chapter 2

Adrian

The first time I saw her, I wasn't supposed to be there.

The bar was a low-end hole in the wall I only found because my knuckles still bled from the night before. I needed a drink. I needed silence. I needed to sit somewhere I wasn't known. Somewhere the shadows welcomed me instead of whispered behind my back.

Then she looked at me — really looked — and the whole fucking world shifted.

Raye Sinclair. That name took me months to learn. At first, she was just the girl behind the counter who never flinched. Not even when a drunk threw a glass or the cash register jammed. She didn't scream or panic. She pressed her lips together and dealt with it.

Quietly. Beautifully.

I kept going back.

I told myself it was just to clear my head. To feel normal for a few minutes. But normal's never been my game, and she was far too magnetic to be just routine. Something about her pulled me in—like gravity or goddamn gravity's crueler twin.

She didn't know who I was. And that's what kept me sane.

In my world, people don't smile without wanting something. They don't pour you a drink unless they're also slipping poison into the glass. But she—Raye—served me cheap beer with tired eyes and a faint smile that didn't try to seduce or impress.

She just was. And that was enough.

For a while, I didn't speak to her. I didn't need to. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for her to notice me. And when she did, when she learned I'd only order from her and no one else, she laughed under her breath and shook her head.

She probably thought I was awkward. Or obsessive. Or rude.

She'd be right on all three.

But she never stopped coming over when I showed up. And I never stopped watching her hands as she poured. I watched her tuck stray curls behind her ear. I memorized the exact moment her lips curled into a smile when her best friend told a joke.

I shouldn't have memorized her. I had no right. But I did.

That's when the black roses started.

She didn't know what they meant, and I preferred it that way.

Most people think black roses mean death. Endings. Mourning.

To me, they mean control. Contained chaos. The kind of love that doesn't pretend to be soft or simple. The kind of devotion that doesn't fade with time — it rots you from the inside out until there's nothing left but need.

Black roses were my warning.

A silent confession.

A boundary I never planned to cross.

But every time she accepted them without question — every time I saw her tuck one into her bag or pin it behind the bar for the night — I knew I was lying to myself.

I was already crossing the line.

She called me Mystery with her friend. I overheard once when they thought I wasn't listening. I liked it. Better than the names the underground gave me. Better than Moretti. Better than boss. Better than killer.

Mystery meant I was something unknown. And I liked that idea… that maybe to her, I wasn't a monster.

Not yet.

So I kept showing up.

Same seat. Same drink I didn't even like. Same hour of night. And she kept serving me, giving me the smallest glimpses of normal I'd ever known.

But the thing about black roses is, they don't bloom.

They burn.

And I was already starting to feel the heat.

She doesn't know it, but it's the closest I've ever come to touching her.

Tonight, though, wasn't a flower night.

It was a watch-her-walk-home night.

Same hoodie, same bag slung over her shoulder, same click of her boots on pavement as she took the long way home through the back streets of Ridgeview. Always aware. Always alert. Never scared, even when she should be.

I kept my distance. Two buildings back.

My hands shoved into the pockets of my coat, breath slow and measured.

And then I saw him.

Jayden.

I knew his face. That smirk. The overconfident stride of a man who thought pain was something he could give and never receive.

He stepped out from behind a power box like he belonged there — like she invited him.

She flinched. Not much, but enough.

Her body locked up for a second, then relaxed when she realised who it was.

"Seriously?" she muttered, voice low. "What do you want, Jayden?"

He blocked her path. She moved left. He moved with her.

I moved half a step forward. Stopped.

"You're nothing without me," he said. "You've been flailing ever since I left. What—bartending now? Cute."

She laughed, short and bitter. "You didn't leave. I threw you out and burned the bridge behind you."

He grabbed her arm.

Not hard. Not violently. Just enough to claim space that no longer belonged to him.

And I almost moved again.

Almost.

She stared at his hand. Then at his face.

There was venom in her voice when she spoke.

"Touch me again and I'll break your f*cking fingers."

She shoved him back.

Hard enough that he stumbled.

Hard enough that he lost that smug little smirk.

"Go harass someone else," she snapped. "I'm not scared of you anymore."

And then she walked.

Just like that.

Shoulders high. Jaw locked.

Like the whole encounter hadn't cracked her just a little.

Jayden stood there, stunned, like he couldn't process that he wasn't the centre of the universe anymore.

I stood farther away, fists clenched in my pockets.

Because if I moved, I wouldn't stop.

Not until every bone in his arm was dust.

But she didn't need me.

She had fire in her blood and war in her voice.

She saved herself.

Again.

And I hated it.

Because if she ever needed saving — just once — I would tear the world apart to do it.

Instead, I stayed in the shadows.

Unseen. Unheard. Uninvited.

She reached her building and unlocked the door with steady fingers, even though I could still see the shake in her shoulders.

She didn't look back.

Didn't know I was there.

Didn't know I always was.

I waited until the light flicked on in her flat window. Until I saw her silhouette drop the bag, kick off her boots, and disappear into the bathroom.

And then I turned around and walked the opposite way.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I had to.

Because if I didn't put distance between me and Jayden, I'd end up in a jail cell with blood under my fingernails and no apology big enough to explain it.

She'll be fine, I told myself.

She always is.

But something about tonight unraveled me.

The way she looked after she pushed him.

The silence she carried with her as she walked home.

Like she was strong, yes — but tired of having to be.

And for a second… I hated the black roses.

Because I wanted to be more than the shadow who left flowers.

More than the ghost who watches.

I wanted to be the man she could call.

The one she'd let stay.

The one she'd trust enough to say:

"Please… just be here."

But I'm not that man.

Not yet.

So I'll keep leaving them.

Every Wednesday.

One black rose at a time.

And if she ever asks why?

I'll lie.

Because the truth is, they aren't warnings.

They aren't riddles.

They aren't symbols of death.

They're love letters from a man who doesn't know how to love without breaking something.

And I will never let that thing be her.