I was at my vanity like this. Jessica was behind me, doing my hair and getting ready with me. But it was all in my head. That was the Jessica I wished she had been, not her true self. That bitch was a cunt.

Smacking my lips, I stick barbed red heart earrings in each ear and whisper to myself, “No outfit is complete without earrings.”

“You look ravishing,” Aster says, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes darkening as he takes in my outfit for the night.

Blushing, I take his hand as I do a twirl, my black dress flying up. “These leggings are in my way,” he growls into my ear, pulling my back flush to his chest.

“Got to make you work for it,” I taunt, arching my back and feeling his length pressing into me.

“You’ll regret saying that later when these are shredded on the floor.”

I spin around to face him, my eyes wide with false rage. “I swear on everything, Aster, if you destroy anymore of my clothes I will-”

“You’ll what?” he taunts, his hand slipping beneath my waist-band as his fingers rub up and down slowly over the fabric of my panties.

My face smooshes into his chest as I collapse into him and moan, “I’ll..” I swallow hard. “I’ll, uhm. Fuck. Right there.”

His hand slips out just as I was finding a good rhythm, and I look up at him, my spiteful eyes meeting his playful ones.

“Can’t have you falling apart and missing our reservations.

” He takes my hand in his and walks us down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to look back at me.

“I want no time restraints on what I have planned later.” A shiver of excitement races down my spine as he locks the door.

We park downtown in a parking garage. “Is there no parking where you’re taking me?

“There is, but then you’d see where we’re going.”

I eye him skeptically, grateful I opted to wear my boots instead of the heels I was debating on. Always better to be prepared. Heels would have made running painful and me falling face first onto the ground a matter of when , not if.

Aster gets out and opens my door, interlocking our fingers as we walk down Salem’s busy streets. The moon is high in the sky, but the stars are hidden from all the bright lights of the city. A cool breeze makes my dress flare, my hair blowing all around us as goosebumps pebble my flesh.

We slow when we get closer to a building I’ve only driven past. Aster pulls open the door as a smile stretches across my face.

I bounce on my heels when Aster tells the lady at the front his name and she leads us into a room full of canvases and talking, excited people wrapping aprons around themselves.

We get handed aprons and sit down in front of our own canvases as I look around the room taking everything in. Layered across the walls are art pieces I assume the instructors painted themselves and hung as examples and pictures of smiling groups holding up their completed works.

“Guess I chose right,” Aster says, smiling sweetly. “I know neither of us has painted in far too long, and I thought this could be a nice chance to.” Before I can object, he adds, “the tattoo doesn’t count.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, tears threatening to fall, but I blink them back so I don’t ruin my makeup.

“When we get back home, we can turn a guest room into an art studio so we can both start painting again.”

I lean in close, whispering low so no one can hear. “Just canvases? No little lambs?” I ask.

He sits up and looks at me with a familiar longing look in his eyes.

“As much as I miss painting my lambs-” He stops, searching for the right words and grabbing my hands.

“The Monet is dead; the lambs are no more. The Fatal Floral Killers live and will be Salem’s most notorious duo,” he whispers, bringing my knuckles to his lips.

“Better than the Patchwork Killers?” I murmur.

“The best.”

Our conversation is interrupted when the instructor begins talking, our brushes begin swiping.

To think he doesn’t want to be the Morbid Monet anymore…

My brushstrokes slow as I glance over at him.

Does he really mean it? Or is he saying it for my benefit?

Aster is changing who he is for me. He hasn’t even had a chance to kill anyone.

He just sits back and watches me. Is he okay with that?

The thought of being a certain way for so long and then having to change on a whim, would feel like whiplash to me.

He was raised with the teachings of who he was supposed to grow up to be and now since meeting me he’s lost that part of himself.

I hate to admit it, but… Maybe Cynthia is right.

Aster has changed and it is all because of me.

I look over at Aster concentrated on his work, a regretful feeling washing over me making it hard to keep painting.

I know he said he’s fine with never having another lamb but…

. All his victims looked similar to me. I get why he would want to change, but he’s been the Monet for so long. People don’t just change.

Aster’s breath tickles the back of my ear, his hand wrapping around mine to glide the paintbrush through the paint. “Killing beside you is better than killing by myself,” he whispers.

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline, my mouth parting with a silent gasp. How did he know what I was thinking?

He spins me around so I’m trapped between his legs, and taps his finger against my forehead. “Get out of that beautiful head of yours. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

A tentative smile crosses my features, my chin dropping in understanding. He may say he’s okay with it, but I know he has to miss it. After all of this is over, we can talk about how we can both continue to kill . I have a knack for it, and my hunger for spilled blood is growing with each kill.

His lips lightly press against mine. “I’ll be right back; I’m just going for a smoke.

” I want to tell him to stay, to not leave my side.

I want to scold him for smoking, since he knows how much I despise it.

But I don’t. I know he needs a minute to just breathe in the toxic fumes.

To slip back into who he was for just a moment, before he has to come back to the present.

“There are too many people in this room for anyone to try anything. Do not move until I come back.”

“I promise.”

He kisses the top of my head and walks out the door.

I turn back to my painting, listening to what the instructor is saying, but turning it into my own style because what she is walking us through is boring.

I look over at Aster’s painting and see he hasn’t listened to anything the instructor said either, choosing to freehand his own beautiful masterpiece instead.

I glide my fingers along the wet paint, getting some of the red on my fingers.

Rubbing my fingers together, I watch as the paint blends into a color matching the blood Sharon spilled.

It’s drying the same way her red crimson did, even getting stuck under my nails.

I hope Dad cleaned every speck left of her in her kill room.

Any trace of her DNA could lead her family to believe she didn't run away, but was killed and I don’t even want to think about that.

I shake away the thoughts, rubbing my hands down my apron as I turn back to my canvas and decide if Aster went off script, so will I.

Letting my hand flow, colors splash in harsh lines the faster and more into it I get, releasing every emotion into my art.

The voices in the room quiet as I enter my own space.

Once I finish, I stand to admire the piece I created, coos of oohs and ahhs echoing behind me.

The brush drops from my hand as I spin around to find everyone gathered around and looking at our paintings.

How long have they been standing there? My cheeks tint red as I offer the crowd a bashful smile.

The last time I felt this kind of admiration was at the flea market, another place I miss.

I wonder if Alice has been wondering where I am?

I wonder how they’re doing. I’m sure when I see them again she would show me a picture of where she hung my painting and take me through another memory.

I could just imagine how she would react to meeting Aster, she would drool all over him and Jerry would grumble, but eventually warm up to Aster as well.

Wait… Where is Aster? My eyes scan the room as I search for him, my head darting around, but no sandy hair or green eyes meet mine. No familiar smell of sandalwood or mint either. Just everyone else around me, snapping pictures of our work.

Everyone, except Aster.

Pushing people out of the way, I search the room and building and even the men’s bathroom for him.

He’s been gone an hour when he should have come back in ten minutes.

How could I let myself get lost in my own world, only to find it shattered when I returned.

Why wasn’t I watching the clock waiting for his return? How could I miss his absence?

My breathing accelerates, my chest rising and falling with panic as I stumble out the front door screaming his name.

No one has noticed my freak out since they’re too absorbed in capturing what isn’t theirs.

Not even the host noticed me run out of the building since she was a part of the crowd as well.

I run down the alley, knowing it would’ve been the spot he’d choose to be alone to smoke.

I see a half-smoked bud lying on the ground, surrounded by fresh scuff marks.

I kneel to the ground, grazing my fingers against the pavement and pick up the cigarette.

Closing my eyes, I inhale the bud, my senses instantly picking up a faint hint of sandalwood and mint.

Aster. I stare into the dark void, a scream of agony interrupting the otherwise silent night for anyone to hear.

Bending forward with the cigarette clutched to my chest, I rock back and forth as the feeling of numbness covers me with its suffocating embrace.

He’s gone.