The Scent Of Violets

by Lara Wilson

Despite her civilian profession, he'd never seen her as a woman who'd get girlish over flowers. Still, it was traditional, so, in the dead of night, with the earth still freshly disturbed from her funeral earlier in the day, he lay a sprig of dark purple violets on her grave. As he crouched there, he drew his fingers through the soft loam and murmured, "Dust to dust, Dinah."

Just like any hopes they'd long since lost for a relationship.

His eye skimmed the platitudes on the headstone. Loving daughter, heroine, good friend. Nothing that spoke of her feisty spirit, the biting tongue that had challenged him at every turn, the woman who had nearly turned him from the path she refused to follow him down.

Slade Wilson had many regrets over his long life, but his irrational decision to become the man the twisted soul of his son had turned him into was his greatest. He'd lost his mind and his code of ethics had disappeared with it. By the time he'd regained the former and fought for the latter, any chance he'd had with her was gone.

Over the ensuing years, when their paths crossed and she tried to arrest him and he tried not to kill her, the passion between them got the better of them a few times, but there was never anything past the moment.

He regretted that, as well.

As he brushed his fingers over the soft petals of the violets and stood, he knew one thing he would never regret was the blood on his hands of the man who'd murdered her. Dinah would have held that death as one more black mark against him.

But, Dinah was dead, and vengeance was one of the few things that gave him any relief.

That and the delicate scent of violets.

She'd always smelled of those flowers in his bed.


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