Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I need to stop thinking about it. So I scrub, mechanical and thorough, until there’s nothing left but clean skin and the faint tremor in my hands.
Stepping out, I wrap a towel around my body, and throw on a pair of linen pants and a cardigan. I can’t even be bothered brushing my hair as I tie it in a wet knot on the top of my head.
Teeth. I need to brush my teeth.
I go through the motions, but everything reminds me of everyone.
Tightening the cardi around my waist, I shift the curtain aside and look down at the yard. Nonna’s greenhouse sits opposite the shed. Whenever she’d have a quiet day, or she’d be battling with something none of us knew, it always seemed to help her. She’d say that nature had a way of providing us answers if we were listening hard enough.
I pull on socks and boots, listening at the door before slipping into the hall. Fresh cookies sweeten the air, making my stomach rumble. Liars. My appetite vanishes, as low voices drift from downstairs, broken by long stretches of silence.
“I want to see her,” Jord muffles around his cookie.
My hand flies to my mouth to catch my laugh.
“Well, you can’t. Not yet…” Leon sighs. “She will come when she’s ready. You know what Ivy’s like.”
“She needs to know that I knew nothing.”
I know.
“She already does, dipshit,” Punk snaps, but there’s a heavy sadness in her tone.
What little smile I had slips.
I head down the opposite way as if Nonna herself were directing me.
Snow swallows my boots. The yard stretches white and empty between the house and greenhouse, and I cross it with my arms pinned to my chest, breath fogging as the wind cuts straight through my cardigan.
I shoulder the door open, pausing when I reach inside. Dead. All of it. Rows of brown stems collapse over the edges of their pots. Leaves curl into brittle fists on the soil. Nonna’s orchids hang off their stakes like wet tissue. It smells of frozen dirt and rot.
Moving slowly down the center aisle, I trail my fingers over a table of shriveled herbs. Basil, thyme, the mint she swore would survive a nuclear winter. The roots have gone black, my throat closing tighter with every step because this is what she left behind and we let it die.
At the end of the far bench, half-hidden behind a fallen trellis, ivory petals open to the gray light. Green veins mark their throats, the single stem standing straight in frozen soil, built for the cold. Hellébore.
My hand closes around the choker.
“The Hellébore has quite the rep in French folklore,” Asher murmured as he drapped the necklace around my throat. His fingers brushed against my skin. “It was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect against dark magic.” Metal settled against my collarbone as he worked the clasp. “Sounds suspicious.” I managed to breathe out with a chuckle. “It was also known as the ‘Winter Rose’ because it flourishes in cold temperatures, where other flowers wither and die.”
I pick up the pot. Soft petals brush my knuckles, alive against my skin. My chest caves in around a ragged breath as I hold the last living thing in this dead garden, tears sliding hot down my face.
“Huh, would you look at that?” Asher mumbles from the doorway, and every muscle in my back locks.
I set the pot on the bench, and wipe my cheeks with the heel of my hand before turning around.
Dressed in a black hoodie and sweats, I can smell the soap on him from here. God, does he have to be so beautiful? I feel like i’ve spent a large chunk of the time I’ve known him cursing the Gods for creating someone quite literally perfect, with every fucking red flag known to man.
He looks at the flower, then at me.
“I’ve been sitting here, trying to piece the puzzle back together now that I have all the parts.” I swallow. “Parker?”
One footstep. “Me. I ordered it in. Emeric called the hit on you all when he thought his plan of getting Amélie back so he could kill her wasn’t working. Next question.”
I scoff, touching a petal. “So much violence.”
Another step. “So little time.”
My eyes snap to him and he stops. “You stole my kill, but I’m not mad about that.” Kind of… I could get over it. “It’s the constant loop of lies. Did he die in pain?”
“He was awake the hole time. Until, well… the end.”
“Why?” I finally say, desperate for something to grasp onto. “Why?”
“For one, Venom, I’d been killing these motherfuckers since I first saw you hanging on that yacht—“Everything stops, but he keeps going. “—La Maison Du Mal wasn’t always like this. My father, Aléia, Emeric, they corrupted it the second they got the power they stole.”