Chapter 2 - The Florist and the Syndicate
Harper watched the shadows swallow the last of the men, listening until the echo of their footsteps faded entirely into the damp night air. Only then did the crushing weight of reality hit her.
Those men hadn’t left because they believed her ridiculous, spontaneous lie about a newlywed spouse.
They had left because the stranger she’d just kissed had spoken—and they were terrified of him.
Harper physically jumped backward, tearing herself away from his embrace as if she had just touched a live wire. “Oh my God.”
He remained seated against the brick wall, a pool of rainwater gathering around his heavy boots, watching her with a cool, intense curiosity.
“I am so sorry,” Harper stammered, wringing her hands together.
One dark eyebrow slowly rose. “For saving my life?”
“For kissing you!” she hissed, her cheeks burning hot despite the freezing rain.
A faint, ghost of a smile finally touched the corner of his mouth.
Harper pointed an accusing finger straight at his chest. “Do not enjoy this.”
“I’ll try,” he replied smoothly, his deep voice vibrating through the damp air.
Rain ran down his sharp jawline, emphasizing the hard, unforgiving planes of his face, the subtle shadow of stubble, and the intricate dark ink of tattoos peeking out from beneath his torn collar.
Then, he asked the single question that made her breath catch and forced her to pause.
“Why did you help me?”
Harper blinked, crossing her arms tightly over her chest to ward off the sudden chill. “You were outnumbered.”
“You didn’t know whether I was innocent,” he noted, his dark eyes searching her face as if cataloging every micro-expression.
Harper shrugged, a defiant spark returning to her eyes. “I’m a florist, not a jury.”
For the very first time, something almost human—a flash of genuine, unexpected appreciation—softened his hard expression.
Realizing they were standing in a freezing alley at nearly midnight, Harper cleared her throat, smoothed down the front of her floral dress, and extended a tentative hand.
“Harper Ellison.”
He looked at her outstretched hand for a long moment before sliding his large, calloused palm into hers. His grip was firm, warm, and left an invisible impression of raw power.
“Damian.”
“No last name?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Not tonight.”
Harper should have wondered why. She should have asked why a man bleeding in an alley carried himself with the terrifying authority of a king. She should have noticed the sleek, bulletproof black sedan idling quietly down the block with its lights off.
May you like
Instead, eager to escape the surreal encounter, she muttered a hasty goodbye, unlocked her shop door, and retreated into the safety of her sanctuary filled with the sweet scent of roses.
Through the clear glass storefront, she looked back out into the rain. Damian remained sitting in the dark alley for a long moment, watching her through the pane before melting into the night.
