Chapter 13 Silent Flowers
Silent Flowers
Fee:
The bed still smells like him, warm cedar and black pepper, that understated spice that burns through every logical thought I've ever had. But the space beside me is cold, and I'm trying very hard not to calculate how long he stayed after I fell asleep.
I roll onto my side and notice Anton's pillow looking too perfect, too untouched. He must've slept for what, an hour? Two? Before slipping away again into the darkness that claims him when he's not with me.
The business doesn't sleep, and neither do the men who kill for it. I knew what I was getting into. Mostly.
Anton's absence comes with a box and a note waiting on the pillow beside me.
I trace the cool metal box. The smooth satin ribbon slides loose between my fingers. The hinges open without sound.
Nestled inside against black velvet rests a camellia pendant. Titanium petals catch the morning light, each curve etched with such detail, capturing the beauty of the flower that represents silent love. Interesting choice, romantic.
There's something in the center, a barely visible seam. A hinge hidden perfectly within one of the petals, so fine it disappears when closed.
This was meant for our first date. We never made it that far. So I'll start here. A silent flower that stays close to your pulse even when I'm not. A silent flower that will keep you invisible.
I click the hidden hinge, and the camellia opens like a mechanical bloom. Inside gleams a titanium USB drive, nearly obscured by the petals; it's a VPN, not just jewelry, but protection, digital camouflage.
Of course he knows I hack systems. He probably knows everything: my first day of kindergarten, my favorite ice cream flavor, how many times I've watched Pride and Prejudice.
And what else do I know about him? He kills for money as an assassin for the Basovs; he lost someone he loved; he moves through the world like a ghost until he wants to be seen; he used to be fun; I've caught glimpses of it, on the rare occasions when he has smiled.
I snap the camellia closed and slip the chain around my neck. Protection wrapped in romance. It's the most Anton thing in the world, deadly and tender in the same breath.
He gives me a digital cloak and calls me his little sun. He stitches my wounds with surgeon's hands that have ended lives. He makes love to me like I'm something sacred, then disappears to handle business that will probably end in blood.
And somehow, that makes perfect sense to both of us.
We're all a little psychopathic in this world. The only difference is whether you use it to survive or to destroy. Anton does both. So do I, in my own way.
Sliding off the bed, I test my weight carefully. The bathroom is only a few steps away, close enough that I don't need the crutch if I'm strategic about it.
The water feels too cold against my skin as I splash my face, but I need the contrast—something to shock me back into my own body. I dry off with a towel, the Egyptian cotton impossibly soft against my cheeks.
The mirror doesn't lie. His black T-shirt hangs off one shoulder.
The pendant rests against my collarbone, and beneath it, a dark purple mark where his mouth sucked hard enough to brand me.
My fingers trace the bruise, remembering the sharp pleasure-pain, the possessive growl against my throat. Lips still swollen from his kisses.
Thoroughly loved by a gentle and rough lover, both in the same man, the same hands, the same breath. My contradiction. Anton.
The stitches on my foot don't throb as much this morning. Progress. I gingerly test my weight again, pressing my toes against the cool tile. The pain spikes, but not like yesterday's white-hot agony. More like an angry reminder.
Not three days yet. Dr. Esposito's warning echoes in my head, but I'm not exactly known for patience. I slide into a pair of jeans, a struggle that involves more hopping and cursing than I'd care to admit, and keep Anton's T-shirt on because it smells like him.
Compromising with myself, I grab one crutch instead of two. My laptop needs the other hand, and my brain needs coffee if I'm going to tackle calculus.
I grab my purse and loop it crossbody style. The final exam is today, and I refuse to flunk the class just because someone tried to kill me.
The kitchen lies across what suddenly feels like miles of hardwood floor. With my laptop tucked under one arm and the crutch awkwardly positioned under the opposite, I start my slow journey.
My foot protests with each step, but I make it to the counter without dropping anything.
Coffee first. The machine sits like a temple, and I worship accordingly. While it brews, I claim a barstool and prop my injured foot on the lower rung. The laptop opens to my calculus portal.
Removing the camellia pendant, I press my fingers against the hidden seam until it clicks open, and connect the USB to my laptop. A new network appears on my screen, secure and anonymous.
This beautiful little thing.
A notification pops up in my private chat window before I can even check the exam schedule.
Phoenix: Morning, stranger. Missed you yesterday.
Me: Had a situation.
Phoenix: "Situation" sounds serious.
Me: Just some personal stuff. Nothing I couldn't handle.
My fingers hover over the keys. Phoenix is the closest thing I have to a friend in the digital underworld, but I've never shared anything real. We keep it professional, discussing coding problems, security puzzles, and occasional debates about encryption algorithms.
Phoenix: Working on anything interesting?
I've been obsessed, digging for information because Anton wouldn't tell me anything. So I went through the people around him instead.
Desperate? Absolutely. Effective? Not remotely. I learned exactly nothing about Anton Baev that mattered. In the end, I learned about him the old-fashioned way—he finally talked.
But Morrison won't leave my head now. Not because of Anton, but because someone tried to kill me, and I want to understand why. I'm not sitting here helpless when I can find my own answers.
Me: Just school. Calc is kicking my ass.
Phoenix: Calc? You crack government-grade encryptions for fun.
The coffee machine beeps. I grab the mug, holding it in both hands to soak up the warmth, then sit back down on the barstool.
Phoenix: Hey, wanted to give you a heads-up. There's a competition coming up—dark web security challenge with a big prize pool. Thought you might be interested.
Me: Maybe. When?
Phoenix: Next month. I'll send details. Could be fun to see how we stack up against each other.
Phoenix: Random question—you ever work with a team? Or are you solo like me?
I stare at the message. We've never asked each other personal questions about our work. That's the unspoken rule: we don't cross that line.
Me: Solo. Why?
Phoenix: Just curious. Some of the challenges are team-based. Was wondering if you had people you work with regularly.
Me: Just getting ready to take my final exam. I should go.
Phoenix: Right, sorry. Didn't mean to pry. Good luck. Don't let the derivatives win.
Me: Thanks.
Phoenix: See ya!
I close the chat window, but the conversation sits wrong in my chest. They've never asked about my work setup, my team, or whether I'm alone. Why start now?
I pull up the exam portal. Two hours until test time, and I can't focus worth a damn. Can't stop thinking about yesterday's bullets and last night's bed and Phoenix's weird questions.
Why does this even matter? I don't need this degree. Dad will hand me whatever I want.
Fuck. That's not me talking.
These classes are my choice. Mine. Separate from everything else. If I'm sitting here questioning the one thing I picked for myself, I'm more messed up than I thought.
I need to talk to someone.
I only talk to three people: Sage, Moira, and Phoenix. Sage is blissfully unreachable. Phoenix and I stick to tech stuff; they don't even know my real name, and I don't know who Phoenix really is. I'm keeping it that way.
Which leaves Moira.
It's barely past seven in the morning, and she's pregnant. I should let her sleep; however, I pull up our text thread and begin typing, asking if she's able to talk.
Before I'm done writing the message, my phone rings, and Moira's name lights up the screen. I answer immediately.
"You're psychic now?" I ask her. "Is that a pregnancy superpower?" I balance the phone between my ear and shoulder, still nursing my coffee.
"Just bored and uncomfortable." Moira's voice sounds tired but warm. "Lorenzo left early this morning for some meeting, and I've been sitting here with a headache, getting kicked from the inside."
"Want me to distract you with my drama?"
"God, yes. Please." There's a rustling sound as she adjusts her position. "Tell me everything. Did he finally make a move?"
"He did. We did. It was..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound ridiculous. "I slept with him."
A beat of silence stretches between us.
"You slept with Anton Baev?" Moira's voice rises with each word. "Like, actually slept with him? All the way?"
"Yes, all the way. What are we, twelve?"
"How was it? No, wait, that's weird to ask your sister. But also, I need to know."
"It was..." I remember Anton's hands on my skin, his weight above me, the way he felt inside me. "It was worth waiting for."
"I'm proud of you, Fee." Moira's voice softens. "For making your own choice about who gets your virginity. Not letting it become a bargaining chip for some alliance or letting Dad choose who you give it to."
I sink deeper into the barstool. "Well, I had a great advisor."
"Damn right you did," she laughs.
"Remember how scared we were about how Lorenzo would react?" I take another sip of coffee. "For whatever fucked-up reason, Dad thought you were a virgin and brought that to the negotiating table."