I shut up about the call.
I knew he wanted to ask about it.
The mug was still warm between my palms.
Emiliano sat across from , slicing into toast with the kind of calm that made my skin crawl.
Like we were just roommates.
Like I hadn’t woken up stitched together on a tal slab.
He set his knife down with a soft click and smiled.
"You’re stronger than you look."
"Oh?" I said, my voice dry. "Did that beco obvious before or after you sedated like a misbehaving chihuahua?"
That grin of his beca wider.
Not smug.
Just amused.
Like he was privately grading my survival instinct.
"I thought we’d take a walk," he said, rising. "Stretch your legs. See sothing special."
That sent a cold chill down my spine.
"You always court your guests with mystery dungeons, or am I just lucky?"
He didn’t answer.
Just continued to walk.
The hallway past the kitchen was lined in soft gray paint and mismatched family portraits.
Fake ones.
I could tell by the way they were smiling.
It slled like laundry sheets and lemon cleaner, and for a minute I could almost pretend we were walking toward a garage or wine cellar.
Then he opened the door at the end.
The air changed.
Colder.
Drier.
No trace of sunlight down there.
The stairs creaked beneath us, the kind that warned you to turn back, not keep going.
My bare feet ached on the concrete by the ti we hit the bottom.
Emiliano flipped a switch.
At first, all I saw were jars.
Dozens.
No—hundreds.
Lined on shelves, suspended in pale blue fluid. Labeled with dates and codes I couldn’t read. So were cracked with age.
Others looked disturbingly fresh.
It took a full breath before I realized what I was looking at.
Skin.
Preserved pieces of it.
Each one centered around a tattoo-like marking—delicate, organic, blooming.
Oga flowers.
I froze.
My heart made a sick little skip in my chest.
Emiliano stopped in front of the far wall, where a soft light bled from behind a glass case.
"You know," he said almost conversationally, "ogas are so... poetic. The way your bodies work. That little flower blooming across your stomach—it’s practically art."
He tilted his head, amused at the way my breath caught.
"You didn’t think I knew? That I hadn’t seen it before?"
Behind the glass, each square of preserved skin bore the sa haunting image: a flower in full bloom.
So looked like bleeding hearts.
Others like ivy or oleander.
All centered around the lower abdon.
All beautiful.
All grotesque.
"They bloom," Emiliano murmured, voice low and reverent, "in that exact mont. When you’re undone. When your body can’t lie anymore. Nature’s little signature."
My mouth was dry.
"You cut them out when they—"
"—When they’re perfect," he finished, smiling faintly. "A single mont, captured forever."
"I’d offer you a tour," he went on, "but most guests tend to get emotional. Ruins the vibe."
"You’re insane," I breathed.
"Could be.Eccentric is a much proper word for it."
He tilted his head.
"But let’s not be rude. Pick a favorite."
I took a step back.
Just one.
But he caught it.
That slight retreat didn’t go unnoticed.
His smile curved, slowly.
"You didn’t strike as squeamish, Luther."
"I’m not squeamish. I just don’t usually spend my mornings surrounded by human floral taxidermy."
That earned a laugh.
A real one.
Warm, rich, infuriating.
"No wonder Claus never shut up about you."
I didn’t flinch at the na, but my nails dug into my palms.
"You an the guy who delivered like a fruit basket to this horror show?"
"You wound ."
Emiliano spread his arms.
"Is this not the most curated exhibit of oga beauty you’ve ever seen?"
"Is that what you call it?" I glanced around the jars, bile rising. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a flower shop run by a kinky Dexter Morgan with an oga complex "
He laughed again. My body shuddered in horror. No matter how much I tried to keep my wits, this scenery disturbed to the core.
What was the difference between and one of the many others who visit this room?
None.
"Your taphors are getting filthier."
"Your hobbies are getting harder to ignore."
His gaze sharpened, and for a mont, sothing darker flashed in his expression—pride, maybe.
Or sothing hungrier.
He walked toward a central display—a backlit, glass-encased panel.
Unlike the jars, this one was mounted upright, almost reverent in presentation.
A single bloom, pale as bone with dark purple veins stretching out like cracks in porcelain.
"This one," he said softly, "ca from an oga who fought until the last second. I didn’t think it would bloom at all."
He turned his head just enough to look at .
"They always do. Eventually."
My stomach flipped.
I forced a shrug.
.
"You must be a riot on first dates."
He grinned.
"I don’t do dates. I do research. And I like results."
"What is this even for?"
My voice cracked around the edge. I was scared, but I couldn’t let it show. Or I may have ended up on the wall.
"What’s the goal here, Frankenstein? A floral bloodbath? A perfu line?"
He turned fully toward , hands in his pockets.
His tone cooled, but didn’t lose the edge of amusent.
"I told you already. I’m interested in what makes ogas...special. Toxic ogas, more so. The way your kind rewrites biology is beautiful."
"I’m not your kind of beautiful."
"You’re exactly my kind" he murmured.
The silence after that felt too full, too heavy.
I hated the heat that crept up my spine.
Hated that he was watching like he was studying more than my flower.
I swallowed, then smirked—shaky but defiant.
"You’re not going to get it from ."
"Get what?"
"The bloom."
Emiliano stepped closer.
Not enough to touch, but enough for his voice to land like a secret in my ear.
"Oh, I’m not in a rush, Luther. I like puzzles that bleed slowly."
A pause. A sparkle in his eyes.
"It’s not fun if you don’t ask to be like them. Just like all of them did before you."
His gaze lingered on , heavy with so ancient brand of interest—
I hated the way my breath caught.
I hated the way it didn’t stop him.
Emiliano reached up.
Not fast.
Not violent.
Just... deliberate.
His fingers ghosted the air between us, then moved to my jaw. Not touching—just close enough to make feel it.
"You wear defiance like perfu," he said softly, "but I wonder how you sll when you drop the tough guy act"
The mont froze.
Sothing inside scread to move, but my feet stayed rooted. It wasn’t fear.
Or maybe it was—but sharper.
Confused.
He leaned in.
I didn’t breathe.
His face-
No.
His lips were inches from mine.
Not possessive.
Not gentle.
Just there.
Waiting for an invitation.
And then—
SLAM.
The basent door cracked open with a bang. Footsteps stord down like gunfire.
"Get away from him."
Claus.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, panting, eyes lit with sothing feral.
His shirt was half-untucked,breathing heavily like he’d just finished a marathon.
He looked like hell. And not the kind I wanted to be rescued by.
Emiliano didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
His hand still hovered near my face, and for a second, it looked like he might kiss anyway—just to prove he could.
"Claus," he said with mock delight, "I was just showing off my collection."
Claus’s hands curled into fists.
"You said you weren’t going to touch him."
"I didn’t," Emiliano said evenly. "Not yet."
My stomach turned.
The space between the two n was thick with unfinished violence.
Claus looked at . Just for a second. Like he was checking to see if I was still....
Emiliano tilted his head, still casual. Still enjoying this.
"Well," he murmured, "this is awkward."
Claus took a step forward.
A phone started to ring.
Emiliano’s smile fell.
Once. Twice. Then silence.
And then... it rang again. Sa tone. Different phone.
His jaw tightened.
Claus’s glare didn’t moved, but sothing shifted in his expression—uncertainty.
Fear.
Emiliano slowly reached into his pocket, drew out the slim black phone, and checked the screen.
He answered without looking away from either of us.
"Killian," he said. "What a surprise."
A pause.
Then Emiliano’s lips parted. He blinked, once.
And then—he laughed.
Cold. Sharp. Not for show.
He looked straight at and said into the phone:
"You accept the deal?For him? Oh, Killian... you have no idea who you’re asking for."
Reviews
All reviews (0)