Page 45 of Secrets

“Now, paint your vase, peanut.”

I have until tomorrow.

May my death be quick, because what Jessica is doing, is killing me slowly.

There’s no mistaking the showy Aston Martin slowly pulling into the parking lot in front of my shop is here for me. Its freshly waxed hood gleams from the overhead sun peeking through Noxus’s perpetually gray skies, shining straight into the windows like a beacon at sea. Only, instead of being what leads me to safety, it will serve as my personal chariot to the underworld.

Even knowing where my choices have led me, I can’t vehemently say I regret the past thirty days of my existence. It wasn’t Jessica’s fault my father got into bed with the Babins. That I became indebted to Alexi in order to stay out of jail, or that I couldn’t execute what’s never posed an issue for me before.

Perhaps the only thing she deserves credit for is that I’ve begun to finallyfeelafter all this time.

In another life, one where I didn’t follow in my father’s footsteps, I could have seen myself with the agent. Seen myself giving in to those stunning blue eyes, and that wide goofy smile. I would have found her clumsiness endearing. Her humor, heartwarming. And her body and soul, mine for the taking.

But this isn’t that life, and none of those things are a possibility. Instead, I’ll have to be content with the small moments of joy she reminded me I could experience, and let it follow me to my grave.

I close up the rest of the shop, placing the letter I’d written for Mrs. Ward on the center of the counter. It won’t take her more than a day to realize I’m not here and she’ll come searching for me. Beyond the things that will need to be done for the store, I have to give her closure. She, along with her son, deserves that much. She’ll be pissed enough I didn’t tell her what was going on before, but had I, well, best not to dwell on what could have been.

After locking up, I place the key in the small satchel hanging over my shoulder and walk to the car, still sitting idle at the front. A man with storm cloud hair and a hard frown exits the driver’s seat and opens the backdoor. We say nothing to each other as I duck down, sliding into the car and securing the belt. The silence continues as he pulls from the parking lot and toward the road that leads deeper into Noxus City.

I search for an internal reaction, some type of emotion or feeling as we make the journey, but I can’t. I can’t seem to place the strange knot in my core. Can’t seem to assign it a name. It’s not fear or worry, dismay or trepidation. In actuality, it’s as though I’m simply getting to the final pages of a book I’ve been reading far too long. The only thing my mind can truly latch onto are the clouds floating overhead. Each one is illuminated under the setting sun, hues of pink, orange and red paint the sky similar to the palette she chose for the pot she painted our final night together. Joy in ceramic form.

But unlike the little characters she created in her clouds, I’m not able to make out a single shape in the sky by the time we arrive and the mansion comes into view.

The only time I’ve ever paid a visit to the Babin Manor is when Lonora, Alexi and Nikolai’s mother passed away. She and her sister-in-law were targeted by a rival mafia family a few states away looking to move south, and to say the war that ensued after was a bloodbath would be an understatement. It went by fast, leaving more bodies than any federal agency knew what to do with, while forcing the young Babin boys, both Alexi and Niko with their cousin, Edward, to grow up and take on roles they likely weren’t ready for.

Shortly after justice was brought on the opposing family in the form of each one—every associate, every distant relative, every friend—being put six feet under, or washed away down the Savannah River, they held a public service for Noxus to pay their respects to Lonora.

Mrs. Ward, my guardian after my father’s incarceration, helped provide the floral arrangements for her services, and insisted that we attend. And while I could feel nothing toward Mrs. Ward other than gratitude, a minute part of me wants to blame her for what happened next. Though we both know I was always meant to be my father’s daughter.

There was no escaping that.

The Aston Martin rolls to a stop in front of the five story building. Its exterior is what I remember from over a decade ago. Worn bricks, most chipped and broken, the front half-covered in a beautiful English ivy, while weathered gargoyles perch at the roof’s edge. It’s as ominous today as it was then, only now, there aren’t dozens of cars littering the gravel driveway. Instead, there are only five. All of which I recognize.

I suppose it makes sense why at least one of them would need to be present. Nikolai and Alexi have been rumored to not harm women—likely one of the reasons why I was tasked with killing Jessica—so I know they’d need someone else to pull the trigger. But also, I doubt my death calls for all ofthem.

With the added guests, I suppose I should really have some type of identifiable reaction as the driver opens my door and ushers me toward the front entrance. Perhaps my heart should beat a little faster, or my throat should feel as though it’s closing in, death only a few short yards away. But I don’t.

As I ascend the last step to the front door, I’m finally able to identify the knot still lingering in my stomach. It’s sorrow.

After my mother’s death, I merely lived. I inhaled air and ate food, slept when necessary and worked to keep my father’s deeply seeded demons at bay. I buried myself in botanist books and medical journals, learning what I could of the plants around me. It was the only thing I found that could give me purpose. A reason to get up and do anything other than succumb to the sweet call of death. The call that was always there, urging me to either send it another soul, or give it mine.

So why, in my last moments as I enter the estate and walk the dark halls toward an office lit by a faint yellow light, do I only feel sadness?

In the security of my own thoughts, I can admit that the answer is simple.Her. The agent. The one I was supposed to kill, but instead will use my last breath to protect.

All I can hope is that she isn’t the one who finds my body.

The driver only knocks once before Alexi’s bark echoes from the other side. “Come in, you’re late.”

Clearing my throat, and steeling my expression, I watch as the driver opens the door and gestures me over the threshold.

As expected, five people and a panther sit at a long oval table. Alexi is at the head, his hand running through his long hair as he stares at something on a slew of paperwork scattered in front of him. His suspenders are loose, barely containing his unbuttoned dress shirt. His tattoos peek from behind the fabric, though most are covered in a bandage that clearly needs to be redressed.

To his right is Nikolai. He’s still in his scrubs, fresh from work, judging from the hospital’s print on his coffee cup. Shadows under his usually bright hazel eyes age him, and the furrow of his brow as he glances at me gives me pause. He doesn’t look mad—like I’ve caused him the inconvenience of needing to be replaced—but instead, appears tired. Sorry, even.

Confusion swirls through my mind, but I remain impassive as my eyes flit past the empty chair with a briefcase and to their cousin on the other side. His brown hair is mussed, flopping over his forehead and obscuring half his vision. Though he seems completely unbothered by the obstruction, he types away on his computer, his fingers moving so quickly one would think he’s producing gibberish.

Next to him, quietly sits the infamous Selina Falcon and beside her, is her panther, Isis. One of her hands stroke the animal’s head, who purrs contently, while the other raps against the table. Her black stiletto nails make soft clicks against the surface, the golds of her rings glinting against the wall behind her, catching the cat’s attention every few seconds.

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