What My Flowers Said Ch. 10-13

Part 1 -- Roses Are Red

*Note -- this is part of a longer erotic series with a slow build. The following two chapters do not contain explicit sex.

10

They say the night before her execution, Catherine Howard stayed up all night in the Tower, rehearsing how to look ladylike when she knelt, and laid her head on the block. Divorced, beheaded, and died. Divorced, beheaded, survived. Waiting there in that cell for Mr. Caine in my tatty, paint-spattered clothes, with my hair wild and my makeup smeared, I almost considered doing the same. Anything to keep my mind busy, and my million anxieties at bay.

I had no idea what I would tell him when he arrived. What I could possibly say to explain myself? And after that guard's ominous indictment, even if he wanted to, I wasn't at all sure he could help me. My fate, it seemed, might already be sealed. But then, I can't say I called him expecting to be rescued. I wasn't Andromeda, crying out for her Perseus. I'd only done it because I was desperate, because I didn't know what else to do. And I didn't much care if it was Perseus, the Gorgon, or Cetus himself who answered.

But now he was coming. Like a demon summoned from some dwindling embers, I'd read the words. I'd signed my name, dug my grave. Now there was nothing more to do, but wait.

I shivered. I think an hour passed, maybe two. Or perhaps it was just twenty minutes. Honestly, I had no idea. But by some Babylonian miracle, I was still in one piece when the guard finally came back for me. Justine and her coven had fallen to infighting, and for all their ghastly threats, in the end they hardly touched a hair on my head.

Even so, I got the feeling the margin of my safety was still razor-thin, and said a soft prayer of thanks when they hauled open the heavy steel door to set me free. I glanced back one last time to the drunk girl, still crouched in the corner as I made my escape. I felt guilty, I guess, leaving her there at the mercy of the wolves. But I knew I couldn't help her. I couldn't even help myself. Besides, I had my own wolf to worry about now. My skin prickled again as the door groaned shut.

The guard led me out to a windowless room with a steel desk in the center. Without a word, she pulled out my purse, my jacket, Peter's parka, and laid the brass fire iron atop the pile. I signed where she tapped with her white lacquered nail 'Ist doch ein jedes Blättchen gut,' I grimaced. She cleared her throat. The papers were shuffled away. And with a sidelong glance, she nodded toward the opposite door.

"Wait. That... that's it?" I stammered, "I can go?"

Her lips drew tight, "It would seem so, Madame."

"But you said—" the words got stuck in my throat, "I mean, didn't you say?"

"You can count yourself lucky," she cut in, adjusting her collar, "to have such friends as you do."

I stared, baffled. But I didn't dare ask. She placed her pen on the desk. I kept my eyes on the ground.

"Now if you don't mind, Madame, we have work to do. Please, take your belongings and go."

I nodded shakily, "...Thank you, Ma'am."

"S'il vous plait, do not thank me," she raised her lip, "Were it up to me, we'd be crating you up and shipping you home tonight." She slid her chair out with a screech, "Sadly, I am overruled. Bonne nuit, Madame."

My faced burned, but I took my cue, gathering up the heap in my arms as I backed away through the door. At any moment, I still expected her stop me; to smile snidely, and cast me back in that cage. 'We think of the key,' I bit my lip. The Gilded Cage. Evelyn did it better than Saint George.

"Penny..."

My heart stopped. I heard him behind me; heard his footsteps on the floor.

"Are you alright?"

I stood frozen, unable to turn, and face him.

"I said, are you alright?" He grasped my shoulder and whirled me about, "Are you hurt?"

I left my eyes locked on the scuffed linoleum. I couldn't bare to look at him. Even seeing my sneakers opposite his flashing black oxfords was almost too much to bear.

"No," I lied, "No, I'm so sorry, sir. I know I shouldn't—"

"Your ankle," he cut me off, dropping to one knee, "Tell me what happened."

"It's nothing," I shook my head, flushing crimson as he rolled up the cuff of my jeans, "Just twisted."

"You shouldn't be walking on it," he glared, "Has anyone looked at this?"

I blushed brighter, suppressing a quiver as his fingertips pressed along my leg.

"I think they had bigger fish to fry, sir."

"They should have brought you to a hospital. Not to jail," he glared.

Hospital? I felt my stomach fill with needles.

"It's really not that bad. And I mean..." my voice quavered, "I was caught breaking and entering."

"Yes. So I heard," he growled, still softly prodding my ankle, "Well it doesn't seem to be broken."

"Like I said," I sighed, "Just twisted."

"Maybe. But that's no reason to ignore it," he stood, "Give me your things. We're leaving."

We? As he rose, I caught my first full glimpse of him, and felt my whole body turn to ash.

Tabernak, I burned. Where the hell was he tonight?

Beneath his topcoat, he wore a trim and well-tailored tuxedo. The clash between us made me feel even more ridiculous. He looked as if he'd just left opening night at the opera, or the Romanov's Winter Palace. Whereas in my rags I could've been an urchin crawling out of some squalid Dickensian slum. Or a Saint-Michel jail cell, for that matter. I bit my lip. Seriously, where was he? He took the parka and the fire iron from me, and helped me into my jacket.

"Your shoulder's still ripped," he sneered, pinching the gash.

"I know. I'm sorry," I shivered.

"I don't need you to be sorry," his words blew cool on the back of my neck, "I just need you to fix it."

I gritted my teeth. He's angry, isn't he? He's got every right to be. Much as I hated being treated like a child, under the circumstances, I suppose I probably deserved it. I folded my hands in front of me. I kept my eyes down. Under the circumstances, he could treat me however he liked.

"Yes, sir..." I murmured.

"Here," he shrugged out of his topcoat, "It's twenty below out there."

"No," I started, "Th-that's not nec—"

But he'd already slung it over my shoulders. I sighed. The heaviness alone was enough to silence me. I felt the warmth of him in its smooth silk lining. I breathed his cedar and civetone scent in the wool.

He nodded. "Now, come. Time to go."

He offered his arm and I took it, my hand quivering on his stiff and sinuous bicep. I limped alongside him through the precinct's unruly lobby, out into the quilted stillness of the fresh-fallen snow.

He kept me close. I didn't ask where he was taking me. At that point, I'm not even convinced that I cared. Perhaps it was just the exhaustion catching up with me. Perhaps it was all the looking-glass lunacy of what had already happened that night. Or perhaps it was him—just the sheer heat of him—drawing me along like a moth to the flame. Either way, there was no turning back.

Halfway down the block, we halted beside an old sand-colored Land Rover on the curb, with a web of steel chains on its tires. My eyes widened as he reached for the door.

"This is your car?" I blinked.

He nodded, pulling at the latch, and I had to stifle my smirk.

"Does that amuse you, Miss Foster?"

"No, no. I mean, it's just—" I pressed my lips tight, trying hard not to snigger. The image of him driving this beast in a tuxedo was almost too much, "Not quite what I expected. That's all."

"Picked it up ten years ago in the Territories," he shrugged, "Handles well in deep snow."

The Territories? I squinted at him.

"Now get in," he grabbed my wrist, "Before you freeze."

I nodded, though it was no easy feat. The wheel well alone stood as high as my waist. He helped me up. I felt his palm glide down to the small of my back, spotting me as I climbed up into the seat. He watched me strap the belt across my chest, and tugged it tight it before slamming the door. I furrowed my brow, but said nothing.

Inside it smelled of cracked leather and coffee, and for its age, was almost eerily clean. He climbed in beside me. The engine snarled to life. My ears pricked as the radio lit up, dialed in to the same station I'd been listening to at back at Peter's studio. I felt my lips mouth along with Billie Holiday as she warbled the first sultry syllables of Any Old Time, until his phone buzzed, and he snuffed her out.

"What is it?" He answered, "I told you I was not to be bothered."

"Je suis sincèrement désolé, Monsieur," I heard a brittle voice on the other end, "But the night is not young. Your guests are anxious."

He frowned, adjusting his cuffs.

"Start without me."

"Monsieur," the voice croaked, "There was an understanding that you would speak."

He shook his head "Plans changed, Jules."

"Be that as it may, Monsieur, it will not be easy to explain your absence. Vraiment," he paused, "I daresay half the crowd came for the chance to meet you."

"Then they came for the wrong reason," he spoke coolly, "Give my regards. My apologies, if you must." His eyes flashed as he glanced at me, "I was needed elsewhere, Jules. Am I clear?"

"Bien sûr," the voice sighed, "Merci, Monsieur."

He hung up. For a moment more his eyes lingered on me, illumined by the soft blue glow of the dashboard. Again, I could feel my cheeks begin to redden.

"...What was that about?" I breathed.

"Charity auction," he said blandly, turning back to the road, "Nothing of consequence."

My eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry," I breathed, "I suppose I've ruined your evening."

"The bidders will wait," he shook his head, "I'm selling two Gauguins, and a rather coveted Delacroix."

My jaw dropped.

"Besides," he shifted, "I'm not sorry to be missing out on the small talk."

I bit my lip, "...so why do you do it?"

He glanced at me before answering, "A good cause."

"Which would be?" I murmured.

"Does it matter?"

Christ, it's like pulling teeth with him.

"It might," I nodded, "If your raising funds for the Hitler Youth of Canada."

He chuckled darkly, and rolled his eyes.

"Addiction," he pressed the pedal, "Methadone. Needle exchanges. Get the point?"

I blinked at him, taken aback.

"And that's..." my throat felt tight, "that's something you're passionate about?"

"I have one passion, Penny. And it isn't this," his eyes flashed, "But it's a harmless way to waste my time. And more humane than what I do with Estoty."

I swallowed, inspecting the little scratch on my knuckle.

"Your company," I closed my fist, "What do they do?"

"We sell rocks," he turned the wheel.

"What, like gravel?"

"Not quite," He went silent, steering us down another dim, deserted alleyway.

I didn't press him. By his body language alone, I could tell he didn't want to discuss it. And in his tone, I sensed genuine contempt.

"...Which Delacroix?" I said softly.

"An untitled nude," he flipped on his brights, "His Moroccan mistress, supposedly."

"I don't know it," I murmured, "You're sure it's really his?"

He shrugged, "Could be a forgery. It's more lurid than most of his work," he nodded, "Still, it's one of my favorites."

I squinted, "Even if it's fake?"

"It's still oil and ochre, Miss Foster," he cocked his head, "Still masterful. Still riles the senses," he nodded, "Another name doesn't make it less real."

"But it makes it less valuable," a crease cut across my brow, "why are you selling it?"

His wry smirk spread wider, "To make room. I'll be hanging my new Foster up soon. Will I not?"

I flushed scarlet, hoping to God he was kidding. The thought of my work supplanting an actual masterpiece—even a dubious one—was just too much to stomach. We veered south onto Rue Notre-Dame, heading down along the Saint Lawrence. My nails dug into my knees.

"You're, um... not really taking me to a hospital, right?"

"Watch your 'ums,'" he scolded, "And no. But I am going to need a closer look at that ankle," He stared at me sternly, "I think it's best you stay with me tonight."

A jagged chill swept down my spine.

"That's generous," I measured my breaths, "But I think I've troubled you enough for one night."

He said nothing, and he didn't change course.

"Really," I leaned forward, my fingers creeping subconsciously toward the door, "Just any old motel will do."

Still, he was silent.

"I, um—I mean..." I stammered, my voice growing thin and tremulous, "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer."

"It's not an offer," he shifted, steering us steadily down the snowy boulevard, "Your 'ums,' Penny."

My blood, ice cold a moment ago, started to simmer.

"Ummmmm... I'm sorry. Guess I'm just nervous," I glared, baiting him, "You know I've never been kidnapped before, Mr. Caine."

He smirked again, and I just about boiled over.

"I'm sorry, too," he nodded, "But don't really expect me to drop you at some rat-trap flophouse by the freeway, do you?"

I shrugged, and shook my head, "Can't be any worse than that cell."

"It can," he combed a hand through his hair, "But if you really insist, I can put you up in a room downtown. Will the Queen Elizabeth do?"

I bit my lip, embarrassed.

"I can't afford that, Mr. Caine."

"I can," he glared over coolly, "But understand, I'll be keeping a close eye on you either way. I called in more than a few favors tonight to set you free," his eyes flashed, "You're mine until they decide what to do with you."

I'm his? I swallowed, feeling the floor fall away underneath me. What does that even mean? 'What to do with me?'

My words were brittle as a moth's wing, "You mean... they still might deport me?"

"They might try," his brow furrowed, "I have my attorneys looking into it. There's nothing more to be done tonight. We ought to know more in a couple of days."

I sank even lower in my seat.

"I definitely can't afford a lawyer."

"I can take it out of your compensation," he sped, "Til then, you'll remain in my debt, Miss Foster."

'I'll have my bond.' I clenched my jaw. Great. Just great.

"In your debt..." my fists balled, "Meaning what precisely, Mr. Caine?"

He glanced over again, leveling his gaze.

"Meaning I have a stake in you, Penny. In your safety. Your well-being," he slowed to stop at a flashing red light, and sighed, "You really shouldn't have been out tonight."

"I know," I dropped my eyes, "It was stupid. I just forgot my keys back at Peter's, and—"

"Peter?" He glared, "The sculptor?"

I shrank away, wishing I could snap the name back in my mouth.

"So you were with Mr. Mulgrave tonight," he dragged his eyes back to the road, "And he didn't bother to escort you home?"

Well, no. My brow creased. What is this, Edwardian England?

"It wasn't like that," I murmured, leaning my head on the window, "I was just working at his studio." I flushed, "And it's not like I asked him for a ride, or anything."

He rubbed his jaw roughly, "You shouldn't have to."

"Look, I—" my voice quavered, "I am really, really sorry, Mr. Caine. I know I shouldn't have dragged you into this. I should've never called you in the first place," my toes curled tight, "That was a mistake. It was stupid. You've made that abundantly clear."

He fixed his grip on the wheel, his knuckles blanching.

"Miss Foster," he growled, "Do you really think I'd have given you my card if I didn't intend for you to use it?"

I turned back to the window, letting my breath blossom in milky petals against the glass.

"I don't pretend know what goes on in your head," I murmured, "But I know you're angry with me. And I know it's my fault."

"I am angry," He bared his teeth, "I'm furious. But not because you called."

With a trembling hand, I tucked my bangs behind my ear, "No?"

"No," his words were barbed, "I'm angry because you put yourself in harm's way tonight. You could've died, Penny. You realize that, don't you?"

I dropped my eyes to my lap. Only too well. He shook his head, his grip tightening.

"It's twenty below tonight. And you're what? Fifty? Fifty-five kilos? A meter and half high?" He sized me up, his brow dark and brooding, "Do you know how long a girl like you lasts before her fingers start snapping off?"

I shivered, and shrugged. I didn't dare answer him.

"Ninety minutes. Give or take," he breathed. "Less if its windy. Less if you're wet." His forehead furrowed, "After that, your heart starts racing. Your speech slurs. You stumble, and stagger. You feel drunk. You might get a surge of heat at the end—right when the vessels in your skin can't constrict anymore By then, it's too late."

Paradoxical undressing. Terminal burrowing. Is that true? I felt a tangled knot draw tight in my stomach, remembering how frightened, how frantic I'd been just a few hours earlier. But why? I scowled. Why the hell should he care? He didn't even know you two days ago. What's it to him if you freeze to death?

"I'm sorry," I crossed my arms and ankles, glaring, "But you know I didn't want to get stuck outside, right? It's not like I planned it."

"That's not the point," he narrowed his eyes, "You weren't careful, Penny. You allowed it to happen."

Victim-blaming much, Monsieur? My jaw clenched.

"From now on, you're going to take your own safety more seriously," he glanced over at me, looking wolfish, "Or else I'll be doing it for you."

He veered to the far lane as we rolled past the Jacques-Cartier bridge. That girl who jumped. Who they fished from the water. Those same chilling words flashed through my head. Lips and lids blue. Glassy eyes, milk-white. 'Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow.' I sighed. He wasn't wrong. I'd been careless. I'd been foolish. But still... I was in no mood to just sit there, and let him chastise me like a child.

"You do realize," I said acidly, "I was only out tonight to work on your painting—on your ridiculous timeline," I sneered at him, "You claim you're so worried about me, Mr. Caine. But I'd be a lot safer tonight if it wasn't for you."

Silence fell, and between bursts of amber as the streetlamps whipped by outside, I saw a twisted scowl flicker over his face. For a moment, all I heard was the low groan of the engine, the infernal rattling of the chains below. For a moment, he looked like he was in pain.

"I know that..." at last he spoke, "I do. And that's all the more reason for me to be concerned. If something—if anything were to happen to you," he paused, drawing a tight breath through his lips, "it would be on hands. My conscience. So for as long I retain your services, Miss Foster," his eyes flashed, "you will be more cautious. More careful with yourself. Understood?"

I sat statue-still. There was something he wasn't telling me. I could sense it. But I was too beaten down now to ask.

I sighed softly, grinding my teeth, "I understand."

"Promise me," he turned.

"...I'm sorry?"

We crunched to a halt at a snowy crossroads. His lupine eyes fell over me. I shivered, though the heat inside was roaring. Across his face, the blinking red traffic light painted sharp, demonic shadows.

"Promise me," he growled, "From now on, you'll do as I say."

Or what, Mr. Caine? I bit my tongue. My breath was fast and shallow. My chest felt tight. My primal instinct was still to defy him.