Chapter 6

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But she was fragile like a bomb.

Briar

"So," Chip taunts, waiting for me beyond the front door, "Rowan kicked you out?"

My eyes roll as I enter the central manor of The Giungla. Some hundred odd acres of thick trees and tucked-away houses surrounded by high, high walls serve as home to the most underground of all the undergrounds—the Rosanera Family. My family. With lush carpets, dozens of potted plants, and warm, earthy wood tones, it's as cozy as home gets.

For a bunch of criminals.

"Where's your owner?" I stride toward where he's sitting on the stairs that lead up to my room, and he falls into step at my heels, locking his hands behind his head in the mass of his curly brown hair.

"She's still asleep."

Of course she is.

Smiling fondly, I make it to my room and head into my closet. "How masculine are you feeling this morning?" I ask.

"Very."

"And now the truth?"

Shrugging, Chip lifts a hand, tilting it side to side. "Genetically male?"

I pull a sundress off one crowded rack and hold it up to myself. The azure fabric complements my pale skin and brings out my eyes while the square neck and off-the-shoulder sleeves prove I got it for use at home. When I'm out in public, I cover the tattoo marking me as Rosanera's. Brands like it delineate loyalty to a family—and in some places, for some people, that's as good as a target. "Thoughts?"

Chip whistles. "Ain't that a bit low cut?"

"Maybe."

"Poor Rowan."

Turning to the full-length mirror on the back wall of my walk-in closet, I spread the billowing skirt of the dress out from where it falls just below my knees. "He'll live. I wore his shirt to bed last night. He slept on the couch in his own room because he ‘didn't trust me to be alone' in a room of my own."

"You're a true monster, Bossette."

My smile withers, and I sigh, tossing the dress to Chip. "Lay it out with my white sneakers and pack up a picnic lunch. I'm waking Lace."

"Good luck."

Rolling my eyes, I change out of my romper and into my running gear, then—perhaps unwisely neglecting a bullet-proof vest—I head off to my best friend's room.

?

"I'm real sorry." Lace jogs beside me. "But in my defense, ya gotta stop doing that."

Doing that translates into waking her up. Waking her up often includes gunshots. Sometimes, knife fights. Once, a knife wound. I still treasure the little white scar across my pinkie finger. It doesn't matter that it's past ten in the morning. Lace doesn't do mornings.

How fitting that my underboss carries the same kind of insane energy that has marked Rosanera for generations.

It's a great source of pride to know my family isn't bad, just illegal. There's a big distinction.

And, presently, Rowan can't say the same. Even though Veleno's been under not bad, still illegal leadership for a marvelous three months, the poor guy's so not bad that it's taking ages for him to filter out the members who are.

Sun sneaks through the canopy to beat against my white cap as I start another lap on the winding track. Like a paved snake, the path streaks throughout the trees, which offer enough shade to temper the heat exhaustion even at noon in the beginning of summer.

When I haven't justified Lace's horrible sleeping (and waking) habits with a response, she asks, "How're things going with tall, dark, and broody?"

"As expected."

"Is that good?"

"It's not bad. He's carrying a lot of baggage. I don't think he knows how to smile. The atmosphere at The Casa is very different than it is here, inside and out. His men are unruly. Disrespectful. Distant. I could go on." I dodge a low-hanging branch for the eighth time today and solidify my mental note to get someone out here to trim it.

"Sounds like more trouble than this is worth."

"TBD."

Lace watches me for several skeptical moments, but she doesn't press the subject. If there's one thing she can count on after having known me my entire life it's that I'm self-aware. I don't pick battles I can't win. I don't do things that end fruitlessly. There's very little I hate more than wasted effort.

If I'm going to kick frantically beneath the waters of my flawless white swan fa?ade, I intend to get somewhere.

This world might not be sunshine, rainbows, and gummy bears, but nothing's stopping me from pretending it is.

If bad people are allowed to get high off their illusions of power when they hurt others, it only seems fair that I'm allowed to play my silly little games and make the world a better place along the way. It's my own personal version of therapy, which seems more productive than sitting in a pastel room crying about how my brain doesn't make the right hormones.

"He has a bird," I note, innocuously.

"Wow." Lace's breaths are hard as she pushes herself. Probably wishing she were weight training. Endurance is not her favorite thing. "Y'all're soulmates."

I gasp and point. "That's what I said."

She snorts, running her fingers against her buzzed blond hair. "How'd it go over?"

"I wish I could mimic the faces he makes, but I'd never recover from the wrinkles."

"Ya think he'll have an aneurysm the first time you make him smile?"

"Let's just hope the sun doesn't implode on account of it breaking the laws of nature."

Lace rolls her eyes, the edge of an inane smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. "How close d'ya think ya are to breaking your new toy?"

"I'm planning a relaxing picnic later."

"Oh? That sounds lovely."

"He doesn't know about it yet."

"There it is." Lace puffs. "You're sure he's not dangerous? I know you can take down a guy as big as Chip, but…that's Chip."

"Pretty positive if he were going to try anything, it would have been last night. It's not exactly like he's the one with enough brain cells to orchestrate my emotional dependency on him. He is, after all, a man."

"Sure, but—unlike Chip—he's an actual guy man. A man's man. Probably showers with a washcloth. Once a week. In the kitchen."

Biting back my smile, I say, "Are you still bitter that Chip—"

"Yah, I'm still bitter that Chip's skincare routine is eighteen steps long. I'm also never forgiving you for getting him rose-scented lotion three years ago. Our sheets still smell like a flower field."

"As opposed to your preferred Axe."

"As opposed to my preferred Axe." She huffs. "How many times have ya been called a monster today?"

"Going on two, if you're calling me one now."

Her pale blond brows rise. "Only two and it's nearly noon? Were you hidin' under a rock before ya woke me up and dragged me out 'ere for this torture session?"

My lashes flutter. "No. It's just that Rowan calls me nice things like fairy-tale princess."

"Which kind? Remakes or originals?"

"There was no specification, so I'm going to pretend I control animals, talk to trees, and condone violent punishments against those who cross me. I should revolutionize how he punishes people by suggesting that those who misbehave must dance on hot coals in metal shoes."

"That silly man has no idea what's coming for him." Lace squints as the trees break away to reveal the first slice of the main manor coming back into view. "This is our last lap, right?"

"Come on. You aren't even wearing ankle weights."

"Some of us like to feel our legs the next morning"

"The next afternoon," I correct.

She tackles me.

?

The fun part about being in a male-dominated industry is this: if I were a man, right now I'd have about twelve bullets in me. Since I'm a sweet little thing in a low-cut dress with a picnic basket, the several greasy-looking guys seated at the large round table in the center of the room only gape, stare, and shoot questioning glances toward Rowan.

Dead across from the double doors I've just closed behind me, Rowan sits, fists gripped together against the table, knuckles bleeding white. His dark, stalking eyes track my every move, and if anyone's going to put a bullet in me, it's him. Which is probably why his hands are clamped so tightly.

Drawing my short hair behind my ear, I make it to his side, bend, and kiss his cheek. "Are you ready yet, baby? This is running long, and I'm getting hungry."

"What's tha meanin' of this?" an overweight man with a thick, slurring accent blusters. His heavily-jeweled fist hits the table, shaking the ice resting in the glass before him. "Since when do we allow—" He swears. "—goomahs to waltz in here an' ruin good liquor?"

Rowan cuts the man a look so sharp I'm surprised it doesn't sever flesh. "Meeting adjourned," he grumbles.

Murmurs hiss among the other members, but the rotund man gawks, half-rising. "We're in tha middle of important business!"

Settling myself on the armrest of Rowan's chair, I frown at the man. If my people spoke to me like that, I'd put a bullet in them.

The man leans against the table, his gut spilling over his slacks. "This is more important than your new wh—" The man's words choke off when Rowan moves.

Wordlessly, Rowan reaches for the full tumbler of scotch in front of him—then he shatters the glass with one meager flex. Amber liquid spills around his fingers, and he flicks the fluid and glass onto the floor as he repeats, "Meeting. Adjourned."

Red washes out of the man's face, but he sniffs, scowls, and straightens himself. Running his hands down his shirt, he turns, muttering, as he exits with everyone but Corbin and Aster.

Corbin hands Rowan a linen napkin. "Well, that's one way to get Granger to shut up. I'll order a new set of glasses."

Rowan sighs, wiping his hand, then the table. Cutting a miffed look my way, he mutters, "I told you to go home because I was busy today."

I let my bottom lip jut. "If you've not already learned that I don't listen, there's no hope for you."

Sagging in the large chair, Rowan rubs his left eye. "Corbin. Aster. Leave us."

Corbin's smile falters. "Is that really a good id—" At Rowan's glare, he winces, goes silent, and nods.

Aster sends me a brief, worried glance before both he and Corbin leave us in the space alone. The solid doors shut, and stillness consumes the atmosphere, weighing it down like water-soaked wool. Pretending the tension couldn't be cut with a knife, I scan the ash gray walls.

Laminated posters cover every inch, each of them outlining specific protocols, punishments, commission cuts depending on different jobs. They are remarkably thorough, lending color to the drear space.

Simply put, they look like they belong in a high school classroom, not in a room where men discuss cartels and embargoes.

I laugh when I find the very posters dictating such processes, but the sound barely has a chance to leave my throat before breath leaves my body.

Strong fingers wrap around my neck, and my back hits the wall. Pressing me to the plaster, Rowan's hulking form cages me in.

Beyond him, my picnic basket lies askew beside his large, leather, knocked-over chair.

My heart thuds. And I am…entranced by the speed and strength, by the dark eyes glowering into mine.

Unaware, Rowan applies an ounce of pressure that cuts off my air. "This is not a game. You can't do whatever you want in front of the men here. I don't know how things work back at Rosanera, princess, but here, you mean nothing. You are no one's wife or daughter. Right now, I flinch to consider how men like Granger might treat you to get at me. Make no mistake, I am biding my time with your overly dramatic schemes because I pity you. That pity will run out if you undermine my authority in front of my men. Unlike you, I couldn't care less what's happened to my parents. The only reason I'm even bothering to look is because I want to make sure they can't ever come back." His warm breath grazes my parted lips as my chest weeps for air. "Don't think for a moment that because I don't want to hurt you I am incapable."

Heat flushes through me the moment he loosens his grip and lets me gulp down a breath. The inhale burns as it finds its way to my lungs. Curses slide through my brain, each harsher than the last.

Now he's gone and done it. He's managed to get my feelings involved.

Eff everything.

I quite like this side of him.

"Have I made myself clear?" His voice grates from between gritted teeth—vicious, steely, uncompromising.

Lifting my hands, I grip the hem of his shirt, knot my fists in the fabric, and drag him closer. Eyes lidded, I whisper a swear at him. "You are so…" I swallow, wet my lips, sneer. "…frustrating."

His brow furrows, and a growl rumbles in his throat.

My eyes roll. "And now you think you're some kind of beast. Intimidating men don't sound like wild animals, pet." Teeth bared, I stretch my neck and get as close as I can to his face. "You want to know why your own people don't respect you?"

"I know why my own people don't respect me." His fist flinches around my throat, tightening accidentally, loosening forcibly.

"Pathetic," I hiss. "You have me by the neck, and you're making threats, yet you're terrified you might accidentally hurt me. Why?"

He removes his grip entirely and turns away, but I jerk on his clothes, holding him in place.

"Answer me, Rowan."

"Because!" he roars, grabbing my chin when he faces me again. "I know what it feels like. I know how terrifying it is to beg for air from a merciless monster. I know pain. I feel it whenever I close my eyes. I don't want anyone who doesn't deserve that kind of agony to endure anything close to it, so I'm careful. I'm careful because I know better."

"Because you pride yourself in not being a monster?"

"It has nothing to do with pride."

I press my lips together. "Then it has to do with fear. You're afraid of what you could become if you let yourself be anything like your parents."

He grimaces, but there's an edge to him that comes off distinctly defeated. "I've already told you not to psychoanalyze me."

"Then you shouldn't make it so easy."

His eyes search mine a moment before they skim my mouth and drag away.

"You want to know a secret?" I whisper.

"Sure," he mutters.

"They say confidence is the most attractive trait a person can have, but I think confident men are the worst kind. Pride motivates excusing a great number of sins." Pulling one hand free from his shirt, I graze my knuckles against his cheek, feel each rough inch slip against my flesh. "I much prefer fear."

His muscles tense, and he slowly releases my face, letting his arm fall to his side.

"Fear is vulnerable. Fear is real. I can tell a lot about a person based on what scares them. And when someone's greatest fear is hurting someone else…?" Standing on my toes, I glide my hands up his chest, let my fingers lock behind his neck, in his soft hair. "You're the best kind of drug to me, Rowan. Strength mixed with kindness and shot up with terror. I know you're desperate for something safe to rely on. Trust me. I can be exactly what you need."

The barest shudder rocks into him as his jaw clenches. "Prove to me why you deserve my confidence."

My lips find his jaw.

He stops me. "Seduction is a piss poor foundation for trust."

I exhale a laugh against his skin while the way he smells lingers on the tip of my tongue. I savor the taste. "So innocent. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if I actually wanted to seduce you."

He grips my forearms. "Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely positive. I'm game for a round of seduction chicken if you are. Just say the word." I settle my head against the broad expanse of his chest. "First person to pull away loses."

"I know how chicken works."

"Three, two, one…go." My lips barely touch his throat before he rips my hands off him, forcing them to my sides as he shoves me away, back into the wall.

Putting distance between us, he folds his arms. "You have three seconds to convince me I should continue bothering with your nonsense."

I glance at the posters all around the room. "Yes, well, you do seem rather pragmatic, don't you?"

"Two."

"There's something about a countdown that I like. I don't know what it is. Maybe it reminds me of a bomb."

"One," he grits.

I stride past him, gather my picnic basket off the floor, and situate the contents before I face him again. "Come on, pet. I'll show you over dinner." Extending my hand, I'm neither surprised when he ignores it, nor when he follows me anyway.