Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“As far as anyone was concerned, I got homeschooled until I was sixteen. But where I come from, reading and writing wasn’t high on the list of priorities.”

“So”—a stroke on the side of my chin—“how bad is it?”

“I can handle short sentences, and words I already know,” I say, not looking at her. “To get through half a page, I need a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” She takes my chin between her fingers, turning my head to face her. “Would you like to know what I was reading about after you left?”

“Yes.”

“Come sit beside me. And pass me the book.”

I climb on the bed and place the heavy textbook in her hands. Nera leans her head on my shoulder and opens the text, setting it on my lap.

“Tonight, we’re learning about the digestive tract of an adult cow,” she states and points the tip of her finger under the heading at the top of the page. “I’ll go slow. If you need me to repeat any words, just tell me.”

“Okay.”

“Stomach compartments.” Her finger slides across the page as she reads:

“The rumen is the largest stomach compartment and consists of several sacs. It can hold twenty-five gallons or more of material depending on the size of the cow. Because of its size, the rumen acts as a storage or holding vat for feed. Aside from storage . . .”

I wrap my arm around her back and listen to the sounds of her voice blending with the raindrops beating on the window. Every now and then, she yawns, but she continues reading, her finger moving under the words until the sun rises above the horizon and she finally falls asleep on my chest. I lift the book off my lap and keep holding my girl pressed to my body for a bit longer. Then, I carefully lay her down and rise from the bed.

Before I leave, I shut off the light and lean over my sleeping cub, taking her hand in mine.

“Thank you,” I say and kiss her fingers.

Chapter 17

Two weeks later

“Good evening. How can I— Oh, it’s you again, sir.”

I glare at the florist with a steely stare, then switch my focus to a guy standing in front of the shelf laden with rose bouquets.

“Out,” I order.

“Excuse me?” He gives me an exasperated look.

I reach into my jacket and pull out my gun, pressing the barrel to the idiot’s forehead. “Now.”

The guy drops the flowers he’s holding and hightails it out of the store. I reholster my gun while approaching the shop door, then flip the sign toclosed. When I turn around, the florist is gaping at me with bulging eyes.

“I need flowers that don’t have any pollen. My girl is allergic.”

“Um . . .” He pulls at his collar. “Perhaps, some roses?”

“They don’t have pollen?”

“Well, they do, but um . . . they are considered hypoallergenic because the pollen particles are far too big,so they won’t become airborne and cause issues for allergy sufferers.”

I throw a look at the shelf containing various colored roses. A few years ago, I had a hit that came with a special request. The client wanted the victim’s severed tongue placed on a bed of rose petals and delivered to him in a gift-wrapped box.

“No roses. What else?”

“Maybe a cactus?”

I lift an eyebrow.