Page 14 of Secrets

“Hello, Agent Frances,” an unfamiliar voice steals my attention from the cat.

A man no older than twenty-five leans against the door. His arms are crossed over a broad chest, one ankle over the other. He looks completely at ease, and it only takes me a split second to figure out who he is.

“You must be the new trainee.”

“I am.” He nods once, his baby face cheeks rounding with his smile as he uncurls himself and holds out a hand. “Agent Thomas Fikes.”

I glance at his hand for a moment, then to my car behind him, my day’s plans disintegrating like cotton candy hitting water.

Well, fuck nuggets.

Mentally running through my to-do list of the day, I stir creamer into my coffee and hope I make it to noon before needing another cup.

Last night, I sat in the alley until almost two in the morning, observing the agent through the spaces in the windows not obstructed by posters. It became clear rather quickly that she was the light of the room. The sun, with equal gravitational pull.

Whether Jessica realized it or not, everyone revolved around her, silently gaping, hanging on every word, laughing at her antics, or simply staring at her ass. In fact, there were very few moments when all eyesweren’ton her, watching and waiting to see what she’d do next.

The realization she’s always in someone’s line of sight serves as both a warning and an inconvenience. But not one I won’t overcome.

Walking down the narrow steps and into my work area, I place my coffee on the table near where my calendar is mounted. My eyes flash over the next thirty days and I take note of the nights I might be able to observe the agent more and find those pockets of time when she’s alone. Fortunately, I only have a few events this month in need of large arrangements, so there isn’t anything substantial hindering me from dealing with this sooner rather than later.

My fingers trace idly along the edge of the paper as I consider my plan, or lack of one.

Stalking, catching, and killing prey has never posed an issue for me—never given me pause, nor reason to question how or what I’m going to do. Yet Jessica is proving to be different.

For one, she is notmyprey. She isn’t one of the many miserable men I’ve sent to an early grave. She is a federal agent. Aninnocentagent who is merely doing her job.

Unfortunately for her, that job involves a dog of a man who refuses to be put down, and has ordered her death sentence instead. A sentence he, himself, is too weak to carry out, and has bestowed upon me.

A long sigh leaves me as I force my attention to my day’s list of chores. There are a few bouquets, an herbal restock, and Niko’s quarterly order.

Ah. Nikolai Babin. The shadow of Noxus City.

Although he’s Alexi’s brother, Nikolai remains one of the few people in this world who I don’t mind is alive. It could be in part because he and I are so similar in the dual personas we reveal to others, or simply because he’s the opposite of his brother. But either way, his kindness is admirable, so his order is never a nuisance.

The damned plant he requires to make his toxin, however, is quite literally the bane of my existence. It’s easy to see why I’m one of the few florists that even know how to grow it—an accomplishment I used to be proud of.

Now, though, that success may be my very downfall.

Due to the rarity of that particular plant, it’s only a matter of time before the FBI—if they are capable—use the vial he left at the scene of his most recent murder and trace it back to me. BeforeAgent Francestraces it back to me.

My stomach twists as the blonde agent once again fills my mind. In another life, or perhaps if I weren’t as jaded as I am, I could have found her endearing. Found intrigue or even enjoyed basking in her vibrant rays of sunshine like all those around her.

Unfortunately for her, I don’t. In actuality, I think it’s what makes her an easily manipulatable target. A quick ticket to freedom from Alexi, at least for a little while, and that in itself is more than enough to resign the minute interest I found in her and focus on how I can use what I learned last night to my advantage instead.

She’s friendly, flirty, and can hold at least four shots without a change in her demeanor. She’s also keenly observant.

Hiking.

Something becomes askew in my chest, but I’m quick to push it away at the same moment a knock at my back door steals my attention. I abandon the list and my still-steaming coffee to walk through my long workstations to the delivery entrance. At six in the morning, it’s far too early for any pick ups or deliveries, so I tap on the monitor beside the door to reveal the live surveillance outside.

The camera, positioned ten feet above the door, has a wide one-eighty view of the back alley, and immediately I know my day is about to be offset.

Two men appear on the screen, one familiar to me as my afternoon delivery boy, Kline. His light sandy hair is plastered to his pale forehead, his clothes crumpled and torn in various places with the distinct red smear of blood decorating his arms. His breathing is rapid, his head slumped forward, and his hands are restrained behind his back.

I watch as the unfamiliar man standing by him lifts a bulky arm to knock again. His husky voice is muffled through the thick metal door. “Special gift for Miss Baudelaire.”

My eyes flash over him. Tailored suit. Neck covered in ink. An expression that appears bored, but a subtle smirk that says he’s anything but, as well as the signature playing card in his breast pocket.

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