Chapter 17

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Living with the monster—AKA…a…mafia romance?

Rowan

Briar Rosanera always gets her way.

The bullet point in my notes app reads more like a thesis statement than I'm entirely comfortable with. Unfortunately, the space following the line is distressingly bare. No further information explains the fact even if countless events thus far support it.

Per Briar's request, I took her to dinner last night. After she somehow convinced the hostess two people who weren't following the dress code belonged among the dim candlelight, live classical music, and seven-course meal, we ate and returned home. To my bedroom. Where I, for some uncanny reason, relinquished my bed in favor of the cot I managed to set up in the corner without anyone noticing.

At the very least, staring at the wall spared me from staring too long at whatever silken scrap of a nightgown she was wearing.

While we're here clothes shopping, I should insist she get some new pajamas. Something thick. Flannel. Patterned.

Sighing, I cast a glance at the elegant boutique and shift my weight on the bench beside the dressing rooms. The vast displays and blinding white light make me sick, so I pour my attention back into the impromptu essay I'm formulating.

Briar Rosanera always gets her way.

Whenever someone attempts to defy her, she goes still for a moment—plastic smile in place. In the very next instant, things fall together. She's a puppet master, and the world is full of marionettes.

"Pet!" she calls, and my stomach sours. "I need help."

My eyes close briefly. "What do you mean you need help?"

The dressing room beside me unlatches, and her head pokes out. "I need you to zip me up."

I stare at Briar as she pushes her short hair over her ear. The dark strands fall loose before she so much as completes the action, and the urge to fix them consumes me. "If it's too small, take it off and throw it over the door. I'll get you the next size up."

She stills—plastic smile in place—and my stomach dips. In the next moment, she's stepping out of the dressing room in something I can classify as a normal dress. No lace. No frills. No sleeves… No…skirt. The bare slice of her back—gaping between the zipper—hits me before I can compute how little fabric she's wearing. "It fits. It's just one of those stupid thin zippers that get stuck.

A swear hisses from my lips, and I scan the store for wandering eyes. Only other women. Chatting amongst themselves. We are invisible. Somehow. Somehow, because Briar is so beautiful it seems as though she should conduct her own center of gravity and draw the attention of anything and everything with a pulse.

She looks over her shoulder at me.

I'm not certain I'm breathing when our eyes meet.

Her smile falls. "You hate it."

"Can we not get you some decent sets of shirts and pants?" Air pulls through my lungs.

"You said you wanted me to get normal clothes. Dresses are normal. At one point, it's all women were allowed to wear."

"I've seen you in pants."

"You've seen me in a jumpsuit, and I still have it, too. We can swing by The Giungla and pick my torture clothes up if that's what you'd prefer."

Prefer is once again a very strong word to use here. I don't think I know what to do with myself when she's in either style. Picturing her in this, what she normally wears, or her torture garb every day in front of Veleno men puts me on edge.

Something intrinsic within me revolts at the very notion.

"Put your own clothes back on. I don't like what they have here. It's all too extravagant. We're going somewhere else."

Her lip juts. "You're being difficult."

"Change. Now."

Her arms cross. "Or else what? You'll make me?"

"I'll leave you here."

"You're bluffing. You're too sweet to abandon me, all by myself, where I'll be forced to rely upon the kindness of the first man I coerce into giving me a ride home."

She's acting like she doesn't have a phone and a hundred people who would drop everything to pick her up. I mumble, "Must you be so infuriating?"

"Yes. Now, change your tone and express your feelings if you expect me to listen."

My brow knots. Express my… What is she talking about?

Her arms drop as she huffs. "Goodness, Rowan. Don't hurt yourself."

"I sincerely have no idea what you expect from me. I dislike the options here. I would take you somewhere else."

"Clearly we have different opinions, but if you insist, zip me up and I'll wear this out to the next place."

I scan the twelve inches of cloth "covering" her then return my attention to her eyes. "Absolutely not. How would the cashier even remove the security tag while you're wearing it?"

"I'll jump up on the counter and do yoga."

"Briar." My patience wears ever so thin. Perhaps thinner than the outfit she's still wearing. Releasing a pent-up breath, I mutter, "Please. Change."

Her eyes narrow, but she twists on her heel toward the dressing room. "Fine. But you better bring me somewhere else just as nice."

As the stall door closes, I sag back into my seat, unlock my phone, and amend:

Briar Rosanera always usually gets her way.

?

"What is this?" Briar demands as I park.

"Target." I wave a hand. "As indicated by the giant target." Popping open my door, I step out of my car and stretch. The unrelenting sun beats down on my back even as a forgiving breeze caresses my skin.

Arms folded, Briar remains seated inside, yammering on about how she refuses to wear clothes from a grocery store.

Bending, I peer at her through my window and point at my ear.

With a huff, she opens her door, steps out, and drones, "I said—"

I don't give her the satisfaction of repeating herself before I state, "It's this or Goodwill, princess."

Her back goes straight, eyes wide. "You did not just say that to me. Do you even know how corrupt Goodwill is as an organization?"

I arch a brow. "We'll fit right in."

Her mouth opens, closes. Those arms of hers fold again, managing to put her breasts on display. Not that it's incredibly hard. The dress she's wearing today covers her Rosanera tattoo, and not much else. Per usual, it's a form-fitting puddle of gauze.

The sooner I find a thick oversize t-shirt with a cheesy saying on it, the better. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

Turning her face from me, she sticks her little nose in the air. "I don't want to."

"Tough."

"You can't make me."

Rounding the vehicle, I lay my arm against the roof and lean over her. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't make you. But maybe I am tired enough to try. Either you come inside and help me, or I'll guess at your size and pick out what won't embarrass me myself. Per our agreement, you'll then have to wear what I choose or go back on your word, which would crumble the frail foundation of trust you've built." My eyes narrow. "And that's the last thing you want…right?"

She searches my eyes and swallows before letting her gaze dart off me. "I don't like this ultimatum."

I lift my hand and splay my fingers.

Her skin meets mine, but I don't let the sensation register before I'm turning on my heel and sweeping us up the parking lot aisle. "I don't understand what the big deal is," I mutter as we pass other people with carts full of groceries. "I'm trying to protect you."

"I can protect myself where it concerns your men."

"What about where it concerns me? While you're asleep? In my bed?" I cut a look back at her as we enter through the double set of automatic doors.

Blush tingeing her cheeks, she stares at our joined hands. "Of all the men I've met, you are among the least of my concerns. You barely qualify for the title of man."

Something in my chest turns over, so I force myself to plow ahead toward what appears to be the women's clothing section. "I'm…honored you don't think of me as a man, but I can't exactly say I don't think of you as a woman, and you're staying in my room, and I don't have that much faith in myself—especially not with the way you behave. I don't want to do anything either of us would regret."

"For a mafia boss, Rowan, you're just a little too pure."

"Consider it one of the meager ways I've found to rebel." Releasing her hand once we've made it to the center of the clothing section, I stretch my fingers and watch her.

Her lips pinch.

She turns in a slow, disgusted circle.

Her nose scrunches when she's facing me again. "I'm surrounded by polyester," she whispers. "This is abuse."

Sighing, I pull a peachy floor-length dress off a rack and hold it up to her. High neckline. Long sleeves. Shapeless. It's perfect. And the abject horror on Briar's face somehow makes it a thousand times better.

"What century do you think that was in style? It looks like a petticoat from Jane Eyre."

"I'm pretty sure Jane Eyre was set in the eighteen hundreds. So nineteenth century." I toss it over my shoulder and scan for something else. Jeans. Wonderful.

Briar's disgust heightens. "Those are plus-size. I'm not plus-size. Have you even looked at me?"

"I try not to."

"Those jeans won't fit. They'll fall off, and then I won't be wearing any pants. Is that what you want? A half-naked fiancee?"

I already have a half-naked fiancee. We are here with the express purpose of remedying that. Before I lose my mind. "Oh look. A belt."

"Rowan."

I snatch a t-shirt with a smiley face plastered across it in some kind of plastic material. In big, bubbly font, it reads: YOU ARE EXACTLY WHERE YOU BELONG

Ew. Perfect.

Briar rips it out of my hands and shoves it back on the rack. "I'm beginning to understand why everything you own is monochrome. You have no sense of style."

"And you have no sense of modesty."

She scowls. "Modesty isn't the problem, you idiot." Fanning her fingers, she says, "Give me the dress."

Keenly aware that her next move might be setting it on fire and throwing it on a mannequin, I hand her the peachy garment. She rips it out of my hand, finds the dressing room, and marches inside. Moments later, she emerges, and my heart thuds. The skirt flows past her ankles, around her bare feet, and her toes peek out with every step she takes toward me. The blouse hangs loose on her shoulders, sleeves billowing, but the full coverage does nothing to obscure her figure.

In some ways, it's more seductive than what she was wearing earlier.

She angles her head, skimming her fingers through her short hair. "Do you understand now, pet? When you're attracted to someone, it doesn't matter what they're wearing."

My throat closes as my stomach turns over. "That…" I scan her, from head to toe. "No. That can't be right."

Her eyes roll. "Darling, this is flesh colored. Perhaps one of the least flattering shades a person can wear is the shade of their own skin, and yet I watched your heart hit your Adam's apple when I left the changing room. It's fine. I get it. You're not used to being around women. Just don't start ogling Lace, or I'll remove your eyes and put them in my own little jar."

"I'm not like that," I drop my voice and lean as close as I dare. "I don't sexualize women. Lace came to breakfast this morning in her underwear, and I thought nothing of it." Chip was the one who looked like he wanted to die, and when he suggested his wife put some clothes on, she shot him a glare that made him cry into his oatmeal. "I continued reviewing my schedule. I didn't care, Briar, but she's also not in my bedroom and flirting with me every chance she gets."

Briar whispers, "You have a point, but I haven't been flirting with you since I put this on, and you're still the color of an overripe tomato."

Raking my fingers through my hair, I grip the strands. "What are you implying?"

She smiles, coy, and my heart somersaults. "Remember how you said you didn't want anyone thinking I was your type, pet? What if I am?"

Curses spear through my skull like blades of ice.

Uncertainty infiltrates her confidence, and she steps back, smoothing the skirt of her dress. "Look more devastated, why don't you? I'm sure my insurmountable hubris will find some way to recover."

She's…definitely not my type. That's insane. My attraction to her can't be uniquely hers. It's just… Something about her is…

Adorable.

In a deadly way.

Like a puffer fish wielding a knife in its little O-shaped mouth.

She's a monster.

And I'm used to monsters.

But she isn't a monster made of pain.

She's a monster in frills and tights, a monster in bare feet, and a monster in leather. She's a monster fourteen years younger than me. Which maybe makes me the monster. I know very few people would survive my childhood and come out remotely correct—but I never suspected I'd find myself lusting after the human equivalent of a serrated knife with a pink handle.

And I— I'm not, right? Lusting, I mean.

This has to be just another one of her mind games.

Even though right now—in this bustling store—she seems anything but in control. For spare moments beneath this bright fluorescent lighting, she looks uncertain, anything but monstrous. Almost…hurt.

"You know," she says, "I'm attracted to you, too. It's not a bad thing, especially given the situation." Clearing her throat, she asks, "Do you want me to get this dress?"

I want her to get the dress. I want to take her to the countryside and set her loose in a field of flowers. I want to watch sun caress the reams of fabric as she spins.

I want several business days to unpack every last one of my current thoughts.

Forcing myself to close my shaking hand, I put distance between us and fight to get a tight breath in my lungs. Voice rough as sandpaper, I say, "Get whatever you can stand. I'll be in the car."

Without another word, I march through the buzz of shoppers beneath the too-bright lights, and away from what I think might be my first…crush.

?

I don't know what's come over me. Every other thought in my head circles Briar. I'm lost in ideas of her. Stranded without hope for rescue.

After several days of experiencing her presence woven into the mundane moments of my life, I'm not closer to understanding how she puts spells on everyone she comes across. My notes about her have devolved so pitifully into nonsense.

She's perfect, and I hate it. I have no idea how to reconcile my obvious attraction with my obvious frustration.

I want to crush her—tight and close and harder than I should because she's too perfect. Because her perfection pisses me off.

She's smart, witty, devious. Her mind works in such hopelessly enchanting ways, leading her every graceful movement with calculation that shortens my breath.

I have learned nothing of importance.

But if I were to close my eyes, I could graph the shape of her into the darkness and conjure the taste of her one brief kiss with such precision it…it scares me.

Aster hasn't learned anything of use from within The Giungla itself. The most information he's provided concerns Briar's impeccable organization. His transition to guiding her family went seamlessly—because every instruction is clear, and every member trusts her leadership to a fault.

It's not the news I wanted, by any means. It does nothing to help my current issues.

I wish she were horrible to live with. I wish she left her clothes all over the floor and her toothpaste all over the sink. I wish she kept the light on late, or she snored. It's physically painful to catch a glimpse of her tucked into my bed—like a princess—with her hands tucked beneath her chin.

Every night, she falls asleep smiling. Every morning, she wakes with a pretty little stretch at the exact same time.

Her routine is flawless. She's flawless.

Sagging deeper into the couch, I press my palms to my eyes and attempt to stave off the sensation of drowning.

I want her.

And it gets worse every day.

No matter how adamantly I tell myself I can't stand her.

My heart lurches when my bedroom door opens, and I jolt upright as Briar sashays in with Cupcake curled around her shoulders. She's wearing one of the outfits she bought at Target: a pair of capris matched with an off-the-shoulder shirt depicting a bleeding black rose.

I hate how well it suits her.

I hate how she's casually proving that it really doesn't matter what she wears—not when my horrible mind seems content to picture anything she's wearing on the floor.

A curse sticks in my brain. She's so…beautiful.

Reminding myself how to breathe, I murmur, "No snakes near small birds."

She pauses halfway to the bathroom, glances at Bugsy where he's chirping away in his cage, and shrugs. Turning on her heel, she reaches me where I'm sitting and deposits all sixty pounds of her boa constrictor on top of my legs. "Here, you watch her while I clean up. Chip, Lace, and I are going out for ice cream. Want to double date?"

The sensation of Cupcake nosing between my knees makes my skin crawl, so I do my best to redirect her energy. "Sorry. I'm…busy."

Briar grazes her fingers through my hair and smiles—sweetly. "Would you like me to bring something home for you?"

"It would melt."

"I can take a cooler with me. Or it doesn't have to be ice cream." Her fingers slipping through my hair rewrite the coding in my brain, and I don't appreciate it. "You work so hard. It's not any trouble, but if it were, you would be worth it. I think you deserve a sweet little treat."

I deserve to not be abused with gentle caresses. They are unfamiliar and disrupt the beat of my heart. Plainly put, I am too fricken old to have a crush. It's going to give me an aneurysm.

Cupcake digs her nose between my thigh and the couch cushion, burrowing. I glare at the pale creature, if only to keep my attention off Briar. "You're not here on vacation. Have your contacts made any progress finding a lead on the Maxim Project?"

"Sad boi."

I flinch.

Briar kisses my forehead. "Poor, deprived sad boi."

My eyes clamp shut. "Briar—"

"No friends. No free time. No ice cream." Resting her cheek against the top of my head, she releases a dramatic sniffle and…coddles me. But of course she does. "Pitiful sad, sad, itty bitty boi."

"Princess…" I warn.

"Shh. I'm cuddling a chronically burnt-out little man. He can't even get ice cream without feeling guilty for being unproductive. The despair. The humanity."

I swear. "Princess, I'm not in the mood for games."

Her laughter is like butterfly wing beats—soft and lovely. Fixing a funny smile on her face, she pulls away. "If only that were a rare condition, pet. The problem is that you're never in the mood for games. I don't think you've unclenched the muscles in your jaw since you were born. Scientific grants should be awarded in order to study why your teeth haven't shattered in response to the constant force."

I stretch my jaw, discover it is impossibly tight, and rub a spot just below my ear. "Please answer my question. Do we have anything more to consider concerning the Maxim Project?"

"Thank you for being polite. I'm still waiting to hear back from my web of informants now. In other pressing news, Granger's goons have been sighted sticking together in a warehouse off the coast of Lake Erie. It's all very cinematic, and I don't trust it. I think we should blow it up."

The tension in my jaw returns. "Why?"

"They got their second chance. They didn't become upstanding citizens, because upstanding citizens don't hang around in abandoned warehouses like Batman villains. Now they explode." She mimics the sound of an explosion and tosses her hands into the air. Then she beams at me.

It's too cute for words, and I hate it so, so much.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I manage to take a cooling breath. "No."

"You know why there are so many Batman comics?"

"Because he's the best DC superhero, and it sells?"

Her grin broadens. "I love that you know he's the best, but no. It's because he doesn't get rid of the bad guys. Arkham Asylum is a vacation prison where all the villains go to plot their next doomsday device. Batman's stuck in a perpetual trolley problem where he's refusing to switch the lanes and take responsibility for one murder over being an ‘innocent bystander' to the five."

"Ideally there is no murder."

"We don't live in an ideal world, Rowan." Something sad touches her eyes, tainting her smile. "Perhaps my methods are a little violent, though. All the same, I would consider getting the rest of the riffraff locked up so they can't cause more harm. Thankfully, successful prison escapes in the real world are minimal, so I do doubt they'd manage to plot revenge behind bars." She turns, heading to the bathroom. After brushing her hair and fixing her makeup, she slips on a black headband, and my heart trips about lamely in my chest when she emerges again.

This is truly torture at a level I've never experienced before.

Woe is me.

Cupcake has made her way up my side, stuck in the crevice between me and the couch. Wincing, I stand and awkwardly lift the…muscle noodle from the cushions.

"Support her head," Briar notes as she begins going through her purses in the closet, holding them up to her outfit in the dresser mirror—like a perfectly normal girl who would never blow up a warehouse full of people.

Cupcake's body wraps around my arm, tightening, and I grimace as I try to support her head.

Briar glances at me while I wrestle the animal, then she giggles. "My poor baby feels about as secure as you do—which is not very. Come here."

I do as I'm told, and she frees me from Cupcake's constricting hold.

With her snake wrapped firmly around her shoulders again, Briar smiles up at me. "Sometimes big, strong things just need to be held properly for them to relax."

"Are you trying to be allegorical?" I grumble.

Twisting toward the door, she sings, "Maybe."

I massage my stiff jaw, cut a glance at my couch, and sigh. "Assuming the offer hasn't expired, where are we getting ice cream?"

Her smile lights up the entire world.

And I hate how much I don't hate it at all…