Chapter 6
Rhys
The first potted plant shows up in late August.
Returning from another annoying night of staking out Ares’s club for a man he wants me to kill, who once again didn’t show up, I’m ready to drop from exhaustion when I see something green sitting dead center on my doormat like a dare.
Daring me to care about it.
I’ve had to steel my heart to any kind of feelings to do this job. Yet, the lass next door has gotten under my skin.
Now this…
A squat blue and white ceramic pot waits on the counter, soil dark and damp, three sprigs jutting from the center, smelling of pine and something sharp. Like menthol. Reminding me I hadn’t had a cigarette in months.
Watching Raina suffer from an asthma attack launched Connor into cold turkey mode, and I quit alongside him in solidarity. And respect for his wife.
There’s a note tucked under the plant’s base. Written in square block letters, it’s neat enough to pass military inspection.
Meet Rosemary. She sharpens the memory. Don’t forget to water her.
Love, Fallon
I stand in front of my door, keys in hand, like an idiot for a full thirty seconds, scanning the immediate area for flaming red hair and to catch a whiff of that earthy scent of hers.
Nothing.
Disappointed to not see her all bouncy with joy, I tuck the pot against my chest and go inside my flat.
Looking down at this thing, I consider tossing it. The life of an assassin doesn’t mix well with fragile gifts that need water.
A dead plant would probably upset Fallon. And I don’t want to do that. So, I set Rosemary on my kitchen counter.
It looks ridiculous and lonely sitting in the middle of the bare marble countertop. But when a slice of morning sun shines through the window, the leaves glow.
Something tugs at me. It’s only been a few moments, but already my flat feels a little more like home back in Ireland. And a lot less empty.
The next plant arrives four days later.
A spike of adrenaline hits my chest the second I see it. The pot is the same blue and white ceramic as Rosemary’s. I’m digging the uniformity of it all.
This is Minty. Mint cleanses the air, and the leaves will spice up your morning tea. You’re welcome.
Love, Fallon
I snort, pick up the plant, and line it up on the windowsill next to the rosemary. The mint’s leaves tremble in the draft when the AC kicks on.
“Welcome, Minty. Hope you don’t mind living with guns, bullets, and the smell of bleach,” I mutter, and open a beer to help me sleep.
A week later, a new green flutter ball joins the squad.
This is Little Basil. They’re loud. Sorry.
Love, Fallon
The plant practically radiates. But loud?
As I move it inside, its leaves give off a scent that makes me think of fresh-cut grass.
I situate the fragrant cluster on my windowsill next to the others, deciding which one should be in the middle.
Little Basil can be the Jan Brady of plants, the chatty middle child who needs to confer with Rosemary and Minty at the same time.
Jaysus fucking Christ. I need to get some real friends.
Yet as days pass, the flat doesn’t echo as much when I walk through it. I catch myself slowing down near the window, just to check on my plants. The way their leaves tilt toward the sun. It’s different every day.
It’s absurd how they mean something to me. I drag dead bodies into my trunk for disposal, and now I’m excited to come home to see the orientation of the leaves on three small potted plants.
Yet, here I am.
But then…nothing.
Two days pass.
Three.
No new plant, no note.
No Fallon.
I tell myself I don’t care.
By day four, disappointment coils low in my gut when I find my doormat empty again.
I listen at her door for sounds in her flat.
“Okay, I’m a stalker now,” I snicker, strutting to my flat and unlocking my door.
The laugh dies in my throat the second I step into the kitchen and find a slim metal plant stand sitting on the windowsill.
The blue and white ceramic pots are still lined up as I had them. Rosemary, Little Basil, and Minty. Fallon agreed with the placement choice, and I’m proud.
But there’s a new plant on the stand wrapped in a red bow, and fucking tears well up in my eyes. What the hell is happening to me?
This is Cami. Chamomile is great for calming down after a night of murdering people. Inhale, relax, and release.
Love, Fallon
Murdering. People.
She knows what I do? How?
This is bad.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to chase down the sharp breath that left me. Then it hits me. Years ago, Fallon stole my mail.
She must have read that letter from my mum.
Fallon knows I murder people.
Bollocks…
Then weeks pass, and the plant situation escalates.
I work. I kill. Murder people as she says.
Not for Ares. His squatter has possibly moved on.
But I keep coming home to more plants. Not the fucking Feds or a SWAT team, so I know my nosy neighbor is keeping my occupation to herself.
My kitchen looks like a greenhouse. But I’m enjoying my new tribe.
On a bitter October evening, a chill rattles my bones as I hand over my Audi to the garage attendant. My nerves are frayed from a long night in Connor’s tunnel, the kind that leaves blood under your nails from a brand of violence that questions my morality.
I just need a shot of Jameson to silence the trouble spearing my brain like thorns. They’re spreading like weeds in my head. God, all my thoughts keep leading back to plants!
I step out of the elevator and don’t register the empty hallway or look for a plant on my doormat anymore. Fallon just breaks into my flat to add to my indoor jungle herself.
Once inside my kitchen, I fucking freeze seeing movement on my window ledge.
Outside.
My brain detects the glint of metal, and my gun is in my hand before the thought even finishes forming. I creep close to the window, see the shadow of an intruder, raise the barrel and…gasp.
It’s her. Fallon.
She’s clinging to the slick stone ledge fifteen stories up, hair plastered to her face, fumbling to get my window open.
“Jaysus Christ,” I hiss, shoving the gun into my waistband.
Movement startles her, and she slips.
My heart slams against my ribs, and it happens in slow motion. I wrench the window open just as she loses her grip, and grab her, pulling her full weight into my arms.
“Bloody hell, woman.” I drag her inside.
She’s trembling, so I cradle her to me. Feeling her against my body stirs feelings I’ve not entertained since… God, I don’t even remember when.
“Daddy Basil…” Fallon whispers against my neck, as if that explains everything. “He wanted to talk to his little brother.”
“You were going to die,” I snap, completely ignoring her explanation.
She tips her head up and looks me right in the eye.
“I wasn’t.” Her voice is small but certain.
This closeness, her in my arms, rattles me more than if she’d screamed. Christ, Fallon is utterly beautiful.
Normally, the next step to having a woman in my arms would be carrying her off to my bed. But there’s an important piece to Fallon I’ve yet to understand. Like, what is going on in her head that she thinks I’m her boyfriend?
I have to know more about that and what makes her different and unusual.
“You can’t crawl on the window ledge to get in here, Fallon,” I scold.
I imagine Blade or Jett seeing her from the courtyard below and fucking shooting her down.
“You’re angry,” she says quietly, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I am.”
Tears pool, threatening to fall as panic spikes through me.
“Hey,” I soften, “don’t do that. I’m not mad at you. Look, I’m not used to…this.”
“This?” she echoes.
“This,” I say, motioning to her shivering, completely unhinged body in my arms.
Heat sears inside my chest. I haven’t felt an attraction like this for anyone in a long time. Mostly since I started killing for my cousins. I made a deal with myself to shut down my heart and emotions.
Fallon is opening me up. With plants! But saving her from a fall to her death has jarred me wide open.
I stop right there and let these emotions war within my soul. See who wins.
I look at Fallon, who’s gone silent. Her eyes are closed, and she’s murmuring something.
I recognize it. She’s…self-soothing. The same way Oliver, the kid I pulled from the Leinster House disaster, did six years ago.
I’m about to bring him up, but I notice her nipples blazing through her white T-shirt.
Her breasts are small, perfect, the peaks brushing my ribs with every shiver. Heat slams down my spine like a hammer. My heart is ready to detonate in my chest.
But her fragility, especially after almost falling to her death, reminds me of a weapon with a hairline fracture. It looks intact, but the moment it’s needed, it could fail catastrophically.
My hands linger at her hips. “You can’t leave here dressed this way.”
“It’s just the hallway,” she protests, still shivering.
Too many eyes.
And mine are roaming out of control. “Come with me. I’ll give you something else to wear.”
She blinks. “Are we going to your bedroom?”
The word hits like a punch.
“Yeah,” I say and push my face into hers softly. “You can trust me, Fallon.”
“I do trust you.”
I let her go and motion for her to follow me. She pads along, bare feet soft on the hardwood floor.
In my bedroom, I grab the first long-sleeve black T-shirt from my drawer and hold it out. “Put this on.”
Her brows knit. “Why?”
“No one sees you like this.” My voice comes out low, rough.
No one sees what’s mine.
She hesitates, then looks down at her body and sees what I see. What I can never unsee now.
Blushing, she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
I turn my back, because if I watch her lift that white shirt over her head, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
She’s happy calling me her boyfriend, but she doesn’t ask anything of me. A real boyfriend will want sex. Lots of it.
The soft rustle stops, and I call out to her, “Fallon?”
There’s only silence.
I spin and see that she’s gone.
I dash outside my bedroom, but the sound of my front door opening and then quickly closing guts me.
Fallon was right to run away. No one is safe with me.
I’ll keep my window unlocked and let her come and go as she pleases. I’ll live with being just the elusive fake boyfriend she leaves plants and cute notes for.
I had thought the plants were stretching toward the light shining in from my window. But now I think they are longing for her, to catch a glimpse of her across the courtyard and into her flat.
I’m reaching for her. On the inside. I am fucking craving her.
That is not good.
Not good at all.