Page 7 of Devil's Tulip

For a gut-wrenching moment, there’s no movement. Then the driver’s door creaks open, and Gianna stumbles out, shoulders shaking—likely from coughing. She picks up a weird-looking bag from the wreckage, takes a few unsteady steps back, and just stands there…admiring her handiwork?What the hell? Not a hint of worry on her face.

What’s going on in that head of hers?

When she finally moves, it’s to circle around to the trunk, take out a red canister, and start pouring what can only be gasoline.

“Tell me you’re not that crazy…”

She is.

She makes sure the liquid is everywhere—on the inside, the tires, over the body. Once satisfied, she pulls something out of her coat pocket. A lighter.

Oh, fuck. She flicks it on and tosses it.

“You’re too close. Take a fucking step ba–”

But it’s too late.

The car explodes, the force of the blast hurling her back against a tree. I zoom in frantically on the camera to make sure she’s okay. She’s slumped on the ground, but she’ssmiling—a wild, beautiful thing—as she watches the flames devour the luxury vehicle.

My cock stiffens, and I press my hand down on the throbbing length.

“She’s fucking crazy.”She’s fucking mine.

2

GIANNA

Ugh, my neck is itching like crazy again.

I reach up to scratch it, eyes darting around the quiet streets of this rich-as-hell Seattle suburb, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. Shit, am I about to be found again? The warning signs are all there. That familiar prickle means I’ve stayed too long, gotten too comfortable despite the endless godforsaken rain.

Two months on the run and my instincts are sharper than ever. Which is the only reason I’m not face down in a shallow grave right now, courtesy of my psycho uncle.

I sigh heavily as I jam my finger into the doorbell of my latest employer’s mansion. Mrs. Churchill—old money, more art pieces than sense, and a peculiar obsession with having every surface gleaming like it’s never been touched by human hands.

The door swings open mid-sigh, and the housekeeper’s face appears with her usual ‘What now?’ frown. “Something wrong, Bree?”

I startle at the name—Bree. Right. My new alias. It’s getting harder to keep track. The names are piling up faster than thefalse trail I’m leaving across the country. Bree, Madison, Anna, Kate… after a while, they all start to blur.

I’m losing pieces of myself every time I shed my skin. Pretty soon, there won’t be anything left.

Maybe it’s for the best.

The housekeeper’s deepening frown snaps me back, so I plaster on my best everything’s-fine smile. “Nope, all good, thanks.”

Her suspicious gaze drills into the back of my skull as I make my way to the supply closet. I gather my weapons—mop, bleach, gloves, cleaning brush—and march towards the ground-floor powder room, determined to push through another day of scrubbing this ridiculously huge mansion.

Professional cleaner. That’s my current gig.

Turns out the stupidly rich shell out a decent chunk of cash for ‘professional’ cleaning services. And lucky for me, I’ve gotten damn good at playing the part.

The bathrooms are my starting point, as always. Hair goes up into a bun, leather gloves snap on. Time to get to work.

Cleaning an entire two-story mansion is tedious, but I grit my teeth and tough it out, humming under my breath to distract myself as I listen to my playlist through my AirPod.

Five hours later, my back is screaming and my thighs are jelly, but the job’s done. I return the supplies to the closet and find the housekeeper waiting for me in the foyer, envelope in hand. The moment that makes this all worth it.

At every house I’ve worked the past few weeks, I’ve made it a rule to collect my payment the same day—you never know when you’ll need to run, and being broke while on the run is a death sentence I’ve already narrowly avoided once.

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