Chapter 3: Knuckles and Ghost Orchids

The penthouse felt too quiet that morning, like the city outside had agreed to hold its breath. I sat at the marble island nursing a mug of herbal tea that tasted like regret and chamomile, my curls a lost cause after last night's chaos. Vincent's phone still sat on the counter where he'd left it, and every time I glanced at it my stomach clenched with the memory of that encrypted message.

Mine. The word still echoed in places I didn't want to name. I'd gasped it during the sex—yours, for now—and the way his body had responded, that raw growl vibrating against my skin, made me wonder if I'd already lost more ground than I could afford.

The elevator chimed. Two of Vincent's men stepped out flanking a familiar lanky figure in a hoodie. Tommy. My brother looked smaller than I remembered, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the fabric. His messy dark hair fell over eyes that wouldn't quite meet mine.

"Sis," he said, voice cracking on the single syllable. He shifted his weight, sneakers squeaking against the tile. One guard nodded at me before they both retreated to the far corner, giving us the illusion of privacy while their earpieces crackled faintly.

I slid off the stool and crossed to him, arms wrapping around his too-thin frame before I could think better of it. He smelled like cheap dorm coffee and that awful body spray he thought made him cool. "Tommy. God, are you okay? They didn't—"

"I'm fine," he cut in, pulling back too quickly. His gaze flicked to the guards, then to the floor. "Better than you, probably. This place is insane. Like, penthouse-with-a-view-of-hell insane."

A laugh bubbled up despite everything, brittle and short. I tucked a curl behind my ear, the silver leaf pendant cool against my collarbone. "Yeah. The view's great if you ignore the armed escorts. Come sit. I made tea. It's terrible, but it's mine."

He followed me to the island but didn't drink when I pushed the mug his way. Instead he pulled a small USB drive from his hoodie pocket, sliding it across the marble like it was radioactive. His fingers trembled slightly. "Look, I don't have long. They searched me twice before letting me up here. But I... I hacked some low-level stuff. Syndicate accounts. Your marriage contract. There's weird shit in the debt logs, Marisol. Dad's numbers don't add up."

My pulse spiked. I closed my fist around the drive, its plastic edges biting into my palm. The weight of it felt like another chain, another secret I'd have to carry alone. "Tommy, this is dangerous. If Vincent finds out—"

"He already knows I'm here." Tommy finally looked at me, eyes heavy. "He's the one who arranged the visit. Said it was to keep you from climbing the walls. But sis... you gotta find an out. This guy isn't some romance novel antihero. He's the real deal. The kind that ends people."

I wanted to argue, to tell him about the conservatory, about Vincent's careful fingers on that ghost orchid petal. About the way he'd held me after sex like I was the only steady thing in his violent world. But the words stuck behind the lump in my throat. Instead I slipped the drive into my jeans pocket, next to the pressed flower from the day before that I'd almost forgotten was there.

"I'll look at it," I promised, voice softer than I meant. "But you stay out of it. Go back to your classes. Send me stupid plant memes like normal. Don't be a hero, Tommy."

He snorted, the sound almost like the brother I remembered. "Too late for that. I'm already the guy whose sister got sold to the mob to save his ass. Hero complex comes with the territory." His eyes darted toward the bedroom door as it opened. "Speaking of the devil."

Vincent emerged in a charcoal suit that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, the top button of his shirt undone like a deliberate fuck-you to formality. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, falling across his forehead in a way that made my traitorous fingers itch to push it back. The split on his bottom lip from last night's chaos had already scabbed over.

"Underwood," he said to Tommy, tone neutral but eyes sharp. "Good to see you respecting the boundaries I set."

Tommy straightened, all false bravado. "Yeah, well. Figured if you're keeping my sister in a tower, least I could do is visit. Bring her some normal."

The air thickened. Vincent's gaze slid to me, assessing the way I leaned toward my brother like a plant seeking light. Something dark flickered there—jealousy, maybe, or just the constant calculation of threats. His hand flexed at his side, the same hand that had gripped my hip hard enough to bruise while he drove into me last night.

"Normal's overrated," Vincent said finally. He checked his pocket watch, the gold case snapping open with that familiar click. "You have fifteen minutes. My men will escort you out after. Marisol, we're expected at the fight club tonight. Dress accordingly."

He didn't wait for a response, just turned and disappeared into his study. The door shut with a soft finality that felt louder than it should have.

Tommy exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the whole time. "See? That's what I'm talking about. Guy looks at you like he owns the air you breathe."

"He does," I whispered, the admission tasting like ash. My fingers found the USB again, turning it over and over. "But maybe this gives me leverage. Just... be careful, okay? I can't lose you too."

He hugged me again, awkward and too brief, then let the guards lead him away. The elevator doors closed on his worried face, and I was alone with the weight of secrets and the faint scent of Vincent's cologne lingering in the air.

I didn't waste time. In the bedroom, I booted up the laptop Vincent had grudgingly provided—probably monitored to hell and back, but worth the risk. The drive contained encrypted files that took me twenty frustrating minutes to crack using half-remembered coding from undergrad. When they opened, the numbers confirmed what the phone message had only hinted at. The debt logs showed my father's numbers inflated by almost forty percent. Someone had doctored the books, routing the excess through a shell account tied to one of Vincent's father's closest advisors. An inside job.

Phase two. The words from the message burned behind my eyes. I pressed my palms to the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur below. "What are you growing here?" I whispered to no one, the way I talked to my orchids when stress coiled tight in my chest. The ghost orchid in my journal felt like an accusation now—beautiful, rootless, surviving on air and lies.

By evening the dress Vincent had chosen for me clung like a second skin, deep crimson that made my olive skin glow and my hazel eyes look too knowing. The underground fight club was exactly the kind of place that belonged in nightmares dressed up as nightlife—dim lights, the metallic tang of blood in the air, velvet walls that absorbed screams and moans alike.

Vincent's hand stayed possessive on my lower back as we moved through the crowd, his body a wall of heat at my side. Men nodded deference to him, women watched with hungry calculation. I kept my shoulders back, practical grace masking the way my pulse raced every time his thumb stroked the bare skin exposed by the dress's low cut.

"Stay close," he murmured, lips brushing my ear. The faint accent wrapped around the words like smoke. "These aren't the orchids you're used to."

I almost smiled at the botanical jab. Almost. "Worried I'll photosynthesize the wrong attention?"

His grip tightened, just enough to remind me who held the reins. The fight in the central ring was brutal—two men circling, fists flying with wet smacks that made my stomach turn. I looked away, only to find myself locking eyes with a man across the room. Tall, slick-haired, with the Moretti family crest tattooed subtly on his wrist. A lieutenant, by the way the crowd parted for him.

He smiled, slow and appreciative, raising his glass in my direction. "The new Mrs. Inverdale," he called over the roar. "Even more stunning up close. That dress does dangerous things to a man's focus."

Vincent went still beside me. The kind of still that preceded violence, like a predator sighting prey. His fingers dug into my hip, possessive in a way that sent unwelcome heat spiraling low in my belly. I should have pulled away. Instead I felt myself leaning into the claim, my body remembering exactly how that grip felt when he was inside me.

"Luciano," Vincent said, voice deceptively calm. "Didn't realize the Morettis were inviting themselves to my events now."

The lieutenant—Luciano—didn't flinch. His gaze slid over me again, lingering on the curve of my neck where Vincent's mouth had left a faint mark last night. "Just admiring the merchandise. Your father drove a hard bargain for her, from what I hear. Botanist with a body like that? Waste of talent in a lab."

The words landed like a slap. Merchandise. A toxic bloom opened in my chest, roots of doubt digging deeper. Part of me had started to forget that's exactly what I was. Sold. Bought. Claimed.

"Watch your mouth," Vincent growled. The crowd around us had gone quiet, sensing blood in the water. His free hand flexed, knuckles already scarred from years of this world. "She's not for your admiration. Touch her with your eyes again and I'll remove them."

Luciano laughed, but there was unease in it. "Possessive already? Careful, Inverdale. Wives make men weak. Especially pretty ones who look like they might bite back."

Vincent moved so fast I barely registered it. One moment we were standing there, the next his fist connected with Luciano's jaw in a crack that echoed off the velvet walls. The lieutenant staggered, blood blooming from his split lip. Two of Vincent's men materialized, blocking any retaliation as the crowd surged forward for a better view.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was the monster I'd married—the one who could turn a room violent with a single calculated strike. But as Vincent shook out his hand, knuckles already swelling, his eyes found mine. There was something raw there beneath the control. Not just jealousy. A flicker of fear, like Luciano's words had struck at a crack in his armor.

"We're leaving," Vincent said, voice tight. His bloodied hand closed around my wrist—not gentle, but not bruising either. The contrast made my skin prickle. He pulled me through the crowd toward a shadowed alcove off the main floor, velvet curtains half-drawn like they were meant for exactly this kind of moment.

The second we were behind them his mouth was on mine, fierce and claiming. The copper taste of blood from his knuckles mixed with the whiskey on his tongue. I gasped into the kiss, my back hitting the wall as his body crowded me against velvet that smelled of old smoke and desperation.

He looked at you like he had any right, his kiss seemed to say. Like he could take what’s mine. My head spun. The sounds of the fight club filtered through—grunts, cheers, the wet impact of fists—but they felt distant. All I could focus on was the heat of him, the way his split knuckles left faint red smears on my thigh as his fingers found the edge of my lace underwear. I was wet already, embarrassingly so, my body betraying me with slick readiness that made shame twist hot in my gut.

"Vincent—" His name came out breathy, not the protest I meant it to be. My hands fisted in his suit jacket, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The USB drive pressed against my hip in my pocket, a secret burning between us. "Not here. People will hear."

"Let them." He hooked my leg around his hip, grinding against me so I could feel exactly how hard he was. The thick length of him dragged against my core through too many layers of fabric, sending sparks up my spine. "I want them to know. Want the whole fucking city to understand that touching you gets you broken."

His fingers pushed aside my panties, two thick digits sliding through my folds with devastating accuracy. I bit my lip to stifle a moan as he circled my clit, then dipped inside me without warning. The stretch was perfect, too perfect, curling just right against that spot that made my knees buckle. My head fell back against the velvet, curls spilling wild around my face.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice rough as gravel. Those dark eyes burned into mine, possessive and something deeper I didn't want to name. "Soaking my hand in the middle of my club because some asshole flirted with you. Does it turn you on, Marisol? Knowing I'd kill for this?"

The words should have horrified me. Instead they sent a fresh gush of wetness around his fingers. I clenched around him, hips rocking shamelessly as he pumped in and out, thumb pressing relentless circles on my clit. The building pressure coiled tight in my belly, threatening to snap at any second.

I hated how much I needed this. Needed him. The vulnerability of it clawed at my throat even as pleasure built higher. "Bastard," I gasped, but my nails dug into his shoulders, urging him on. "You don't own me like this. Not really."

His laugh was dark, broken. He added a third finger, stretching me wider, and I came with a choked cry that he swallowed with another bruising kiss. My walls fluttered around him, pleasure ripping through me so intense my vision whited out. He didn't stop, drawing it out until I was shaking, oversensitive and gasping against his mouth.

Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his lips. The sight of him licking my arousal off skin still streaked with his own blood nearly undid me again. His eyes never left mine as he sucked them clean.

"I own every fucking moan you make," he said quietly. The violence had bled out of his voice, leaving something raw and almost tender. "Even if you hate me for it tomorrow."

The curtain rustled. Someone cleared their throat outside—probably one of his men. Vincent stepped back, adjusting my dress with surprising gentleness while I tried to remember how to breathe. My thighs trembled. The ache between them felt like a brand.

We left the club in silence, the car ride back to the penthouse heavy with everything unsaid. Vincent stared out the window, jaw tight, his injured hand resting on his thigh. Blood had dried in the creases of his knuckles. I wanted to reach for him. Wanted to hate myself for wanting it.

Back home I retreated to the small kitchenette off the bedroom and gathered what I could—aloe from a potted plant I'd smuggled up here, crushed calendula petals from the conservatory. The salve came together unevenly. I burned the first batch, cursing under my breath as smoke curled toward the vent. Talking to the mixture like it was one of my orchids helped. "Come on, you stubborn thing. Be useful for once."

Vincent appeared in the doorway as I started the second attempt, watching me with an unreadable expression. His suit jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal those powerful forearms. The split knuckles looked worse under the warm light.

"You don't have to do that," he said. But he sat anyway, offering his hand across the counter like a peace offering.

I took it carefully, dabbing the cooled salve over the broken skin. His fingers twitched but didn't pull away. The quiet between us stretched, broken only by the faint tick of his pocket watch on the counter. Up close I could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. The monster looked tired.

My thumb smoothed salve over his middle knuckle, feeling the heat of his skin. A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth when I glanced up. "You make me sloppy, Marisol. That's the problem."

The words hung there, heavy with everything we weren't saying. I finished wrapping his hand in a clean cloth, my own fingers lingering longer than necessary. The USB drive felt like lead in my pocket. Evidence that his own people had inflated my father's debt, positioning me as the perfect pawn. I should have confronted him right then. Instead I traced the edge of the bandage, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath.

Elena appeared unannounced twenty minutes later, sleek red hair perfect despite the late hour. She found us in the living room—me curled on the couch with a book I wasn't reading, Vincent checking his watch every thirty seconds like it held answers.

"Vincent," she said without preamble, lighting a cigarette by the open balcony door. The smoke curled out into the night. "We need to talk. Privately."

He glanced at me, something like reluctance in his eyes before the underboss mask slid back into place. "Stay here," he told me, voice low. Then to Elena, "Make it quick."

They stepped onto the balcony. I watched their silhouettes through the glass—Elena's precise gestures, Vincent's tense shoulders. Her voice carried faintly on the breeze. "Your obsession is becoming noticeable. Rivals are whispering. That display at the club? It makes you look weak, not strong. Wives are liabilities, Vincent. You know this."

His response was too quiet to hear, but the way his bandaged hand flexed at his side made my stomach twist. When they came back inside, Elena's eyes met mine with something like reluctant pity before she left.

I waited until Vincent disappeared into the shower before pulling out the USB again. The files went deeper than I'd first realized. One document, half-redacted, showed my father's original debt had been legitimate with the Morettis. But someone close to Vincent's father—initials V.S., maybe one of the old guard—had tacked on phantom interest, routing it through Inverdale accounts to force the marriage. To force me here.

As the perfect pawn.

My hands shook as I closed the laptop. The journal under the mattress called to me. I retrieved it, pressing a fresh petal from the dying ghost orchid between the pages alongside my coded notes. Poison or antidote? The question felt more urgent now.

Vincent emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, water still beading on his scarred chest. He stopped when he saw the journal in my lap, eyes narrowing at the USB drive beside me on the bed.

"What is that?" His voice had gone dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that made the air feel thick enough to choke on.

I lifted my chin, heart hammering so hard I felt it in my teeth. "Evidence. My father's debt was inflated. By someone in your organization. Someone close to your father. I wasn't just sold, Vincent. I was planted here."

He went dangerously still, the pocket watch forgotten in his hand. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders as he stared at me. Recognition flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or calculation. When he spoke, his whisper raised every hair on my arms.

"You weren't supposed to find that."