Chapter Six
Blast was waiting at her shop door when Becca arrived at six-thirty.
She'd barely slept. Every creak of the old building had jolted her awake, every car passing on the street below sending her heart racing. By five a.m., she'd given up and started getting ready, moving through her apartment like a ghost.
Now here he was, leaning against her door in the gray dawn light, looking like he hadn't slept either.
"You can't stay here," he said.
No greeting. No good morning. Just that flat statement delivered with an intensity that made her stomach drop.
"Excuse me?"
"Your apartment. The one above the shop." He pushed off the door and moved toward her. "Tony Reznik was on your block at midnight. Drove past three times between twelve and two. Fire starters don't run surveillance for fun, Becca."
She fumbled with her keys, refusing to let him see how badly her hands were shaking. "I live here. This is my home."
"Your home is about to become a crime scene if you don't move."
"I can't just—" She finally got the door open, shoving inside like the shop could protect her from what he was saying. "I have a wedding order. Two weeks of work. The bride is picking up Saturday, and if I'm not here to finish—"
"Dead florists don't deliver centerpieces."
The words hit her like a slap. She spun to face him, anger flaring hot in her chest.
"You don't get to walk in here and tell me to abandon everything I've built. I've spent four years—"
"I know what you've spent." He stepped closer, crowding her space, his energy crackling in the small shop. "I know you opened this place with your savings. I know you earned your spot in this neighborhood. I know you've watched three businesses burn and you're still standing."
"Then you know I'm not running."
"I'm not asking you to run." His hand came up, cupping her jaw, tilting her face toward his. "I'm asking you to survive. There's a difference."
Becca's breath caught. His palm was warm against her skin, the burn scars rough but somehow gentle. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the genuine fear underneath the intensity.
He was scared for her.
"Where would I go?" she whispered.
"Safehouse. Back of the Yards." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "It's far enough from Pilsen that Dvorak's lookouts won't find you easily. One of my brothers will be on the door around the clock."
"Your brothers."
"The Wolves. We protect what's ours."
What's ours. The words sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear.
"I'm not yours."
His mouth curved. "Not yet."
She should have argued. Should have pushed back against the possessive certainty in his voice. Instead, she heard herself asking: "What about my flowers?"
"What?"
"The wedding order. I can't leave three buckets of premium roses to die in the cooler." She pulled back from his touch, needing space to think. "If I'm going to some safehouse, the flowers are coming with me."
He stared at her like she'd lost her mind. Then he laughed—that bright, sharp sound that made her chest tight.
"You're negotiating flower transport during an active threat?"
"I'm negotiating my livelihood." She moved to the cooler, pulling out the first bucket of roses. "This is a ten-thousand-dollar order. The bride's family has been planning this wedding for two years. I'm not going to tell her the centerpieces died because some arsonist has a grudge."
"Becca—"
"Three buckets." She thrust the first one into his arms. "Help me load them or get out of my way."
The safehouse was a squat brick building on a quiet street in Back of the Yards.
Becca climbed off Blast's bike—her third ride in two days, and she was starting to understand why people got addicted to motorcycles—and stared at the unremarkable exterior. Bars on the windows. Security camera over the door. The kind of place that looked boring enough to ignore.
"It's not much," Blast said, unstrapping the first flower bucket from the back of the bike. "But it's secure."
"It's fine."
The door opened before they reached it, revealing a man who made Blast look small. Six-three at least, with hands like sledgehammers and a face carved from stone. His eyes swept over Becca with the flat assessment of someone cataloging potential threats.
"Fang," Blast said. "This is Becca. She's under our protection."
"The florist." Fang's voice was deep and empty. "Heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
His expression didn't change. "Things."
He stepped aside to let them in, and Becca found herself in a sparse living room with mismatched furniture and the faint smell of cleaning products. It was clean, anonymous, and completely devoid of personality.
She'd never been so grateful for the buckets of roses in her arms.
"Kitchen's through there," Fang said, jerking his head. "Bedroom in the back. Don't answer the door for anyone except me or Blast."
"What if there's a fire?"
Silence. Blast and Fang exchanged a look that made her stomach clench.
"That's not funny," Blast said quietly.
"I wasn't joking." Becca set her bucket on the coffee table, suddenly exhausted. "What's the plan if they find me here? If they show up with accelerant and matches like they did for the laundromat?"
Blast moved toward her, his energy softening into something almost gentle. "They won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know Fang." He glanced at the big man, something like respect in his eyes. "Anyone who comes through that door uninvited isn't walking back out."
Fang didn't respond. Didn't need to. His presence was statement enough.
Becca nodded slowly, accepting what she couldn't change. She was in a safehouse, surrounded by bikers, hiding from an arson crew that had already burned half her neighborhood. Two weeks ago, her biggest problem had been a supplier who kept sending wilted carnations.
How had her life become this?
"I need to work," she said. "The wedding order—"
"I know." Blast gestured toward the kitchen. "Set up wherever you want. I'll get the rest of the supplies from your shop."
"You're leaving?"
The vulnerability in her voice surprised her. She watched something shift in his expression—a softening, a crack in the manic energy he wore like armor.
"I'll be back," he said. "Few hours, tops. Fang's not going anywhere."
"And after that?"
"After that, I'm going to find out exactly how Dvorak knew to put surveillance on your block." His jaw tightened. "And then I'm going to make sure he regrets it."
He left before she could respond, the door closing behind him with a solid thunk.
Becca stood in the middle of the strange living room, surrounded by roses, and tried to remember what normal felt like.
She threw herself into the wedding order.
The kitchen table became her workspace—buckets of roses and greenery spread across the surface, wire and ribbon and floral tape organized in neat rows. The familiar work steadied her hands, gave her something to focus on besides the fear that kept trying to crawl up her throat.
Fang sat in the living room like a statue, occasionally checking his phone but never speaking. She'd offered him coffee twice; he'd declined both times with a single shake of his head.
By noon, she'd finished two centerpieces and was halfway through a third when Blast walked back in carrying her tool bag and another bucket of flowers.
"Found your spare shears," he said, setting everything on the counter. "Also grabbed those ribbon spools you keep in the back closet."
"You went through my closet?"
"Just the work one." His grin flashed. "The personal stuff I'm saving for later."
She should have been annoyed. Instead, she felt her mouth curve despite everything.
"Thank you. For getting my supplies."
"Least I could do, since I dragged you out of your shop at dawn." He pulled up a chair beside her, watching her work with that focused intensity she was starting to recognize. "What are you making?"
"Centerpieces. The bride wanted romantic garden style—lots of texture, soft colors, nothing too structured." She tucked a spray of baby's breath between two roses. "Her grandmother's getting the matching arrangement for the head table."
"Sounds complicated."
"It's just layers. You build from the base up, make sure everything has support, then add the delicate elements last." She glanced at him. "Kind of like demolition in reverse."
His laugh was surprised, genuine. "I never thought of it that way."
"Most people don't." She reached for another rose, stripping the thorns with practiced efficiency. "They see flowers and think it's just pretty things in a vase. They don't see the structure underneath."
"You're good at this."
"I've had practice." She placed the rose carefully, adjusting the angle until it sat just right. "Four years of practice, actually. Ten thousand arrangements, give or take."
"Ten thousand?"
"Rough estimate. Weddings, funerals, quincea?eras, proms, hospital visits, apology bouquets, 'I'm sorry I forgot our anniversary' arrangements..." She smiled despite herself. "Flowers mark the moments of people's lives. The good ones and the bad ones."
Blast watched her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.
"You really love this."
"It's all I've ever wanted to do." Her hands stilled on the arrangement.
"When I was a kid, I used to make bouquets out of weeds from the empty lot behind our apartment.
My mom kept them in juice glasses on the kitchen windowsill.
" She swallowed. "After she died, I got a job at a flower shop.
Worked there through high school, then through hotel management, until I'd saved enough to open my own place. "
"And you chose Pilsen?"
"Pilsen chose me." She started working again, needing something to do with her hands.
"I walked every neighborhood in the city looking for the right spot.
When I found this block—the murals, the families, the way everyone seemed to know everyone else—I just knew. This was where I was supposed to be."
"Even though you weren't from here?"
"Especially because I wasn't." She met his eyes. "I wanted to earn my place somewhere. Not have it handed to me, not inherit it. Build something that mattered because I made it matter."
The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch.
"You did," he said quietly. "It matters."
Before she could respond, he stood abruptly and crossed to the smoke detector mounted on the ceiling. He reached up, pressing the test button, and the sharp beep made her jump.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking." He moved to the next detector, tested it, then the one in the hallway. She watched him work his way through the small house, testing every alarm, every sensor, every device designed to warn of fire.
The care he took—the methodical attention to something as small as a smoke detector—made her chest ache.
This was a man who understood exactly how buildings burned. Who knew, better than anyone, what happened when fire got out of control. And he was making sure that if the worst happened, she'd have warning.
He'd have time to get her out.
"All clear," he said, coming back into the kitchen. "Batteries are fresh, sensors are working. If anything catches, you'll know."
Becca set down her shears and stood.
"Blast."
"Yeah?"
She crossed to him, rose up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
He went completely still.
"Thank you," she said against his skin. "For the smoke detectors. For all of it."
When she pulled back, his eyes were dark and hungry and fixed on her mouth like he was fighting not to close the distance between them.
"You're welcome," he said roughly.
She returned to her flowers before she could do something stupid.
But she felt his eyes on her for the rest of the afternoon, and the heat of his gaze felt safer than any smoke detector ever could.