Chapter 6 - Gabriel #2
"I think it's a risk. And I think you should consider the possibility that this woman isn't as random as she appears."
The suggestion irritates me more than it should. "You think she's—what? A plant? Someone sent to infiltrate the family?"
"I think coincidences are rarely coincidental. And I think you're too distracted to see clearly right now."
I stand, placing my palms flat on the desk. "I see more clearly than I have in years. This woman is not a threat. She's not a plant. She's a florist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now she belongs to me. That's all there is to it."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes—concern, frustration, maybe even fear. Then he nods slowly.
"I hope you're right," he says. "For all our sakes."
He turns and walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the knob.
"One more thing. Benedict knows about your interest in her."
I keep my expression neutral. "And?"
"And he finds it amusing. He's been making comments at dinner, asking questions about the 'pretty florist who caught your eye.'" Josiah's voice tightens. "He also thinks you're losing your edge. That you're letting sentiment compromise your judgment."
"Benedict thinks many things. Most of them are designed to provoke a reaction."
"True. But he's not wrong that the Brotherhood is watching.
You've been distracted, absent from meetings, delegating responsibilities you've never delegated before.
People are starting to notice." Josiah opens the door.
"Whatever game you're playing with this woman, finish it soon. Before it finishes you."
He leaves without waiting for a response.
I stand alone in my study, the folder on my desk, the sketch hidden beneath it.
Josiah's concerns are valid. He's right that I've been distracted, that my attention has been consumed by Poppy Rivers to a degree that would have seemed impossible two weeks ago.
He's right that the Brotherhood expects focus, dedication, results—and that anything less could be perceived as weakness.
But he's wrong about her being a threat. Wrong about her being a coincidence that needs examination.
She's not a puzzle to be solved. She's not a risk to be managed.
She's mine.
The word settles into my chest with the weight of absolute certainty. I've known it since the moment she appeared in that doorway, her eyes wide with terror and something else. Something that recognized me even as it feared me.
Whatever secrets her mother is hiding, whatever past Linda Rivers ran from—it doesn't matter.
None of it changes what I saw in Poppy's eyes.
None of it changes what she drew in her sketchbook, what she felt when she sensed me watching, what she's feeling right now as she sits in her dark apartment with my voice still echoing in her ear.
She belongs to me. She just doesn't know it yet.
I reach for my phone and dial.
"Sir?" Hutton's voice, alert despite the late hour.
"The florist has a funeral arrangement due Monday. She dropped her supplies this morning—lost everything between the market and her apartment."
"I'm aware, sir. My team tracked her route."
"Good. I want you to contact the client. The grieving family. Offer them an alternative—better flowers, premium service, no charge. Tell them their usual florist had a personal emergency and couldn't complete the order."
A pause. "You want to take the job from her."
"I want to create an opportunity. If she loses this client, if word spreads that she's unreliable, she'll be more receptive to other offers." I smile in the darkness. "Specifically, my offer."
"Understood, sir. I'll handle it tonight."
"One more thing. Increase surveillance on her mother. I want to know if Linda Rivers makes any unusual movements—phone calls, trips, visitors. If she contacts her daughter, I want to know what they discuss."
"We don't have her residence wired for audio, sir."
"Then fix that."
"Yes, sir."
I end the call and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Linda Rivers has secrets. Josiah is right about that much. But secrets have a way of revealing themselves, given enough time and pressure.
And I have plenty of both.
Poppy will come to me. Willingly or not, sooner or later, she'll find herself in my orbit with nowhere else to go. Her business will falter. Her friends will drift away. Her mother's paranoia will drive a wedge between them.
And when she has nothing left—no clients, no support, no options—I'll be there. Offering work. Offering money. Offering a place in my world.
Offering everything she needs.
By the time she realizes what she's given up in return, it will be too late.
I pick up the sketch one more time, tracing the serpent's coils with my fingertip. In the dim light, the dahlia seems to glow—dark petals cradled by darker scales, two creatures intertwined in something that could be protection or possession.
Both, perhaps. In the end, they're the same thing.
Soon, I think. Soon you'll stop fighting. Soon you'll see what I see.
We were always meant to find each other.
And I never let go of what's mine.