Page 16 of Heir to Desire
Damien joined us, like a supervisor making sure I was staying on course. It almost felt as if I were taking a school course at Hogwarts or something, and he was there to ensure I paid attention.
My body began to shake in the cold. I longed a bit for Damien to wrap his arm around me as he’d done in the living room the day before, but I tried to get the thought out of my head.
“Don’t worry,” Roman assured me after hearing my teeth chatter and pointing at the greenhouse. “It’s very warm in there.”
Damien, walking in front of me, turned and gave me a reassuring look.
When we entered the plant sanctuary, a rush of humid air enveloped us and dispelled the cold. Rows of vibrant green plants thrived under the artificial sun lights hanging from the ceiling. Roman, a seasoned gardener with weathered hands, led us through the lush labyrinth.
“Welcome to my sanctuary,” he declared, a glint of pride in his eyes.
I scanned the myriad of plants across the room, their leaves glossy and resplendent.
“How did they survive the winter?”
Roman chuckled. “Heaters, my boy. And these lights, which mimic the sun. Those little tricks are the secret behind this oasis. Haven’t you ever seen a greenhouse before?” He gestured toward a particular section, where a collection of seemingly innocent plants stood. Of course I had, but I didn’t realize they could be this efficient during a New York winter. “But beware, not all that glitters is gold.” Damien had grabbed a small watering can and was quenching the thirst of some red roses in the corner.
I felt curiosity flicker in my eyes as Roman began his tour of toxicity. “This here is a Belladonna,” he explained, pointing to a plant with dark, alluring berries. “Beautiful, but deadly.
Just a few berries can send a man into deep sleep, never to wake again.”
“I think they call that death,” I replied. Damien chuckled in the distance. Roman smiled.
As I listened intently, absorbing the dangers and magic filling the greenhouse, Roman continued introducing each poisonous plant with a storyteller’s flair. Obviously, gardening was a deep passion of his.
“Foxglove,” he said, his fingers delicately tracing the bell-shaped blooms of the plant before him. “It may look like a fairy’s hat, but ingesting it can bring a heart to a complete standstill.”
Roman then led Damien and me further into the greenhouse, stopping before a cluster of dark, glossy berries hanging from a delicate stem. “This is Deadly Nightshade, Nikolai. Ingesting even a small amount can lead to hallucinations, seizures, and eventually, a quiet death.”
I felt my eyes widen as I absorbed the gravity of Roman’s words. The allure of the berries now seemed like a sinister temptation, something beautiful but painful, not unlike my budding relationship with Damien. I felt I couldn’t resist his poison, even if I knew how badly it would eventually hurt me.
“Moving on to Hemlock,” Roman continued, pointing to a feathery leafed plant. “It’s not just the poison that’s deadly but the slow, agonizing effects. Convulsions, paralysis, and ultimately, a painful demise.”
The weight of the plants’ potential harm settled over me like a heavy coat. I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into Roman’s ominous words. Damien, that dark and stormy and irresistible man with eyes like black chocolate and a Herculean face, stood by us in silence.
“Oleander,” Roman said, gesturing toward a seemingly innocent shrub with vibrant flowers. “It may charm you with its beauty, but its toxins can cause nausea, vomiting, and heart irregularities. Just a handful of leaves can bring about a cruel fate.”
Roman shared more stories of Wolfsbane, Aconitum, and Castor Bean plants. Each had its unique set of toxic effects, from neurological disruptions to organ failure.
“Why cultivate such dangerous plants?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“You don’t need guns to kill a man, Nikolai. One sometimes needs to be creative.”
As the tour concluded, I couldn’t shake a fascination and unease that lingered in the air. The greenhouse, a paradox of life and death, stood as a testament to the delicate dance between beauty and danger, even in the heart of winter.
Why was I still fantasizing about Damien? I had just met him, and yet I couldn’t get him out of my head. Was it possible that daydreaming about him—sex with him, a life with him—was an easy distraction from my morbid reality of criminal parents and an impending death threat from Vladimir and his gangsters?
“Can we go see the rose garden?” I asked Roman, trying to distract myself from my own distractions. “Do roses even survive in the winter?”
“These ones do,” Roman said. “Especially with a bit of help. Let’s go.” The three of us made our way out of the greenhouse and back into the ominous wintry wonderland that was the Obolensky manor’s grounds.
We trekked through the snow, Roman leading Damien and Damien leading me, towards the wooded area on the outskirts of the backyard or field or whatever one would call such a sprawling piece of land in the middle of Queens. To think the buzzing metropolis that contained Times Square and the like was probably just a few miles away (even if it would take 45-minutes in New York traffic) was mind-boggling. Having grown up poor, or at least thinking I was poor, secluded estates like this were nothing more than fodder for movies and comics I read as a kid, likeBatman.
In the distance, I could see the rose garden unfold like a canvas painted in hues of red. Even in the cold, the vibrant red roses stood proudly, their petals catching all they could of the limited sunlight that filtered through the towering trees of the nearby woods. Roman had put a protective layer of plastic tarps above the flowers, shielding them from the snow and preserving the delicate beauty lying beneath.
The roses, like silent sentinels, felt as if they guarded memories of my mother’s love. The vivid red colors mirrored the passion and warmth with which she used to live her life.
“Roses are very resilient plants,” Roman said, finally breaking a long silence shared between himself, Damien, and me. “This variety of Russian roses is particularly hardy, helping them to survive through even the harshest of times. Like any living creature, they will one day die—but they are far less feeble than most of their relatives. Some things, really, are meant to last.”