SKIN OF ASH AND HONEY
Emilia’s Hart POV
Mornings were safest in silence.
Emilia moved like clockwork—soft bare feet brushing against the cold tiles, her fingers curling around the ceramic edge of a chipped mug. The coffee machine wheezed to life as she stood still in her small kitchen, waiting for the dark drip of caffeine. Her eyes never strayed from the window. Outside, the sky bled into grey, a low-hung cloud veiling the world like a whisper not meant to be heard.
She preferred it that way. No sudden color. No sharp sounds. No disruptions.
Her apartment was minimal by necessity, not design. Walls the color of bone, curtains drawn halfway like secrets hesitant to stay buried. Paintings leaned against walls—some unfinished, others too loud to hang. Each canvas held a breath she couldn’t release.
She turned from the window, coffee in hand, and paused before her easel. Last night’s brush strokes had dried into shades of bruised violet and ash. A figure stood in the painting—featureless, faceless, arms outstretched in a silent scream.
It unsettled her. Not the painting itself, but that she didn’t remember painting it.
The scent of turpentine lingered in the room, mingling with the scent of burnt toast she’d forgotten in the kitchen again. Routine. That was the rule. And yet, her mind had wandered without permission. The loss of control sent a cold trickle down her spine.
She dressed with mechanical efficiency. High-necked blouse. Long sleeves. Soft, faded jeans. Clothes that covered her skin like armor. No makeup, no jewelry—nothing that might invite attention. By seven thirty, she was out the door, slipping into the gentle chaos of the city.
The walk to the flower shop took ten minutes. She knew every crack in the pavement, every graffiti mark, every face she avoided on the way. The world bustled and pulsed, but she moved through it like vapor. Untouched.
Inside the shop, warmth and scent welcomed her. Fresh eucalyptus. Wild roses. Soil. Her boss, Marianne, was already chatting with a customer, her hands wrapped around a bouquet of sunflowers. She waved when she saw Emilia, but didn’t interrupt. They had an understanding—Emilia didn’t do small talk before ten.
She slipped behind the counter, tying on her apron and exhaling slowly. Her hands found comfort in pruning shears and stems, fingers deftly trimming, arranging, weaving. Each bouquet was its own quiet meditation. Here, among the petals and thorns, she could breathe.
A familiar song played faintly from the shop speakers—something old and sweet—and for a brief moment, she let herself sway with the rhythm as she arranged a bundle of soft lavender and blue delphinium.
Until the bell over the door chimed.
Her spine stiffened. Reflex. She didn’t look up, didn’t greet. Just kept working.
But something shifted in the air. A pause in conversation. Marianne’s voice faltered. Footsteps moved closer.
Then silence.
Emilia looked up—and found a man watching her.
He was sharply dressed in a tailored black coat, his presence both out of place and entirely dominant in the flower-scented air. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that didn’t flinch when they met hers. He held a single white rose between his fingers, though it looked more like a challenge than a gift.
Emilia’s breath stuttered.
The man offered a nod—polite, almost indifferent—and moved to the counter without a word.
Marianne rushed over, her voice bright and nervous. “Can I help you, sir?”
He didn’t look away from Emilia. “I’m just browsing.”
He wasn’t.
Emilia dropped her gaze and turned away, pretending to re-sort a vase of peonies. But she felt it—his gaze like a hand sliding over the back of her neck. She gripped the stems tighter, ignoring the prickle of something foreign and unwelcome... or maybe too welcome.
Marianne eventually led him toward the far aisle, her voice fading behind the fronds of pampas grass and hydrangeas. Emilia exhaled, placing the peonies aside. Her fingers trembled slightly.
She hated that.
It wasn’t fear, not exactly. She’d felt fear before—real, raw, bone-shaking fear. This was different. This was disruption.
By the time she dared glance up again, he was gone.
Only the white rose remained, placed gently on the counter.
No note. No card. No name.
She stared at it as if it might burn her. Then she picked it up and placed it in a glass vase, hiding it behind the cash register.
Later, after closing, she walked home in the slow, amber drip of twilight. Her thoughts circled like vultures. Who was he? What did he want? Had she seen him before? And why did her chest feel tight every time she thought about his eyes?
She arrived at her apartment and went straight to her easel.
Her hands moved before her mind could resist—long, jagged strokes across fresh canvas. Black. Red. Grey. A skyline drowning in smoke. A man in a long coat, his eyes left blank.
When she finished, her fingers were stained and shaking. She sat back, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. The man was real. She hadn’t imagined him. But he didn’t feel real.
Not in the way ordinary men did.
The night stretched on, hours slipping by in silence. She couldn’t sleep. She kept hearing the bell of the shop door. Kept seeing that single white rose.
Eventually, she opened her window and lit a candle beside her bed. It was something her therapist once recommended—ritual light to calm the brain. It didn’t help tonight.
The next morning, the rose was gone from the vase.
Not wilted. Not thrown out.
Gone.
She hadn’t moved it. Marianne hadn’t been in.
Emilia stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the empty glass, her heart pounding.
Then she saw it—tucked beneath the register, barely visible.
A business card.
Black. Minimal. One name in silver letters.
Dante Vale.
No phone number. No email. No address.
Just a name.
A name that tasted like fire and silk in her mouth. A name she didn’t know, yet somehow already feared.
Her pulse quickened.
Because the back of the card wasn’t blank.
It held three words in clean, handwritten script:
I want you.
What happens when the man who sees the darkness in you… decides he wants it all?
