Chapter 27
Rhys
My chest tightens as I think of the excuses I’ll make for what I’m about to do.
I swing open the door. Not what I expected, to be honest. The guy is short, mid-twenties.
Dark hair under a hat, wearing a blue jacket.
What is about to get him a punch in the teeth is the stupid grin lingering on his mouth.
Something feral detonates inside me.
I’m on him before a sane thought can catch up in my brain. My fist twists in his jacket, and I slam him against the wall hard enough for the fancy artwork in the corridors to rattle from the impact.
“What the hell, man?” he wheezes, eyes wide.
“You stay away from my girlfriend,” I snarl with the tone I reserve for men who will eventually disappear.
“I’m just a delivery guy,” he says, stuttering.
“Delivery, my ass, Kosta. Delivery guys drop off packages downstairs.” I slam him again for good measure, the crack of bones shooting satisfaction through my veins.
Mine. Fallon is mine. Jesus, I’m falling for her. Hard.
As I pummel this guy until his blood is all over my clothes, I worry I might have to kill yet another man in front of her.
“I’m not Kosta!” he cries out. “I have a delivery!”
“Rhys?” Fallon steps into the hallway in just her nightshirt, and I see red all over again.
“Go back inside,” I snap, glaring at her. “And put on something appropriate when you step into this hallway.” I keep punching the guy until he’s crying on the floor.
I’m seething, and I know she shouldn’t see me this out of control. The guy I killed in my flat was business. Impersonal.
This beating hits me like a gut punch. No, I don’t want her to think I’m too dangerous for her.
“Fallon, love, it’s okay. I’m handling this dosser.” I shove his head against the floor. “Take one last look at those legs, they are mine now, you fucker. No one sees what’s mine.”
“Rhys!” Fallon cries out, her face twitching. There’s a flicker in her expression, a shadow behind her eyes. And for half a heartbeat, she looks at me like she doesn’t want me if I’m really like this. “That’s not Kosta.”
“What?” Knuckles screaming, skin split, I pick up the dosser off the floor.
“That is the delivery man.”
Aw, bollocks. “Show me your ID, mate. Right now.”
He fumbles for it. “Don’t kill me.”
“You just saved your life, git.” I snap a picture of it, then shove him toward the elevator. “Get out of my sight.”
“Okay.” He scurries away. “Sorry, man.”
I fire off the photo to Shane with a terse message:
Me: Run this guy. Warn him or buy him off. Up to you. I fucked him up by mistake.
When I turn back, Fallon is standing with her hands on her hips, looking not the slightest bit scandalized that I nearly broke someone’s ribs outside her door. By mistake. My heart is still jackhammering in my chest with a dose of half fury, half fucking relief.
“You’re bleeding. Come back inside,” she chirps, tugging my sleeve.
I let her lead me back into the flat. Mostly because my hand feels like it’s on fire, and I need ice before I lose the ability to close it.
She marches straight to the kitchen, muttering, “I think we permanently lost Steve, the nice delivery guy, Basil. The one who brings my boxes upstairs and doesn’t make me carry them myself.”
Basil’s leaves shiver in silent agreement.
I press a bag of frozen peas to my knuckles, staring at them both, wishing I could hear what Basil is telling my Fallon right now.
“He does?” I ask, feeling like a jerk. I glance back out into the hallway and only now see a stack of boxes marked Heavy.
Something ugly curls in my gut. Who’s paying her bills? She doesn’t have a job. She’s not exactly a spoiled princess living on Daddy’s dime, wearing high heels, glitter eyeshadow, and going to clubs.
She’s just my sweet and strange Fallon. Brilliant and tender Fallon. But who’s keeping the lights on?
Kosta? The real one? Who’s supposed to be in jail?
Shane never heard of him. The name didn’t come up in the prison system. Perhaps he was just another man she imagined.
Or the fucker is so dangerous that he’s incarcerated under a different identity. Right now, I have to make up for my bad behavior. I lift one box and bring it inside for my girlfriend.
Fallon jumps out at me, holding a box cutter.
“Jesus, Fallon,” I hiss, leaping back instinctively, every muscle tightening. My mind flashes that there will be more blood in my future before I wrestle it down.
She ignores my surprise and slices the box open with a flourish, then pulls out a riot of color.
“They look so much better in person!” Glowing, she shows me a ceramic pot, glossy white with delicate red floral and green vines scrolls curling into little wreaths. They are holiday-bright, beautiful in a way that makes me feel like a mess all over again.
She would have been more excited to open these, and I ruined it by nearly killing the delivery guy.
“What are those?” I ask, hoping she forgets what I did.
“For the market!” she says, practically vibrating.
She whirls and taps her calendar with the blunt end of the box cutter.
I gently pry it from her fingers before my blood pressure kills me. “Market?”
“Bryant Park Holiday Market.” She smiles at me. “I prepare centerpieces for the seating.”
Another knot of tension loosens. “I thought we were shopping that day.”
“We are.” She grins. “After I drop these off.”
“What are you filling these with?”
“Christmas flowers, silly.”
Something twists hard in my chest. Possessiveness, sharp and irrational. My gaze drags over the greenery lining her bookshelves, her windowsill, her ceiling. “Not these?”
She gasps, offended. “Of course not! The ones I’m growing right now in my garden. These are family.”
Of course they are.
As I grab more boxes, a man from another flat opens his door to see if the coast is clear since it’s likely every resident on the floor heard someone getting beaten moments earlier. I meet his eyes, my hand planted firmly on the doorframe of Fallon’s flat.
She’s mine.
He looks away first. And I like that. Maybe too much.
Because as Fallon’s voice from inside floats to my ears, details about soil acidity and winter mulching schedule, something cold changes the air around me.
The thought I can’t dodge.
Can I break this off and walk away from her after the holidays?
The answer hits harder than my fist against that guy’s jaw.
God help me. I don’t think I can.