Page 3 of The Florist and Her Alphas

My grandmother is dying three feet from me.

I can’t scream. I can’t breathe. I bite down on the inside of my own cheek hard enough to taste blood and don’t make a sound.

Voices in the distance now. Multiple men are searching for me. Their words blur together, becoming a meaningless jumble of sounds.

I’m in a daze as more footsteps come into the garden.

I count them. Four men. Maybe five. Their boots scrape against stone, then fade as they move back toward the house.

Except one. One man stays behind. His footsteps stop beside the bench. The whole structure shudders as he kicks it once, hard, the iron ringing.

I stop breathing.

He kneels. The hem of his coat brushes the foxglove stems. Through my narrow slit of vision, I see a pale hand, an expensive ring on the smallest finger, pushing the foxgloves aside.

And then I see his face for the first time. Electric blue eyes. Wrinkled face with silver-blond hair. A smile that doesn’t reach those cold, cold eyes.

“Hello, little flower,” he says.

He extends a hand, but I can’t move. My body feels frozen, locked in place by terror.

“It’s all right,” he continues, his voice soft and patient. “I came a long way to find you. You have your mother’s eyes. Did anyone ever tell you that? Beautiful eyes.”

He waits. He sits down on the bench above me. The wood creaks. Through the gap in the foxgloves, I see the polished leather of his shoes two feet from my face.

“Go away,” I croak out.

“Don’t be so rude,” he says. “You don’t have to be scared. I promised your father a long time ago that you would be my bride and that I would collect you when you’ve turned eighteen. You’re my omega.”

The tears come silently, sliding down my cheeks and into the dirt.

Don’t cry. Be strong.

After a moment, he reaches down through the foxgloves and gently takes my wrist. He stands me up. I sway on my feet, my knees weak, my legs numb from lying so long in one position. The evening air feels shockingly cold against my tear-streaked face.

I see my grandmother then.

She’s three feet away on the ground, her eyes open, looking at nothing. Her yellow sundress is dark with blood. One arm is stretched out toward the bench, her fingers curled as if she were reaching for me.

My heart suddenly races out of control, and my breathing turns shallow.

It’s confirmed.

Right in front of me.

I drop to my knees, sobbing. “No! You killed my Grandma!”

My parents…were they dead too?

He lifts me into his arms, and I’m too weak to resist. Too weak to scream. My body feels like it belongs to someone else. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

He carries me toward the front of the house, talking softly as he walks. “You are going to be my bride, little flower. You will love it. You will love our home. Your family knew this day was coming. Are you excited to start your new life?”

I can’t answer. My throat feels closed, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as horror and realization of my new reality sink in.

One

LIANA