Unable to endure her sympathetic stare any longer, I walk away. I need to move. Work. Find a way to end all of this. Finish the mission so I can go back home to the world I know. To willing women who don’t ask questions.
After stumbling around in the snow, I end up in the greenhouse. The first night here, I spotted it on the other side of the living room.
When I open the sealed French doors, a thick wall of humidity blasts my face. The temperature is at least twenty degrees warmer than the main house, possibly thirty. The scent comes next, fresh water, fertilizer, and the floral perfume of roses.
This whole room must have its own breaker with a different heating system. Even though the walls are glass, I don’t think we’ve had enough sun to keep the greenhouse warm.
The space is long and narrow, made of glass on three sides and the ceiling. Hydroponic tanks flank the walls, and rows of raised greenery beds span the length of the room in the middle.
Hundreds—maybe thousands—of roses crowd the area, plus various plants and herbs.
I walk down the center aisle, soaking in all the sights and smells.
White, cream, pale yellow, crimson, baby doll pink.
Each plant, every bloom, is perfect. Not a wilted petal or a single browned leaf. No sign of neglect or disease, even after days with no one actively caring for them.
The contradiction throws me.
This woman—who orchestrates murder, manipulates people like chess pieces, and kills without hesitation—tends flowers so carefully that not even a petal mars the ground.
I touch a white rose and marvel at the softness. Razor-like thorns arm the stem below.
Beautiful and lethal. Just like her.
The thought has me clenching my jaw. I don’t want to spot similarities. Don’t want to recognize any kind of shared past or similar life paths or how much she resembles a damn flower. She’s the enemy.
Anika Kozlov is my target. Nothing more than my mission.
I grab the stem below the flower. Thorns bite into my calloused palm but draw no blood.
With my other hand, I tear the flower head free and leave the heat behind to enter the chilly house.
Nika’s exactly where I left her, bound and watchful. Her gaze locks on my closed fist.
I hold my hand over her body. Her muscles tense, and she flinches. She’s afraid.
Good. She should be.
I grind the flowers in my fingers, letting them fall free one by one.
They drift down lazily before landing on her like clumps of snow.
Her breath hitches, and her stomach tightens.
White petals contrast against pale skin. They have a similar texture and smell, the same cool indifference to the maelstrom outside.
But against the dismembered rose, I see the truth. Her skin’s not pure white like I thought. There’s pink underneath.
She’s human. Breakable.
And I’m very good at breaking things.
Chapter 20
Nika
Morning arrives with gray skies and the lingering scent of roses. Instead of calming me like usual, the floral fragrance reminds me of last night.
