“That book again. It’s so dramatic.”

  Elise gasped. “Hades and Persephone’s story isn’t dramatic! It’s a classic. It survived thousands of years, Kian Leste. It’s one of the most famous Greek myths—”

  “Fine. Fine. I’m sorry, my goddess.” I exaggerated a bow. “How will I ever redeem myself in your eyes?”

  I tucked a chocolate into her palm. Her eyes brightened. Caramel flavored today.

  “Someone’s been paying attention to my stories.” She stuffed the chocolate into her mouth. “This is sooo good.”

  “I pay attention to everything you say.” Heat crawled up my face, but it was true. “Someday, I’ll read to you instead of the other way around. I’ve been practicing.”

  Shame settled deeper inside me, but I forced out a smile. Elise never cared that I couldn’t read well.

  Only I did.

  But someday that’d change.

  “You have?” She jumped and closed her book. “Yay. Maybe you’ll find a favorite book or two. It really is the best thing ever.”

  Elise beamed and laced her fingers with mine once more.

  We strolled off the beaten path.

  “Your family’s Albanian, but Leste isn’t Albanian,” she commented.

  “That’s random.”

  “I’m curious!” She scrunched her nose adoringly. “My family’s from the UK. But that’s obvious…Anderson, right?”

  “Hm. Technically, we are the Lleshis. But Dad said immigration got it wrong when Grandpa moved over. Somehow became the Lestes. Not that I could confirm this. Never met Grandpa. Although Dad said Grandpa was wealthy and powerful.” I shook my head. “Urban legend, really.”

  “Maybe someday you could find out your family’s history.”

  I hummed noncommittally. I was more interested in creating my own history with her.

  “Maybe someday I could become a powerful, rich man,” I joked.

  “A good man. That’s more important.”

  My lips hitched as I tugged her to a stop. “But how would I make your dreams come true without money?”

  She grinned. “I could make my own dreams come true. You just come along for the ride. Although…” A frown marred her forehead. “I don’t know what my dreams are. It’s probably good to have one. A goal.”

  My dream is you.

  The thought barreled in from nowhere, sending my heart into a tailspin.

  I swallowed, my fingers twitching, my chest suddenly swelling with feelings that had been building since almost a year ago when I met her.

  Dad’s words echoed in my mind. Do what you can to keep her by your side.

  An impulse surged through my veins, and I looked around, my eyes widening when an idea took root.

  “Come.”

  I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the far end of the park, to the biggest elm tree that had been there forever.

  Sturdy. Unwavering.

  I fished out my pocketknife and carved a heart and my words onto the tree.

  Elise gasped, her roses scenting the air.

  “Too much too soon?” I asked, my pulse thundering.

  She grabbed the knife from me and added her own word underneath mine.

  “There. Etched forever.”

  My gaze snapped to hers, heat barreling through my chest.

  “Really?” I rasped.

  She nodded, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

  I traced our carvings, my mind flashing to the suitcases by our front door.

  “Elise,” I had whispered, my hand cupping her face. “If anything ever happens, I’ll find my way back to you.”

  “Nothing will ever happen,” she whispered, her eyes steadfast.

  “I…” My lungs strained in an inhale. “I love you, Elise.”

  Her beautiful gray eyes glistened, a sweet smile curving her lips. She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss on my cheek.

  “I love you too.”

  I kept my promise from that day. I just didn’t know how much it would cost me.

  Chapter 24: THE LIBRARY

  Present: Chicago

  The familiar melody stops me in my tracks as I walk past the partially opened door to the library.

  Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”

  Lana sits in her usual spot on the chaise lounge, cozy in a warm, fuzzy sweater dress that shows off her long legs. A bottle of wine and a glass sit on the side table.

  She’s humming under her breath as her fingers flip through the pages of a familiar book.

  Then she empties her glass and lets out a very unladylike burp before reaching for the bottle to pour more.

  Only to find it empty.

  She growls like a puppy being denied her favorite toy. Lips pursed, she gets up, but sways and quickly sits back down.

  “Oops.” Lana hiccups, then mutters, “I’m so buzzed. Shouldn’t drink that much. But it’s boring here. Boring.”

  Something warm gathers behind my rib cage.

  My chest tightens. I slide my hand into my pocket and grip my lighter.

  I should walk away. I should think about her role in my family’s deaths and why I married her. She’s leverage. A means to an end.

  But I haven’t had my twenty-eight minutes today yet. So I pull out my phone, set a timer, and watch her again.

  Clearly tired, she yawns and stretches on the chaise, her book falling to the floor. Her dress rides up on her thighs and stretches over her luscious curves.

  Blood surges to my cock and I relive the way she feels in my arms, her needy sounds when she’s turned on, the fire in her eyes when she fights me with everything she has. Gripping the doorway for support, I memorize every delectable inch of her, looking so gorgeous and safe in my home.

  For a moment, I’m transported to the past. This was Kian’s dream, having Elise safe in his home, creating a life together.

  It will never happen.

  And when she turns thirty-five and I get my hands on the package, we’ll part ways. She’ll go on and find a nice man with good connections, have the babies I know she loves, judging from the way she is with her nieces and nephews.

  I will never see her again.

  The tightening sensation worsens. I loosen my tie, needing oxygen to release me from this pain.

  She turns a page—then stillness. Lana’s gaze drifts to me.

  “All that ogling, and I might think you’re in love with me,” she mutters and reaches for her book on the floor, only to miss it.

  “You’re drunk.” I arch my brow. “And I wasn’t staring.”

  A teasing smile curves her lips and the sight of it—no animosity or hatred, like she’s forgotten what I did to her—temporarily robs me of speech.

  “And I-I’m,” another hiccup, “currently not being held prisoner against my will.”

  “You signed up for this.”

  “You forced me into it.”

  My lips twitch in amusement. “It’s for the greater good.”

  “Is it now?” She narrows her eyes. “I have a feeling it serves your agenda more than it protects me.”

  Clearly annoyed, she reaches toward her book again, but her body loses its momentum and pitches forward.

  In a few strides, I reach her before she face-plants onto the ground and gently ease her back onto the chaise.

  “Ugh. It’s embarrassing letting you see me like this,” she groans and closes her eyes.

  Chuckling, I pick up her book and set it on her lap.

  Hades and Persephone again. Some things never change.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve been an embarrassment in front of me. I’ve seen you drunk before. Very unladylike.”

  Her eyes snap open. “Asshole. And when?”

  I sit down on the floor, my fingers twiddling with my lighter. “You don’t remember?”

  When she doesn’t answer me, I glance back, finding an adorable frown on her face as she racks her memory.

  Then she sits up and slaps her forehead. “When you started helping at The Orchid ten years ago! That was you, huh? I always thought I heard someone talking to me that night, but I don’t remember.”

  “Because you were drunk. You should be more careful of your surroundings. There are monsters everywhere who’d take advantage.”

  She snorts. “Look where that’s got me. Here. With you. The monster of all monsters.”

  I stand before I realize what I’m doing, and a second later, I’m hovering over her.

  Her eyes go wide as she stares at me.

  “I never take advantage of women,” I rasp.

  Her lips part, her wine-scented breath grazes my face. I watch in fascination as a pink flush creeps up her neck to her face, and those startling gray eyes darken as the seconds stretch by.

  “When I touch a woman, it’s because she wants it.”

  “B-But in the office, and on Th-Thanksgiving…”

  “You didn’t walk away.” I lean down until barely an inch separates us. “And you wanted it, Lana. You wanted every single second of it. I could smell your arousal.”

  A soft whimper escapes her, and my cock hardens to full mast.

  I swallow a groan, my hands clenching the chaise lounge for dear life because if I touch her, I’m done.

  She’s drunk. She’s a means to an end. This is not part of your twenty-eight minutes.

  But then she touches me. Drags a gentle finger over my scar, down my neck, setting me on fire.

  Two slender hands mold over my shoulders then slide to my front, where my dress shirt is unbuttoned.

  She slips her hands inside my shirt and caresses my pecs.

  Skin touching skin.

  “So hard. Muscular.” Lana continues her tentative exploration. “Your tattoos are so beautiful.”

  Visions of me pinning her down, ripping her dress, suckling on her damn pointy nipples, and feasting on her wet pussy fill my mind. I want to taste her honey at the source. I want to know what she sounds like when she comes apart with me buried deep inside her.

  “Fuck. Stop, Lana. Stop. You’re drunk.” Sweat beads on my upper lip, but I can’t step away.

  She hums again. Beethoven’s melody. Our melody. Her fingers reach for my buttons.

  “I said stop!” I wrench away with my last remaining willpower. “Are you that desperate for a man, you’d go for someone who treats you like shit?”

  Lana flinches, her eyes widening with shock, then hurt. The intoxicated haze clears.

  I want to take back the words, but they’re necessary. There can’t be any feelings between us. Unless it’s animosity.

  “I hate you, Elias Kent. That,” she motions to the air between us, “was a drunken mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  With my thoughts spinning, my inhibitions at a breaking point, I pivot, walk out of the room, and slam the door behind me.

  It can never happen again.

  Chapter 25: THE APOTHECARY’S BLOOM

  “Can you not talk, or is this a choice?”

  Ren shuts the car door behind me without answering. He’s in his usual super spy, deadly assassin getup: black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots—everything black. Aside from his wool gloves, the man seems impervious to the winter elements.

  Tattoos snake up his throat, thorned vines I spotted on Elias’s arms. His mask hides half of his face, but those brown eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.

  “Do you have a last name? Why don’t you take off your mask?”

  He presses a hand to my back, urging me along. An icy December gust flutters my thick wool skirt. The sun peeks from behind the clouds, scattering shards of cool light across the snow-covered cobblestones of Waverly Street, barely ten minutes uphill from Elias’s house.

  Or, I guess, my gilded cage now.

  To the east, Ashbourne Heights gleams with old-money mansions with front-row views of Lake Michigan. To the west, darkness fades into Saints Hollow and its cracked bricks, flickering streetlights, and lingering ghosts.

  The mysterious room on the third floor remains locked. I’ve stopped trying for now. I should just buy a hacksaw, but I’m sure the Shadow King won’t let me.

  Elias Kent is a conundrum I can’t solve. He’s violent, a cold-blooded murderer who seems to have some sort of moral code. He’s cold one minute and hot the next.

  He’s someone who’d say, “I hate you,” but would give me his coat and umbrella amid strong winds and heavy snow.

  And that drunken incident in the library? My skin heats at the spotty memories. I can’t believe I came onto him. It was definitely the alcohol and not me.

  Absolutely not me, the rational me, that is.

  Elias has made himself scarce these days.

  Aside from the crude diagram of The Association’s org structure, I have found no more dirt on him or the Berishas. No mysterious phone calls or shadowy visitors.

  His office? Always locked.

  I want to scream at the top of my lungs. Not that anyone would care.

  But at least my family is doing well at home. Maxwell has fully recovered, and he and Rex check in on me weekly. They promise me they’re looking into the Berishas and The Association. The girls still think I’m jetting across the world.

  I want more than anything to go back. Away from this lonely house and its shadowy owner, away from the threat of violence and the uncertainty of my future.

  So, to keep myself from going mad, I’ve started exploring the border of Saints Hollow and Ashbourne Heights.

  “My tough, silent bodyguard,” I needle Ren. “Do you like chocolate? What’s your favorite food? Color? If we’re spending so much time together, we should get to know each other, don’t you think?”

  He snorts and shakes his head, his lips moving silently.

  “What are you mouthing? I can’t read lips. Are you saying I’m your ray of sunshine? That you’re overcome with a need to tell me everything so I can get out of your hair?”

  A smile tugs at my lips as I watch him heave an exasperated sigh, his pace quickening as we weave through the crowds toward our destination.

  I take in the quaint storefronts, their awnings thick with snow. Construction noise from the next block over interrupts the quiet.

  It’s bittersweet, being back here so many years later after Kian disappeared.

  Some things have changed—the new shops, the hip condos popping up—but a lot has stayed the same. There’s still an air of melancholy, a vibe of historic decay in the neighborhood, like it has seen too many losses.

  Twenty years ago, a devastating fire burned down half of Saints Hollow.

  It was also when my relationship with Kian abruptly ended.

  I had returned to New York because Dad had come down with pneumonia. Kian and I were long distance, but I planned to go to college in Chicago to be near him.

  Panic seized my chest when I saw the news about the fire. I emailed Kian because he didn’t have a cell phone. He never replied. I scoured newspapers online for weeks afterward, pored over obituaries, called hospitals after cheer practice, desperate for news of him and his family.

  Then I finally saw, among the list of casualties, his parents’ and baby sister’s names.

  My heart shattered. I was inconsolable. Dad and my brothers even asked their contacts in the city to locate Kian or Sofia.

  Nothing.

  Those were dark times—tears were my constant companion at night after I played the role of a dutiful daughter during the day.

  I missed the boy with a beautiful face, bleached blond hair, and warm green eyes.

  Until one day, I got an emerald pendant in the mail.

  The emerald pendant.

  He was alive.

  But there was no note, no explanation. It was a farewell.

  Over the years, the same questions haunted me.

  What happened to him? Why did he disappear without a trace?

  I thought he loved me.

  Eventually, I tried to move on. I dated guys here and there, but those relationships never lasted more than a few months. Tanner, the guy I was with the longest—four whopping long months—ghosted me the summer of my junior year in college. Everyone else was more or less the same. Excuses about being too busy. About being intimidated by my brothers.

  No one would stay. They’d all vanish. Sometimes, late at night, when the city sounds quieted and my apartment felt all too lonely, I’d wonder.

  Is it me? Am I not good enough to make them stay?

  A car swerves in my direction, shocking me out of my thoughts.

  Tires screech and burning rubber permeates the air. A scream shoots up my throat.

  Ren curses. He grabs my waist and shoves me against the brick wall. The impact jolts the air out of my lungs. Pain explodes across my back. Daylight swirls in my vision.

  A black car speeds away, gawking onlookers pointing at it.

  “You okay?” Ren rasps, his dark brows furrowed.

  My pulse bellows in my ears as I strain a breath, disoriented.

  A pistol glints in his hand, hidden under his jacket. I didn’t even see him pull it.

  “Some people can’t drive, huh?” I quip.

  He narrows his eyes at the street, a muscle ticcing in his jaw.

  Something in his expression gets my hackles up, and ice slithers over my skin.

  It’s an accident, right? I’m from New York. Things like this happen all the time.

  “Hey! You can talk!” I nudge him and waggle my eyebrows. “Does this mean you’re warming up to me? Yeah? You like me, don’t you?”

  Ren lets out an exasperated sigh and stays silent, ignoring the quizzical stares from onlookers.

  He walks toward the café I passed by a few times last week.

  The storefront of Arcana & Bloom beckons me like a box of gourmet truffles. I can never resist good chocolate, after all.

  Pastel green double doors are adorned with brass handles. Faux white roses, hydrangeas, and wisteria frame its windows and archways. Little bistro tables sit on the curb, enclosed in clear, heated tents, reminding me of people-watching in Paris as I sip my lattes.

  Ren holds the door open with one hand, his phone in the other.

  Ren

  Well? You going in?