25. Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Rayne
Flowers are delivered that same afternoon. For a few moments I think that perhaps they are from Knox and River, but I dismiss the thought before I even look at the card. They have been very obvious about knowing every tiny detail about me including my likes and dislikes.
Dislike isn’t a strong enough word for the roses that are left on my doorstep.
I stare at the bouquet, a cloying sweetness filling the air. The roses are a garish shade of red, their petals already starting to wilt at the edges. The cellophane crinkles loudly as I pick up the arrangement, my nose wrinkling at the overpowering scent.
Roses. Of all the flowers they could have chosen, it had to be roses. I've never understood the appeal of these gaudy blooms, their thorny stems always seeming more a threat than a romantic gesture. Give me peonies or lavender any day.
I carry the unwanted gift into my studio, holding it at arm's length as if it might bite. The wrapping is a metallic gold tissue paper underneath the cellophane. A red satin ribbon, tied in an overly elaborate bow, completes the clichéd presentation.
With a sigh, I set the flowers on my desk and reach for my phone. My fingers hover over Knox's name in my contacts for a moment before I hit the call button. It rings twice before his deep voice answers.
"Sweetheart? Is everything alright?"
The concern in his tone sends an unexpected warmth through me. "I'm fine," I assure him quickly. "But I thought you should know... I received flowers today."
There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Describe them," Knox demands, his voice tight and I can hear the edge of anger.
I detail the garish arrangement, from the wilting petals to the tacky wrapping. As I speak, I notice a card nestled among the blooms. With trepidation, I pluck it from its plastic holder.
"There's a card," I tell Knox, my voice wavering slightly as I unfold the small piece of paper.
The message inside is a jumble of apologies and possessive ramblings, the handwriting alternating between careful precision and frenzied scrawl. My stomach churns as I read aloud:
"My dearest Rayne,
I'm sorry if I frightened you. That was never my intention. I only want to protect you, to keep you safe from those who would harm you. You are mine, my beautiful flower, and I will do anything to keep you. We belong together, can't you see that? Soon, very soon, we'll be together forever. No one will ever come between us again."
Knox's growl is audible even through the phone. "Don't touch anything else," he instructs. "I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, get rid of those flowers. Throw them in the dumpster outside, not your trash can."
I nod, then remember he can't see me. "Okay," I agree. "I'll keep the card for you, though. It's... unsettling."
I stare at the card for a long moment as I hang up the phone, my skin crawling as I reread the possessive words. The paper feels tainted somehow, as if the stalker's obsession has seeped into the very fibers. Part of me wants to crumple it up, to set it aflame and watch the ashes scatter in the wind. To destroy this tangible evidence of the unwanted stalker hanging over me.
But I resist the urge, carefully placing the card on the corner of my desk instead. The crisp white rectangle stands out starkly against the dark wood. I'll leave it there for Knox to collect, another piece in the puzzle he's trying to solve.
With a shudder, I gather up the offending bouquet then head down the stairs and out into the alley behind the building.
The metal lid of the dumpster clangs open with a resounding bang that echoes off the brick walls. I toss the flowers in without ceremony, watching with grim satisfaction as they land among the other refuse. Good riddance.
Back in the studio, I try to shake off the unease that clings to me like a second skin. Already the scent of the roses stubbornly sticks to me, so I reach for the oil roller on my desk, freshening the lavender and vanilla scent on my skin. I need a distraction, something to occupy my mind so I turn to my computer, determined to lose myself in work.
I pull up the folder containing Breanna's initial gallery shots. The images from our boudoir session fill my screen–soft curves draped in delicate lace, coy smiles, and empowered poses. I begin the painstaking process of sorting through them, selecting the best shots for editing.
As I work, I'm acutely aware of another folder lurking in my digital files. The gallery I should be focusing on–the erotic session with Knox and River. The deadline is looming, but I can't bring myself to open it. Not yet. The thought of looking at that footage and all those images makes my heart race.
I tell myself I'll get to it tomorrow, knowing full well I probably won't.
Hours slip by as I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of editing. I adjust lighting, smooth skin tones, and enhance the natural beauty of each shot. The work is engrossing, allowing me to forget–if only for a little while–about stalkers and threats and the chaos that has become my life.
By the time I finally look up from my computer, the sky outside has darkened to a deep indigo. My eyes burn from staring at the screen for so long, and my back aches from hunching over my desk. With a groan, I stretch my arms above my head, feeling my spine pop in protest.
I'm about to shut down my computer when a small notification icon in the corner of my screen catches my eye. That's odd–I don't recall seeing it earlier, and I always keep my volume up to avoid missing alerts. Frowning, I click on the icon, watching as a news article pops up on my screen.
"Another Victim Found: Serial Killer Strikes Again"
My heart races as I scan the article, but it's still lacking in even the most basic details. The victim isn't named, just described as a "local man in his 40s." The body was discovered this morning in an alley downtown, not far from where River and I had our encounter the night before. A shiver runs down my spine at the memory.
The article mentions that the details of how the victim died can’t be disclosed but it has been confirmed it's the same killer who's been terrorizing the town for over a week now, striking seemingly at random. The police are urging citizens to remain vigilant, to report any suspicious activity.
I lean back in my chair, mind whirling. Knox had mentioned something about a scene when he showed up at my studio earlier. This must have been what he was referring to. Another body, another victim of this ruthless killer.
My thoughts drift to Knox and River. These men who have shown me such passion and intensity, who stalk me with a predatory focus, are the same ones tasked with bringing this killer to justice. The weight of responsibility must be immense, knowing that with each passing day, another life hangs in the balance. I find myself longing to offer them comfort, to ease the burden they carry.
I close down the article with a heavy sigh before turning off the computer. For a moment, I sit in the stillness, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of traffic filtering in from outside. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to deepen, and I can't shake the feeling of being watched. Shaking my head to dispel the paranoia, I gather my things and make my way to the door.
The lock clicks into place with a reassuring finality as I secure the studio. I double-check it, tugging on the handle just to be sure. Satisfied, I climb the stairs to my apartment, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.
As I unlock and push open my apartment door, I'm greeted by an indignant meow. Luna sits in the middle of the entryway, her tail swishing back and forth in clear annoyance. Her amber eyes seem to glare accusingly at me as I step inside.
"I know, I know," I murmur, bending down to scratch behind her ears. "I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I? I’ve been a bad cat mom."
Luna allows the affection for a moment before sauntering away, her posture radiating disdain. I can't help but chuckle at her attitude. She's certainly not shy about expressing her displeasure at being left alone more often this past week.
With a sigh, I make my way to the kitchen, flicking on lights as I go. The warm glow chases away the lingering shadows, making the space feel more welcoming. I open the fridge, surveying its contents with a critical eye. After the day I've had, I deserve something nice for dinner.
I pull out an assortment of ingredients–fresh spinach, cherry tomatoes, a wedge of feta cheese, and a package of chicken breasts. A salad with grilled chicken sounds perfect, light yet satisfying. As I reach for a bottle of balsamic glaze on the top shelf, my eyes fall on a stack of unfamiliar cans.
Frowning, I pull one down to examine it. It's cat food, but not the usual brand I buy for Luna. This is the expensive stuff, the kind I've seen in specialty pet stores but always considered too pricey for everyday use. There are at least a dozen cans, neatly stacked and waiting.
I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. "Really, River?" I mutter to myself. "Are you sneakily bribing my cat?"
Despite my exasperation, I can't help but feel a warmth blooming in my chest at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It's such a small thing, but it speaks volumes.
I set the can of gourmet cat food on the counter, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "Well, Luna," I call out, "looks like you're in for a treat tonight."
I pop open the can, the strong aroma of salmon and tuna filling the air. Luna materializes as if summoned, her tail held high in anticipation. I scoop the food into her bowl, the paté-like consistency a far cry from her usual kibble.
"Don't get used to this," I warn her as I set the bowl down. "And you can thank River for your fancy dinner, miss priss. Apparently, he's determined to win over both females in this household."
Luna dives in with gusto, purring loudly as she devours her meal. I watch her for a moment, amused by her enthusiasm. "At least one of us is easy to please," I mutter, turning back to my own dinner preparations.
I set about grilling the chicken, the sizzle and pop of meat hitting the hot pan filling the kitchen. The scent of herbs and garlic mingles with the lingering aroma of Luna's dinner, creating an odd but not unpleasant combination. As the chicken cooks, I assemble the salad, tearing crisp spinach leaves and halving plump cherry tomatoes.
Once the chicken is done, I let it rest for a few minutes before slicing it into perfect, juicy strips. I arrange them atop the salad, then crumble feta cheese over the whole affair. A drizzle of balsamic glaze completes the dish, the dark syrup creating abstract patterns across the colorful ingredients.
With dinner plated, I turn my attention to the wine River left in the fridge. The bottle or Prosecco is already chilled to perfection. I pour myself a generous glass, the pale golden liquid catching the light as it swirls in the glass.
Luna gives me a reproachful look as I take a sip. "Oh, don't judge me," I murmur to her. "You got gourmet cat food tonight.”
I carry my meal to the living room, settling onto the plush cushions of my couch. Luna, having finished her own dinner, hops up to join me, curling into a contented ball at my side. I take a bite of the salad, savoring the interplay of flavors.
As I eat, my eyes keep drifting to the kitchen, where I know the bakery box sits in the fridge. The apple pie cupcake River left for me calls out like a siren song, tempting me with promises of sugary indulgence. I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on my healthy dinner. "Later," I promise myself, though I'm not entirely convinced.
With my plate cleared and my first glass of wine finished, I pour myself another. I flip through streaming services, searching for something to watch. After several minutes of indecision, I finally settle on an old favorite–a romantic comedy I've seen a dozen times before. The familiar plot is comforting, requiring little mental effort to follow. I sink deeper into the plush cushions, letting the tension of the day slowly seep from my muscles.
Luna stretches and repositions herself, draping her warm body across my lap. Her purr rumbles through me, a soothing vibration that seems to resonate in my very bones. I stroke her soft fur absently, marveling at the silky texture beneath my fingertips.
The movie plays on, its predictable twists and turns unfolding on the screen. The leading lady's quirky best friend delivers a witty one-liner, and I find myself chuckling despite having heard the joke before. The wine has left a pleasant warmth in my chest, softening the edges of the world and making everything feel just a little bit hazy.
As the movie progresses, I sink deeper into the comforting warmth of the couch. The soft glow of the TV bathes the room in a gentle, flickering light, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The familiar dialogue becomes a soothing murmur in the background, blending with the steady hum of the air conditioning and Luna's contented purrs.
On screen, the movie's climax unfolds–the typical misunderstanding that threatens to tear the main couple apart. But I know how it ends. They'll work it out, declare their love in some grand romantic gesture, and live happily ever after.
If only real life were so simple.
My fingers trace lazy patterns through Luna's fur, her warmth seeping into my lap like a living, breathing heating pad. Her whiskers twitch occasionally in her sleep, and I wonder what cats dream about. Chasing mice? Exploring sun-dappled gardens? Or perhaps she's dreaming of the gourmet meal she just devoured, courtesy of River.
Luna stirs beside me, stretching out to knead at my thigh with her paws. Her claws catch slightly in the fabric of my dress, and I gently disentangle her. She gives me an indignant look before hopping down from the couch, padding off towards the bedroom.
"Abandoning me already?" I call after her, taking the opportunity to stretch out along the couch. "And here I thought we were having a girls' night."
As the film enters its final act, my eyelids grow heavy. The wine has left me pleasantly warm and drowsy, my limbs feeling loose and relaxed. I struggle to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss the climactic confrontation I know is coming.
But it's a losing battle.
The credits begin to roll, names scrolling by in a blur as the swell of orchestral music fills the room. I blink slowly, realizing I've missed the last few scenes of the movie. My wine glass sits empty on the coffee table, a faint lipstick stain marking where my lips touched the rim.
With great reluctance, I peel myself off the couch. My muscles protest the movement, having grown accustomed to the plush embrace of the cushions. I gather my empty wine glass and plate, padding softly to the kitchen, I rinse them and leave them in the drying rack to deal with in the morning.
As I turn to leave the kitchen, my eyes fall on the fridge. The bakery box inside calls to me, promising sweet indulgence. For a moment, I'm tempted to give in, to savor the rich flavors of the apple pie cupcake as a late night snack. But the thought of the sugar high keeping me awake even longer makes me reconsider.
With another sigh, I flick off the kitchen light and make my way down the hallway. A quick shower and my bed beckons, the promise of sleep too enticing to resist.
And perhaps a sexy dream about a detective or two.