Azalea
There are so many ways to kill a man…yet it’d be unwise to look any of them up on my work computer.
Last night after I agreed to murder Malcolm, the man in the middle stepped forward, half-returning my bow as he introduced himself asJunction. The minute pleasantries were out of the way, Junction went through mechanical reassurances that their mysterious organization was capable of protecting me. He heavily implied that the media and the police were in their pocket, so they could very easily relocate me somewhere comfortable if I was caught.
Ideally, I don’t get caught.
But having some total strangers assure me that it’ll be fine if I do sure was…encouraging.
Needless to say, given that they’ve already failed in this mission numerous times, I’m not putting the greatest amount of faith in my new allies. Currently, I’m planning to bide my time, analyze my options, and do everything in my power to keep from making a mess of things. Because, according to Junction, acting independently might compromise my protection. And no matter how flimsy I believe his promise of protection is, I can’t ignore the fact it’s insurance—better to have than to not.
So, for now, I wait on the burner phone Junction said he’d get to me by the end of the week, see what their plan is, and respond accordingly.
For now, it’s business as usual.
With minutes until lunch break starts,business as usuallooks a lot like sitting here and doing nothing while I stare at the clock in the corner of my screen.
Moving even a minute too early will result in food poisoning, so I don’t dare constrict a muscle until the hour deigns to turn over.
The second before it can, Malcolm’s deep tenor draws my attention toward his office door, which lies directly opposite his brother Iverson’s.
My stomach dips as the scheduled start of my lunch break upends, suggesting that my death will be imminent, but I shove the sensation down into my toes and say, “Yes, sir?”
Ice gray eyes take me in as Malcolm braces a broad, ebony-clad shoulder against his door jamb. “Stand up,” he comments, tucking a hand in the pocket of his pressed black slacks.
Breath tightens in my lungs, becausehere we go again. Another power trip. Another attack on my peace. Another drop of proof in an ocean of overwhelming evidence that Malcolm Swallow doesn’t deserve to live.
Pushing my pristine white seat back, I rise.
“What’s my afternoon looking like?” he asks, stepping from the archway to glide toward my desk.
I ignore everything pinching nerves inside my body and remain flawlessly neutral. “You have a meeting to discuss construction of new hospitals in Central America after lunch, then your evening opens up to connect with share holders.”
He stops a foot from my wide, pure white desk. Daunting on his egotistical high, Malcolm murmurs, “Did I ask about my evening, little dove?”
Internally, I twitch. Externally, I say, “No, sir,” with all the frigidness of a glacier. In the past two years, I’ve learned that thetrick to dealing with Malcolm is making absolutely certain not a single emotion rises.
Because when my emotions rise? They flood. They consume. Theydevouranddestroy.
It’s been a problem I’ve struggled with my entire life. It impacts everything I am and everything I do. My character is too much for people. My tendencies are too insane. The rules that keep me and everyone around me safe push people away.
So I live alone. And stable. And emotionless. For the good of all.
It’s just better this way.
Most people give up on trying to convince me I’m wrong or need help. Most people are not Malcolm Swallow. And, as with most things in life, there always seems to be at least one unfortunate exception to every last rule.
Malcolm says, “Change it.”
“Change what, sir?”
“My evening. I’ll not tolerate having a schedule tell me what to do unprompted. When I’m ready to tackle whatever lies beyond my afternoon, I expect the agenda to be different.”
Ah. I see. Okay. No problem. I’ll just call up half a dozen shareholders on my lunch break and designate a new time for this meeting. It’ll only take me…the entire hour.
I take a deep, calming breath. “Understood, sir.”
Leaning over my desk, he places a finger on the tiny crystal heart I bring with me everywhere. Not even an inch in diameter, the clear charm works as a talisman in my mind, protecting me from things I don’t know how to protect myself from. It’s insipid. And I know that. But peace is terribly difficult for someone like me to find, so I treasure the fact I’ve found it in her.
