Page 76 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

He takes my hand as he passes, and tucks me behind him. I follow, weaving between shelves, past a history section and a rack of greeting cards and a display of local Chicago authors propped on wooden easels. He turns a corner and stops. Steps aside.

I do the same, or risk flattening my nose between his shoulder blades. I step out from behind him and my jaw nearly hits the hardwood floor.

I gasp, eyes wide in awe. I can’t believe what I am seeing.

The section he’s brought us to takes up an entire endcap and half a wall. Premium shelving at eye level, warm light angled to catch the cover art, a hand-lettered sign above that reads BOTANICAL ART & ILLUSTRATION in gold script on black card stock by CORA VALE.

“My coloring books.”

All twelve of them.

Stacked, fanned, face-out, spine-out, displayed with the deliberate care of a bookseller who knows these titles and wants the customer to find them. My author photo from my website is blown up into a life-size cardboard cutout standing beside the display, and the cutout version of me is smiling with a pencil tucked behind her ear and a lily of the valley boutonniere pinned to her apron. Beneath the cutout, a small placard reads: LOCAL ARTIST. HAND-DRAWN BOTANICAL ILLUSTRATIONS. FIND YOUR CALM WITH CORA.

Beside the books, a curated tray of coloring supplies. Premium pencils in a tin. A travel set of watercolors. Fine-tip markers organized by color family. Everything a customer would need to start the moment they get home, selected with the quiet specificity of someone who either knows the craft or hired someone who does.

A woman stands at the display. She gathers three of my books into her arms, selects the pencil tin, and carries everything toward the register without hesitation. She doesn't notice me standing six feet away. She doesn't know the woman on the cardboard cutout is watching her buy these books with shaking hands and a pulse so loud it fills her ears.

I turn to look up at Rowan who has moved in behind me. His warmth wraps around me and there’s nothing I can do about the tears forming along the rims of my eyes.

"How long?" My voice cracks on the second word. I swallow and try again. "How long has this been here?"

"Since the day after you told me. Remember the footrub?"

I nod.

“I had no idea you were really listening to me drone on about illustration and all my ideas.”

“I keep telling you to keep talking because I can’t stand a moment of my day where I don’t hear your voice, your ideas. You are filled with so many it’s amazing to hear you talk. All I hear about are death wishes, problems and violence.” He cups my face and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, the tip of my nose and then my lips. “But not when I’m with you. I finally understand why my brothers are so love-struck.”

Love-struck. What a beautiful word.

Looking up at my lover, my vision blurs with tears.

“Don’t cry, my love.” Using the pads of his thumbs, he wipes my falling tears away.

“I cry because I drew my first illustrated coloring book during the worst winter of my life, when the pipes in my apartment froze and the shop was three months from opening and I sat at my kitchen table with a space heater aimed at my feet. That winter I was pretty damn desperate to get anything to work. I didn’t want to be a burden on my sister or my mom.”

Rowan leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Go on.”

“I drew foxglove and forty-three other flowers across eight days because the alternative was admitting I was drowning. I uploaded it to an online platform and prayed people would love it as much as I did. I never thought it would lead here. I stared at my sales dashboard for two weeks before the first order came through. I sold one copy the first month to someone in Topeka, Kansas. Two days later a review popped up reading, ‘these flowers feel like they're breathing’. I cried then too.”

I turn in Rowan’s arms. “You’ve made a dream come true for me and I’ve done nothing but bring problems to your door.”

The world has narrowed to just Rowan and me standing in the middle of his bookstore. His mouth opens and I know he wants to counter what I’m sharing, but the truth is the truth.

I hold a hand up, asking him to let me finish. “I have uploaded eleven more books since then. I dreamed about seeing my books in a real store, on a real shelf, with a real display, and I never told anyone except Raine because dreams are fragile when you say them out loud and the world has already taught me how fast it can break them.”

I wrap my fingers around his where he’s still holding my face gently. “You’ve given me a dream when you had the power to crush it. You saved my life never asking for anything in return. Not even payment for the wish. You think you are darkness, my sweet Russian, but you have a light inside you that refuses to fade. You tell me not to let anyone take my light, but that goes double for you. I see you. I see your light.”

As I pour my soul out in the middle of the coloring book aisle, Rowan Volkov begins to tear up. The glimmering shine is unmistakable and for the first time in my life I feel whole.

"Thank you for being you," I whisper.

"Da." I feel he wants to say more, but my big mafia man doesn’t do tears often so choking up in front of witnesses is probably more than he can handle at the moment.

I press my hands to his chest and raise to the tips of my toes. I press my lips to his and it’s just him and me. Our body heat and hearts meld together in that moment.

"You can't just do things like this." I say when I break our kiss.