Page 151 of Gravehouse

What little smile I had slips.

I head down the opposite way as if Nonna herself were directing me.

Snow swallows my boots. The yard stretches white and empty between the house and greenhouse, and I cross it with my arms pinned to my chest, breath fogging as the wind cuts straight through my cardigan.

I shoulder the door open, pausing when I reach inside. Dead. All of it. Rows of brown stems collapse over the edges of their pots. Leaves curl into brittle fists on the soil. Nonna’s orchids hang off their stakes like wet tissue. It smells of frozen dirt and rot.

Moving slowly down the center aisle, I trail my fingers over a table of shriveled herbs. Basil, thyme, the mint she swore would survive a nuclear winter. The roots have gone black, my throat closing tighter with every step because this is what she left behind and we let it die.

At the end of the far bench, half-hidden behind a fallen trellis, ivory petals open to the gray light. Green veins mark their throats, the single stem standing straight in frozen soil, built for the cold. Hellébore.

My hand closes around the choker.

“The Hellébore has quite the rep in French folklore,” Asher murmured as he drapped the necklace around my throat. His fingers brushed against my skin. “It was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect against dark magic.” Metal settled against my collarbone as he worked the clasp. “Sounds suspicious.” I managed to breathe out with a chuckle. “It was also known as the ‘Winter Rose’ because it flourishes in cold temperatures, where other flowers wither and die.”

I pick up the pot. Soft petals brush my knuckles, alive against my skin. My chest caves in around a ragged breath as I hold the last living thing in this dead garden, tears sliding hot down my face.

“Huh, would you look at that?” Asher mumbles from the doorway, and every muscle in my back locks.

I set the pot on the bench, and wipe my cheeks with the heel of my hand before turning around.

Dressed in a black hoodie and sweats, I can smell the soap on him from here. God, does he have to be so beautiful? I feel like i’ve spent a large chunk of the time I’ve known him cursing the Gods for creating someone quite literally perfect, witheveryfucking red flag known to man.

He looks at the flower, then at me.

“I’ve been sitting here, trying to piece the puzzle back together now that I have all the parts.” I swallow. “Parker?”

One footstep. “Me. I ordered it in. Emeric called the hit on you all when he thought his plan of getting Amélie back so he could kill her wasn’t working. Next question.”

I scoff, touching a petal. “So much violence.”

Another step. “So little time.”

My eyes snap to him and he stops. “You stole my kill, but I’m not mad about that.” Kind of… I could get over it. “It’s the constant loop of lies. Did he die in pain?”

“He was awake the hole time. Until, well… the end.”

“Why?” I finally say, desperate for something to grasp onto. “Why?”

“For one, Venom, I’d been killing these motherfuckers since I first saw you hanging on that yacht—“Everything stops, but he keeps going. “—La Maison Du Mal wasn’t always like this. My father, Aléia, Emeric, they corrupted it the second they got the power they stole.”

I squeeze my fists. “So you ordered me to take Parker?”

“Yes.” His eyes widen. “I had to know you. More of you. Were you like him? Worse?” Pause. “Then I saw you for the first time at his apartment. Alderic and I were fighting because he hated that he’d lost what little power he had. Why the fuck do you think he sat there and took the relationship, took the marriage, took the bullet?”

He tilts his head. “Because heknewbetter. He knew who I was because I told him right after sending him Emeric’s head, and he knewexactlywhat the fuck was going to happen if he didn’t follow my instructions. Ivy?—“

“Don’t.”

I keep my feet planted on the ground because if I take one step toward him, I’ll take all of them. I’ll crawl inside that hoodie and let him stitch me back together with the same hands that built the lie.

I can’t do that. I can’t do him, or Leon, or Daniel, or any of them standing in that kitchen eating Nonna’s recipes and calling it loyalty. I need distance. From him most of all, and from everyone else right behind him, until I figure out which parts of me are actually mine.

“Don’t what?” he argues. “Don’t come near you? Don’t look at you? Pick one, and I’ll rip it apart just to fucking feel you.”

Those words would terrify any other woman. Anysanewoman.

My chin drops. “I’m leaving, Asher.”