Page 15 of The Sinners Gambit

“I’ll never lie to you, firecracker. Come on, let's go.”

We walk in silence as we try to think of questions to ask. I know a lot about her already, but it's all from my stalking. It feels so much more exciting hearing it directly from her.

“You can go first,” I offer once we make it to the edge of the garden. There’s a long, winding walking path along it with beautiful flowers carefully picked out in each section. They’re all my mother’s favorites.

She gnaws on her inner cheek before asking, “Why me?”

“You want the short answer or the long one?”

“The honest one,” she says as she looks across the garden, smiling as she notices the landscaping.

I start by telling her the story of when I first saw her at the coffee shop. “While your physical beauty is obvious and a big plus, it wasn’t what enamored me to you. It was the way you carried yourself. You were strong and assured of yourself . . . there was a quiet darkness that called to me. I had to know more.”

“That sounds—”

“Like one of those dark romance novels you eat up on a daily basis but don’t tell anyone about?”

“How did y—”

I give her a knowing smirk. “I was just teasing you. But it is like those fantasy novels you read, dark or not. I may have read a few myself to see what you like about them. That ‘fated mate’ shit that I read about is exactly what it felt like when I saw you. Like my lifeline is tethered to yours and now that I found you, being without you would feel like a fate worse than death,” I admit.

Her eyes bore into mine, softening almost imperceptibly. “I-you-um . . . you read those books for—” She shakes her head. “Next question. Your turn.”

I smirk at her but decide to relent. “What was it like being fostered with a family you didn’t know?”

The confused feelings she had a moment ago are replaced by pure anger as she narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you want to know?

“Sounds like question two,” I say carefully. Not wanting it to come off like a question.

Naomi rolls her eyes.

“I’m also an orphan, but I was taken in by my uncle. So I was curious how it felt in a similar, yet different, situation.”

“You think you can play the comparison game between my mom’s brutal murder and your parents’ car accident? It’s terrible, but it’s not the same fucking thing. ”

“Still sounds like a question, firecracker.” I’m trying to be playful, but remembering my parents hurts my heart. “My parents were murdered in a brutal home invasion. The car accident is what we told the media, because the PR team said it was better for ‘business aesthetics’ or some shit. I was too young to fully understand.” Naomi’s mouth parts in shock. “They were never able to catch who did it. The only family I had left was my uncle, who was thankfully willing to take me in.” I owe everything to him: the privilege of not getting plucked out of my life after tragedy, making it to be a successful business owner, but most importantly . . . it’s him who nominated me for the Mortes Ostium Society, to connect with like-minded people using violence to let out their emotions. It’s a lot of cloak and dagger bullshit, where only those within the group already can help nominate and recruit new people. “But I hold onto pieces of them.”

“How?” she asks, intrigue filling her eyes.

I smile brightly at her. “Like this garden. My mom loved flowers. Every room in our home had freshly cut flowers from our gardens. This is inspired by the garden she kept, and it’s all her favorites.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” she admits, allowing herself to ease a bit of the tension she always seems so wound up with. “It’s incredible out here.” Naomi looks around the garden, mesmerized.

“Yes, it’s absolutely breathtaking,” I say, but my eyes are only looking at her.

She meets my gaze as her eyes travel back, and her lips quiver, holding something in.

“I’ll pretend like you didn’t ask me all the questions allotted in trying to answer mine. So go ahead.” I allow her some reprieve.

Her gaze softens a little, clearly eased by my family history. “It was . . .” she starts, pausing to ponder how she’s going to explain. “It was weird. It was my mom and me most of my life. My dad died before I was born—not that he wanted anything to do with me.” I see her fists clench and relax repeatedly to ease the tension. “Then she was—she—she died, and my whole life was flipped upside down. I went from my mom penny-pinching to being the adopted child of an elitist family. I was distant at first because all I knew of rich people was that they were assholes . . . I was young and watched too much TV.” She snorts out a small chuckle before smiling. “But my adoptive parents were kind and inviting. They struggled to have another child after their biological daughter was born, so they chose to adopt. My bonus sister and I seemed to be polar opposites. But she was able to see me for me and be the glue that held me together. We quickly bonded, and to this day she’s my best friend.”

“Sounds like even with the heart-wrenching tragedy you were able to find an amazing family.”

“They were everything I needed.” She smiles. It turns to disdain before she continues, “But I would do anything to have my mother back.”

“I can understand that.”

There’s a light scoff that comes from her direction. So light I wonder if I imagined it.

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