What My Flowers Said Ch. 14-16

We waited. No one? I glanced down toward the floor, and breathed a soft sigh. It was just Rupestrian. He spotted me, and his tail wagged. He bounded over and pounced, knocking me clear against the wall as he lapped his huge rough tongue across my face.

"Stop, stop, stop!" I giggled.

And then, recalling Mr. Caine's little lesson in obedience, I steeled my voice.

"Rupestrian. Pas touché!"

Like magic, he retreated and sat down, waggling and waiting for me to pat him. Peter had ducked behind his chair, taking cover.

"Jesus Christ!" He muttered, "Where the mongrel come from?"

"It's alright," I grinned, "he's friendly."

Peter shook his head, "I hate dogs."

The feeling, it seemed, was mutual. Rupestrian raised his lip and growled.

"Arrête, Rupestrian," I scolded.

The dog whimpered, but obeyed. I knelt down with him on the soft Kurdish rug, scratching him behind his ears.

"Ah, désolée, Mademoiselle. It seems the creature is fond of you," Jules carried in a tea service set for one, "Shall I show him out?"

"He's fine, Jules," I smiled, rubbing his tummy, "let him stay."

"Very good, Mademoiselle," he smirked, and snapped his head toward Peter, "Monsieur, if I might borrow you for a moment?" His words were clipped, "I have reason to believe your vehicle is being towed."

Peter's eyes sprang wide, "Say what?"

"Your truck, Monsieur," Jules set down the service, and folded his hands, "is being towed."

"I doubt that," Peter sneered, "that's six thousand kilos of solid steel. No way someone's towing it."

"A white flatbed? Nova Scotia plates?"

Peter nodded, arching his brow.

"You were in a fire lane, Monsieur. They are taking it."

Tabarnak. I cringed, and craned my neck to the window. Through a thick gnarl of branches, I could just make out the flashing, yellow lights of a wrecker as it raised Peter's truck up onto its hind wheels.

"What the fuck?!" He snarled, "The hell are we supposed to do now?"

"S'il vous plaît, Monsieur, I have taken the liberty of calling you a car," Monsieur d'Hiver stepped back, "They will bring you to the impound lot to sort this out," he waved for Peter to follow, "Truly, I do apologize for the inconvenience, Monsieur."

His tone was stiff, but a subtle smile below his mustache betrayed him—I think the majordome was enjoying this.

"Please, Monsieur, this way," he nodded, "Mademoiselle, by your leave..."

"Great. That's just fucking great. I am so so fucking glad I signed on for this," Peter spat, "You coming, Pens?"

I was still on my knees, clutching the dog's collar. I felt horrible for getting him into this. And I felt even worse for what I was about to do next.

"I'm sorry," I shook my head, unable to face him, "I just... I need to stay."

"You're joking."

I shook my head.

"Yeah," he sniffed, "Yeah, sure thing," he brushed past, his tone cold enough to blister, "Don't know why I expected any different."

My face burned, but didn't answer. I couldn't. I could hardly move. The gravid weight of my guilt had pretty much paralyzed me. You should go with him, my conscience scourged me as the two men vanished. You still can. Just stand up, Penny. Just stand up, and walk away.

My mind spun circles as I pulled myself to my feet. Through the window, I watched the dark, silent film miniatures of Peter and Jules tramping out across the drive. I saw a black town car pull forward, its white headlights beaming over the snow. And I saw Peter turn back as he opened the door, looking for me, maybe, in the frosted mosaic of the windows above.

Go. Just go. You can still catch him, Penny. What the hell are you doing here?

My nerves began to unravel. It had been so much easier to master my anxieties far, far removed from this place. The past few days, I'd played the moment out a thousand times in my head. The look on his face when he saw me. The incendiary things I would say to him. I needed him know I wouldn't suffer his arrogance; that I wasn't afraid of him. I needed to tell him that with our deal done, he had absolutely no power over me. I'd sold him my painting. My soul was my own. It was over.

I told myself that was the reason. And I really did want to believe it. But deep down, I knew why I'd really come back. The truth was, I needed to see him again. To see for myself, face-to-face, whether I'd ever really be free. In my head at least, I tried never ever to think of him as Sir, Mister, or Monsieur. Not when names like 'buster,' 'jerkface,' or plain old 'asshole' were a much better fit. But now it was real. It was sinking in. I was in his house again. And I was alone.

A razor-sharp chill slit its way down my spine. You made a mistake, Miss Foster. I shuddered. What did you think would happen here? That he'd apologize? See the error of his ways? My toes curled. You show up here out of the blue. Did you think he'd be impressed? Did you really think it wasn't desperate? Pathetic? Degrading, even? I crossed my arms, and clenched my jaw. How the hell could you be so stupid? Idiot girl.

Get out. I put my palm against the pane, watching the hellish red glow of the taillights as Peter's car pulled away. Now. My brow creased. Go now. If you run, you can catch him. If you run... You can go out tonight. Celebrate. Just like he wanted. You and Peter, and Marie and Sébastien and Serge. You'll get drinks, and you'll laugh. You'll forget all about it. Like nothing ever happened. Like you were never even here. Like you never even met him at all... Like a ghost.

My breath was short and shallow. I spun away from the window, ready to make my mad dash down to the curb. Dignity be damned, I shut my eyes. I'd chase the car down the drive, arms flailing in the dark if I had to. I'd get away. And I'd never look back.

But just as I turned, the wind was knocked out my lungs as I collided with the hard, unyielding chest of Dmitri Caine. He caught me by the wrists, and I fell back on the glass.

"Miss Foster," his eyes were dark, his voice as flat as a shadow.

I felt my blood curdle, "...Mr. Caine."