Chapter 9

~~~~~~~~~~~~

She smells like cake and regrets.

Rowan

I don't normally want to stab people, so this is weird for me. These days, without my parents dictating my stabbing schedule, stabbing someone is only an unavoidable and depressing reality I stumble into on occasion. Regrettably. Unintentionally. As a last resort.

In this precise moment, however, the weight of the knife in my boot is a little too…accessible.

"Any questions?" Briar turns to Chip, Lace, and me in a small meeting room at the Rosanera manor. It's been a week. A single week. I had thought things were going well.

Shortly after making our deal, Briar and I parted ways. Promptly the next morning, a Rosanera solider stopped by with the reports I'd asked for. I added going through them to my task list, which got back to Corbin, which resulted in questions that opened dialogue regarding proposals and the prospect of a political courtship.

A few days later, after I had a chance to discover there was no point where Veleno's and Rosanera's projects overlapped, I presented the decision that Briar and I become engaged at a meeting.

The entire situation devolved, as expected, highlighting further who among my subordinates is loyal, and who among them side with Granger.

In spite of Aster and I needing to contain that mess, things have been going well.

We hadn't been making any progress, but at least I hadn't been pulling out my hair.

Up until this moment.

Briar calls on Chip when he raises his hand, and he asks, "Isn't an amusement park too generic for a first public date? It feels kind of like a cliché."

Lace, deadly serious, pinches her chin. "I agree. I'm also against the inclusion of a spreadsheet depicting nutrition facts for park food. If you're gonna go to an amusement park, you should eat whatever ya want."

Chip nods, curls bouncing. "It's a special occasion. Calories, hydrolyzed fats, and artificial flavorings don't exist on special occasions."

Briar scrolls back through the slides on her PowerPoint presentation…the PowerPoint presentation labeled Do Pets Like Parks?…and scans the detailed spreadsheet.

If I'm being perfectly honest, this spreadsheet is the only thing keeping me from stomping out of here. I have never seen organization at such a neurotic level outside of my own efforts. Each day, I understand more that Briar is a mad genius, but I don't appreciate her coming violently for my fetishes.

"Rowan looks like he survives off protein shake IV, so I have a feeling healthy habits are important to him. Also—" She glances at me, looks me up and down as I swallow hard, then fixes her attention back on Chip. "—it totally turns him on."

"It does not," I snap.

Her head tilts. "Are you saying you'd prefer a different method of flirting?"

"I'd prefer no flirting."

She hums, ignoring what I've just said. "I could conjugate verbs, do calculus, alphabetize your guns…"

I cross my arms. Truly bold of her to assume they aren't already alphabetized.

"Stop me when you hear something that simply infatuates."

My index finger hammers against my bicep, and I'm genuinely pissed that it's more difficult to be upset with her when there's a beautiful spreadsheet behind her. It's foolishness. Yet I can't stop myself from deeply appreciating the way her mind works.

She knows what she's doing.

And it's giving me a migraine.

But it is fricken divine.

Too knowing for my liking, she smiles and readdresses Chip. "As far as concerns about an amusement park being too generic of a date location go, just because something is popular doesn't make it any less fun. One could surmise popularity stems from a statistic that most are pleased with the experience."

In unison, her underboss couple accept her explanation with exaggerated fanfare—oohs, ahhs, clapping.

A swear grumbles through my head.

This could have been a slew of emails.

A slew of very short emails.

Do you want to go to an amusement park with me?

No.

Okay, where would you like to go in order to maintain our fa?ade?

A bookstore.

Excellent choice, sir. I'll even wear normal clothes.

My delusions astound even me. Did she think that creating an entire PowerPoint presentation was going to gloss over the fact we don't need to go on any dates? Our relationship is a political arrangement. We have no reason to fabricate emotional attachment, and given the instability of my family right now, I'd prefer if no one decide I care.

About her.

Or anything.

Ever.

The only logical conclusion is that she's trying to make herself particularly stabbable.

"Anything to add, pet?" she asks.

"You lied to me about having a lead. I wouldn't be here if you didn't have a lead."

Confusion muddles her brows. "I didn't lie. I have a lead. And I'd like for us to handle it personally, ergo unassuming location in which to meet with my contact."

That throbbing start of a migraine pierces behind my left eye. "Briar, why the—" I swear. "—didn't you start with that?"

Her shoulders slump as her full bottom lip pouts. "Because then you wouldn't bother watching my PowerPoint. And I worked so hard on it."

I hesitate to discover whatever she feels compelled to hide behind this fa?ade of naivete. "Do you enjoy wasting time?"

"Do you enjoy working fruitlessly in a thankless job you hate for money you don't care about?" Setting her hands on her hips, she glares down her petite nose at me. "Loosen up. If you're going to be a rain cloud, appreciate the storm. Recognize the people who dance in the downpour. Find your silver lining."

Pushing away from the table, I stand. "I'll be sure to make a motivational poster of that advice at my next available juncture."

"Rowan." Her hard tone freezes me in place. I catch those ice blue eyes of hers and feel a glacier seep into my blood. "Sit down."

I do as I'm told. Though I don't—for the life of me—know why.

Once I'm back in the chair, she points her remote at the projector and returns to the title slide. "Between the two of us, who actually wants their parents back?"

My jaw tightens, and I look elsewhere, catching Lace's distant expression. The woman clenches her fist against the table, easing her grip only when Chip covers her hand with his palm.

Briar continues, "You're going to have to get past this mental road block of yours that suggests I do anything without purpose." She points at the PowerPoint. "Answer the question."

Do Pets Like Parks?

I drag my attention off the fancy script. "No."

"Have you ever been to a park?"

Lacing my fingers together in my lap, I purse my lips. "…no."

The next few seconds constitute a brief, but effectively chilling, staring contest. At the end of it, Briar says, "I'm free Tuesday morning. I already have the tickets. Wear something comfortable. Maybe not black. I'm worried you'll overheat since it's supposed to be sunny."

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Brows lifted, she says, "Would you like a printed copy of the dietary spreadsheet so you may plan your meals in advance?"

Moments pass. My ability to object shrivels. If this is where she's set up to meet an important contact that will give us valuable information, I'm not going to fuss about it. Defeated, I cover my eyes and mutter, "Ideally."

Paper rustles, then Chip slides me the sheet. When I drop my hand from my face, I find color-coded lines. Neat. Organized.

They make me feel less stabby.

Hand in hand, Chip and Lace slip out of the meeting room while I'm busy scanning the page for anything that resembles food. Given the additives in what would otherwise be great options, I don't believe they sell food. Is it against the park rules to bring my own lunch?

…

My shoulders sag as I pinch the bridge of my nose.

I'm the leader of a mafia, for crying out loud. Who gives a flying fish if it's against the rules?

Before I can reconcile my own thoughts, Briar sits on the table in front of me, crossing her legs in such a way that the short skirt she's wearing today rides up her thighs to reveal the frilly band of her tights.

She's always so…coordinated.

Silence permeates as I slowly drag my gaze up to her eyes.

She pushes her hair behind her ear, off her chin, and a strand loosens itself to bounce back against the curve of her jaw. "Tough guy."

For some odd reason, those two words activate my fight or flight response. It takes every muscle in my body tensing to subdue it.

"I respect you." She uncrosses her legs to cross them the other way. The motion is effin' hypnotic. "I like taciturn guys. They're reliable." Eyes downcast, she tangles her fingers in her lap. "My mother's the quiet one between my parents. My father and I are the only ones who can make her smile. It's important to have those kinds of people in your life. Do you have anyone like that, Rowan?"

No. But I have a feeling she already knows that.

Lifting her hand, she combs her fingers through my hair. Every cell in my body stills as all the tension seeps out, leaving me unprotected against this woman. "It's okay," she murmurs. "We're on the same side. If you can't trust anything else, at least believe that. We care about good people, don't we?"

All of a sudden I'm so tired it isn't funny. Bracing myself, I straighten the spreadsheet page against the edge of the table. "Sure."

"I think you're a good person."

I think she's insane. But I can't deny the warmth in her den of criminals. It's everything I've craved for so much longer than I can put into words. And it's really hard to believe the only element creating it is "female leadership."

Briar continues, "It's not all about gunfights and drug cartels."

"It should never be about gunfights and drug cartels," I mutter.

She giggles, infuriatingly. "Are you looking forward to our date?"

Pulling myself away, I scoot the chair back, stand, look down at her, and refuse to get stuck in the glimmer of her eyes. "I anticipate tolerating it as I would a hangnail."

"Flirt." Her perfect heart-shape mouth tips into a smile.

As soon as I realize that I've traded getting lost in her eyes for staring at her lips, I turn away, slip the spreadsheet off the table, and fold it up. "Why did you go through all the trouble of making a PowerPoint?"

"I'm trying to meet you in the middle. Thought you'd like it."

Yet she titled it Do Pets Like Parks? with the intention of getting on my nerves.

"The posters in your meeting room are very nice. Corbin told me you made them yourself."

I bristle. "When did he have a chance to tell you that?"

"I've stopped by more than once this past week. I just don't always bother you." She grins, oh so prettily. "You've very busy. I have to save up your precious time, so I can pull more elaborate stunts like this one."

Pocketing the spreadsheet, I regard her dully. Every inch of her. Every, last, lace-clad… My eyes close, and I take a breath The picture of the little black off-shoulder dress she's wearing today has burned into my retinas. There's a birthmark beside her revealed bra strap, and I hate that I know that.

I hate that I will never forget it.

Fortifying myself, I plant my palms against the table on either side of her and open my eyes.

She's so close. Pale skin. Dark hair. Blue, blue eyes.

Lemon and vanilla.

"I'm going to ask you a couple very simple questions," I murmur. "Respond with one word answers only."

Her breath stutters, and a touch of heat crawls up her neck.

"Okay?" I prompt.

Briar nods.

My eyes narrow.

"Okay," she echoes.

"Are you trying to drive me mad?"

"Yes."

"Will you make me regret agreeing to this?"

"This?"

"All of this. The fa?ade. The park. Everything."

Her lips part. "Probably."

It's hard not to respect her honesty. It's harder to breathe when she's so close and smells like cake. Dragging one hand up, letting my fingertips just barely graze her on their journey, I cup her cheek, watch her shudder, and lose every thought in my head. Stillness stretches—animal and foreign. My thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone.

She is everything I have never had, everything I have never been. The antithesis to all I've ever known.

She is a combination of traits my parents convinced me couldn't exist.

Tenderness and power.

Kindness and power.

Something soft, yet no less strong.

I like you, Rowan. I want you.

Words are cheap, and I know better than to believe anything someone who knows how to steal a person from the heart of their secure headquarters says. I can't trust her. I can trust her even less when she's asking me to. And, yet, she is so good at this, I want to.

"Are you trying to get me to lower my guard?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Her gaze tilts off mine, searching. Her delicate brows draw together. At last, she lifts her hand, setting it against my chest. Soft, she says, "Want."

My heart pounds against her fingers, and my voice is rough when I mutter, "Why?"

Smiling, she cranes her neck, and kisses me.