Chapter 3
Fallon
Ilinger in place, my veins buzzing with Rhys’s golden eyes on me from his kitchen window, high above the narrow courtyard below.
He’s looked at me before across the bend in the building, but this time, he sees me. Really sees me.
That spark in his eyes when I mentioned the man bothering me wasn’t just anger. It was protection. Possession.
A boyfriend should be angry like that.
I turn from the window and press my hand to my chest. Gasping, I drag in a deep swell of warmth.
My thoughts spiral, tumbling over themselves, clinging to the certainty that I belong to Rhys. For real. He didn’t deny it. I didn’t imagine it. And that’s as good as confirming it.
I’m still covered in dirt and sweat, so I brush my cheek three times. A gnawing ritual I can’t quite stop or control.
Glancing back at the window from behind the shade, I see Rhys moving around his kitchen. He’s still wearing just a towel, back muscles singing, and tattooed forearms taut. He has a kettle on the stove and a cutting board littered with ingredients.
He cooks! But the parade of processed spices lined up on the counter makes my heart hurt with a painful, reckless rage.
Cheap supermarket jars, half-empty, labels faded. No freshness. No love.
“Oh, Basil,” I murmur to my potted herb. “Do you want a new home?”
‘No. It’s nice here.’
I giggle. “It sure is. But it looks nice there, too.”
When Basil is asleep, I’ll snip off a section and replant it for Rhys. It will make everything there smell amazing. And when the coriander is ready, it will be even better. But that will take some time, since I just planted the seeds.
My phone buzzes on the counter, knocking me from the stare I couldn’t otherwise shake.
Phones must be answered.
I get a gnawing feeling when they ring and ring and ring. It’s the same with my mail. It must be opened. Even though it’s mostly all junk. Except for this charity that keeps mailing me nickels. I don’t understand that logic. Sending me money first, if they want money in return.
My home screen flashes: Private Line.
My throat goes tight as I answer it. I can never not answer calls from this number. I tried blocking that number once for a few weeks, and the punishment for that was something I’ll never forget.
Still, I must count the rings. One. Two. Three. On the third, I swipe and answer the phone.
“Hello?”
A female’s clipped voice greets me. “Hold for Elias Black.”
Daddy’s full name spoken out loud with menace and authority always gives me the shivers. He’s a security specialist and likes to remind me that he’s an important man to a lot of powerful people.
He must also have dangerous enemies because Daddy had someone change all my identification to Fallon Nova, my middle name, after my mother was tortured and killed many years ago.
His deep voice filters through the line, deep and resonant. “Hello, daughter.”
My lungs seize, hearing him call me daughter, like I’m one of his possessions.
I tense, thinking I’m in trouble. But I’ve been good. Okay, swinging a shovel at someone and dating an assassin for the Irish Mob isn’t exactly being a good girl.
I swallow hard, pushing away the anxiety. “Hello, Daddy.”
“How are you?” His polite question throws me for a second. He doesn’t usually ask.
My heart lurches with stupid hope that he actually cares.
“I’m fine,” I answer quickly. Too quickly. “The garden is coming in strong this year. I planted rosemary for Mama. Remember how she—”
“Are you taking your medication?” He cuts me off, his tone slicing clean through me.
“Mostly,” I murmur, tapping my nails on the counter. One. Two. Three. “Those new ones make me throw up. I prefer—”
“I don’t care what you prefer.” He hums with disapproval. “You need to take those pills.”
My stomach knots, and I swallow hard, the truth clawing my throat, but I shove it down.
“Yes, Daddy.” I think about this month’s nasty bottles sitting unopened on my nightstand.
There’s a pause. He’s listening for cracks in my voice.
I press my nails into my palm. Lying should splinter me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. Trauma scoured me hollow years ago.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I whisper, my throat burning. “I promise.”
That word fine cracks inside me like glass, and I can feel the shards starting to cut through the skin.
“Good.” Daddy exhales like this call just checks off a box for him.
That nearly kills me. He’d rather believe the lie than understand my truth. What I really want from him. Love. Acceptance.
“You need your strength,” he adds.
A burn rises in my throat. Strength for what?
“Have you heard from Kosta?” he asks next, tight and abrupt.
I shudder hearing that name. “N… No.”
It slides out easier than the truth. Of course, I heard from Kosta. He’s an obsessed stalker who thinks he owns me.
The New York State Penitentiary system technically owns him.
“I will call you again next week.” My father disconnects the call, but the echo of his voice lingers.
I set the phone down carefully. After three steadying breaths, I glance at the kitchen across the courtyard to where Rhys stood. Now, there’s only a memory of him and how he looked at me.
I was robbed of my daily therapy of watching my boyfriend for hours in a towel.
Someone will pay for that.