Chapter 14
Fallon
Acompulsion I can’t control has me out on this ledge every night, even though I nearly fell.
Each successful trek strengthens my legs, and my brain memorizes every step.
Eyes closed, I count the twenty-six steps until the building turns, and then it’s fourteen more until I reach Rhys’s kitchen window.
Below me, the city buzzes, traffic growls, and the occasional burst of voices from the street steadies me. All is normal.
Rhys took away my old scope last month and called me a bad girl. I shivered with that same arousal, but I marched right back to my laptop and ordered an upgraded version.
He challenged me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.
With the new and improved camera, I watched him get ready for work earlier. He wore his tight black pants, black shirt, and a leather jacket that I could smell from under the door. He filled holsters with guns and sheaths with knives.
With that weaponry, he’ll be gone for hours. That gives me time to check on Little Basil, Cami, Minty, Rosemary, Cory, and the others.
Cold concrete bites my palms as I grip the last brick. The temperature is dropping fast, and I have to consider that this ledge will get icy. There’s no brain power to fight that. I already almost fell to my death once.
The latch sticks like always, but it’s not locked, and I know the trick. Press in on the left corner, then lift. After a little squeal of metal, it pops open, and I swing one leg, then the other over the sill, landing softly on the tile of his kitchen.
“Hello, babies,” I whisper.
The plants crowd the stand, their leaves turning toward me as if they’d been waiting for my arrival. Little Basil’s leaves trail down like green ribbons, Cami glistens plump and satisfied, and Rosemary gives me a shy yellow face.
“You’re thirsty, I know.” I run my fingers across the dry soil of each pot.
Little Basil sighs in my head, ‘Took you long enough, Fallon.’
Snarky, just like his brother.
“I had to wait until Rhys went to work.”
I fill up the watering can I bought for him and tip just enough into each pot. Not too much. I never drown them. They drink greedily, and I hear soft murmurs of drowsy content like infants or newborn puppies with full bellies.
On the counter, the coriander plant stretches toward me, impatient. ‘Me next, me next!’
“Of course, Cory.”
After his drink, I trim back some yellowing leaves with special clippers I tucked into my back pocket. The kitchen now smells sharp, sweet, and alive.
‘He keeps forgetting about us,’ Minty says.
Sighing, I say, “He’s very busy. You’re here to brighten his days and flavor his food.” I don’t tell them he kills people. “I’m here to water you.”
‘If you asked me, I think he neglects us so you come over,’ Rosemary says in her very New Yawk accent.
“You think so, Rose?” Smiling, I put the watering can away and run my hands over each leaf.
I chat softly about my day, about Neverland Garden. How Thorn let me prune his rose buds, about how Ronald’s spinach finally sprouted. The plants chortle back, delighted to hear gossip like old women in church pews.
Curiosity tickles me, and I glance into the living room. My eyes snag on a patch of darkness. A shadow from the hallway that leads to Rhys’s bedroom.
Does it still smell like him? I was only in there for a few seconds, and my head was spiraling. I’m perfectly calm now. I have brain space to take it all in and store it in the vault.
Rosemary, bossy and insistent, pushes into my thoughts again. ‘Go on. You know you want to.’
My cheeks burn. “That’s private.”
‘He won’t mind. You’re his girlfriend.’
I fiddle with her fuzzy leaf, letting it rest between my fingers.
Rose is right. I am his girlfriend. Rhys doesn’t yell when he finds me in here. He doesn’t throw me out. Sometimes he even thanks me for taking care of his plants.
Our plants.
Yet the idea of being in his bedroom makes my stomach flutter. Too intimate. Too much. Too soon.
With Rosemary clutched to my hip, two fingers stroking the needle-like leaves of a branch, I wander through the living room.
‘It’s right that way! Just go!’
I stop in the hallway off the living room. With the bedrooms a few feet away, I’m braced for a fight with Rosemary when the front door lock rattles. Panic slams through me because I never wander past the kitchen. Here I am, headed toward Rhys’s bedroom.
I should hide. I should run. But my legs go stiff, my breath is a trapped bumblebee in a glass jar.
The door swings open, and Rhys stomps into the apartment. From the darkened hallway, I see him. He’s so tall, his gait dark and dangerous. I should be afraid of a man like him.
Like…Kosta.
Rhys would never hurt me. He hurt Bill already. Put him in the hospital. So he wouldn’t hurt me.
Rhys goes to turn into his kitchen when he stills. Hand on his hip where a gun sits, his predator gaze tracks across the shadowed living room until he finds me. His hand immediately drops from the weapon, and his eyes soften.
There’s even a hint of a smile. “Fallon?”
I squeak and step into the light. “Hi, honey. You’re home.”
“Hey,” he says, voice even and calm. Glancing at the plants like he can tell they’re happy and a little more vibrant than when he left, he smiles brighter. “You watered these guys for me again, huh?”
‘Guys? Rosemary and I are ladies,’ Cami bristles.
I want to shush them, but I just smile back at my handsome boyfriend. “They were thirsty. I couldn’t let them—”
“I know.” He shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it on a chair.
His gun holster is on shocking display, and I look away fast, heart pounding.
In a deep voice I’m not sure I’ve heard before, he says, “Thank you.”
Relief trickles through me. He’s not angry. Maybe Ivy was right. Maybe I really do belong here.
I open my mouth to ask to see his bedroom again, but a crash shocks me into silence. The front door slams inward so hard it rattles the hinges.
“I found you!” a man’s voice shouts, and boots slap down the hallway on the hardwood floor.
“Fallon.” Rhys grabs me and shoves me down onto the sofa. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t look.” His hand is heavy on my shoulder, steadying as he yanks a blanket over me like a shield.
Spiraling, I’m ten years old again and back in my father’s study for one dizzying second, watching as armed men storm into the house.
Their voices sounded like thunder, my father roaring back just as sharp and loud.
I’d hidden under the desk, my hands pressed over my ears while they argued about money and guns and how loyalty isn’t for sale.
My father didn’t die that day. But my mother did.
The memory tears through me now. My chest locks up, and I can’t breathe.
I curl into a ball and tremble on Rhys’s sofa under a blanket. My lungs hitch, fighting for air, but Rhys’s voice cuts through the panic.
“Did you think you could put your hands on me and live, you dog?” the man shouts.
Rhys’s voice is flat and lethal when he snarls, his accent gone, “Wrong flat. Wrong dog.”
“I never forget a face. Or a fucking man bun.”
Glass shatters in a deafening crash. I curl the blanket tighter, pressing my hands over my ears.
“Thanks for the rematch on my turf because now you have to die,” Rhys bites out.
“Rhys!” I push the blanket away.
“Oh great, a little pet I can fuck and torture after I kill you and—” The man looks at me, and his face crumples. “Oh, Man-bun, do you know what you’ve done?”
Rhys doesn’t answer him, just yells, “Get down, baby.”
I hide under the blanket again.
Several chilling thuds, a garbled choke, and then the sound of flesh and bones crunching against a metal blade is the last thing I hear before a final strangled scream.
Seconds pass in silence.
One. Two. Three.
Then a thud on the floor.
When nothing else happens, fear steals my breath. Who… Who died?
Rhys?
If he’s dead, the man who broke in will hurt the plants. Or me. I can defend myself. Not my babies.
A stench, thick and metallic, sticks in my nose. I can taste it in the back of my throat, coppery and bitter, like when I’ve bitten my lip too hard.
I should be afraid. I should be screaming, clawing to get out the window I came in through. But I don’t. I throw off the blanket, not wanting to be that scared girl again.
I sit up and see Rhys standing there, chest heaving, his dark hair dangling and damp with sweat. He’s got one fist clenched like he’s ready for more, the other… There’s a machete in his hand.
Where did he get that?
‘That’s your question? Don’t you see the mangled body?’
“The body, Rose. Right.” No, I won’t look at that, I can’t.
My eyes fix on Rhys instead.
“Oh no,” I squeak.
Covered in blood, he jerks his head around to face me so fast, he’s nearly unsteady. “Fallon.”
Shuddering breaths make me dizzy, and I crumple to the floor. Perhaps I’m not strong enough for this. Strong enough for him.
‘He’s going to get us all killed!’ Little Basil cries out.
The blade clangs on his marble countertop, followed by heavy footsteps until Rhys’s face looms above me. With a tight jaw, his eyes have gone as black as the violence I heard. Blood streaks his knuckles, and the splatter colors his forearms.
Killing someone with a machete makes a mess. I put that one in the vault.
“Breathe, Fal.” Rhys crouches low, voice gentler now. “In. Out. You’re all right. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Focus on me. On my voice.”
I obey, toxic air sawing through my lungs. The plants whisper comforting thoughts in my head. I hear their soft leaves brushing, their tender voices only I can hear murmuring:
‘He protected you.’
‘He will always save you.’
‘I hope that guy’s not wearing a wire.’
I roll my eyes at Little Basil, ever the pessimist, like his brother.
Rhys glances around like perhaps he heard it, too. He shakes his head and glances back down at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Say something,” he says, low and controlled.
“You… You hid me.”
A wrinkle forms over his nose. “Of course. I would never let anyone hurt you.”
Despite the blood, despite the shattered glass, and despite the dead body on his floor, I feel safer than I have in years.
Because Rhys shielded me. Because he told me I was safe. Because I’m his.
“What did that man want?” My voice is soft and shaky as I claw for strength. He needs a strong girlfriend. Not a whiny baby. Not the girl who falls when running away. “Why did you kill him?”
Rhys’s gaze turns sharp with concern at my question, but when his eyes meet mine, I don’t flinch.
The plants in the kitchen rustle, though no breeze moves. I hear them whispering:
‘He belongs to you now, Fallon. He’s yours.’
“He wanted to kill me.” Rhys’s voice is cold and deadly. “I would never let that happen.”
“You protected me,” I breathe, my hands clutching the blanket to ground me. “Why?”
“Because you matter to me.” Fingers caked in blood, he strokes my cheek.
I want to touch them, taste the blood, but I don’t. Not yet. Not until he says I can.
“I haven’t mattered to anyone in a long time.”
Rhys swears under his breath and then wipes a hand across his mouth. He looks like he’s about to argue that I must matter to someone, but he doesn’t.
Maybe he sees it in my eyes.
“It’s late,” he mutters, voice low and steadying. “You’re fine. Go back to your flat.”
But I shake my head. “No. You need my help.” My voice trembles but grows stronger with every word, like I’m finally learning the language of my own heart.
I swing my legs around and get up to move around like none of this bothers me. Not all the blood.
This is our secret now.
“Why do I need you?” he asks, confused.
“Because I’m your girlfriend,” I whisper, leaning in so close I could count his eyelashes if he dared me. “We’re meant to be together. This proves it.”
I smile through the haze of adrenaline and madness. A sweet, trembling smile.
“You, Fallon, are not just my girlfriend.” Rhys’s jaw vibrates as he strokes my throat. “You are a witness.”