Page 69 of The Florist and Her Alphas

I pull my hands out of his. Stand up. Wrap the silk robe tighter around myself, my fingers trembling on the sash.

“I have been running my own life for three years,” I say. My voice is thin. Shaking. “I don’t need a security detail at my shop. Marsh Florals is the one place in the world I have ever felt safe. I’m not a prisoner.”

The word lands wrong. Ezra flinches like I’ve slapped him.

Ezra stands. Very carefully. Very slowly. His hands are at his sides, open, like he’s trying not to scare me.

“Nobody is treating you like a prisoner,” he says. His voice is low. Steady. The control in it is almost painful to hear. “This is about keeping you alive. After last night, I am not willing to take any chances with you. I am sorry if I am being too protective. I would rather be too protective and have you angry with me. I don’t want to lose you.”

My throat closes up. Tight. Aching. Magnus didn’t want to lose me too.

My heat is still humming under my skin like a live wire. I don’t know how to be loved this much by four men at once. I certainly do not know how to be loved this much while also being told what I can and cannot do with my own shop.

“I need a minute,” I say, turning to leave. I really need to be alone and think about this after having full independence for three years without a pack.

As I walk away, the cramps tighten low in my belly, hurting so bad as slick seeps down my thighs. But I try to ignore it as I keep walking.

“Lia…? Let’s talk about this, hun,” Julian calls after me, but I’m already leaving the dining room as fast as I can, hoping he wouldn’t come after me.

I walk down the long hallway with no destination, my bare feet silent on the carpet, as I tie the silk sash tighter around my aching belly. My god, this is the worst heat ever.

This penthouse is enormous. I walk past Ezra’s bedroom. Past two guest rooms I haven’t been in, doors closed. Then I see a large door, and I stop to push it open.

It’s a home library.

I step inside, and the room takes my breath away.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls. A brass rolling ladder hooked against the highest shelf. Two leather chesterfield armchairs by a small marble fireplace that isn’t lit. A vintage typewriter on an antique desk in the corner, keys gleaming. A reading lamp with a brass crescent shade.

It smells like old books, paper, leather, and beeswax candles.

I walk slowly into the middle of the room and turn in a slow circle, looking up at the shelves. There are literally thousands of books. Alphabetized. Some of them are obviously rare—leather-bound, gold-leaf spines catching the light. Some of them are cheap paperbacks with cracked spines, read so many times the pages have fallen open in the same place over and over.

I run my fingers along one shelf and reach for a book when I suddenly hear the door click shut softly behind me.

Turning, I see August standing in the doorway, his sandy blond hair still tousled from sleep, and he watches me for a long beat without speaking.

“I saw you come in here,” he says finally. His voice is soft. Careful. “Are you okay?”

I turn to face him. Still in the silk robe. Hair still a mess. Tears are already burning at the corners of my eyes, and I am trying so hard not to let them fall.

I hate being controlled.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.

He crosses the library slowly and opens his arms. I hesitate, biting my lip, and then walk towards him. He gives me a silent hug. One arm around my waist, the other cradling the back of my head, his chin resting on top of my hair.

He holds me there. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush. His heartbeat is steady against my cheek, and his honey scent wraps around me like a blanket.

After a long minute, his voice is soft against my hair. “We’re not trying to cage you, Lia. We want to protect you.”

I cry into his t-shirt. Silent sobs shake my shoulders, and August doesn’t let me go. He strokes my hair, slow and gentle, and he kisses the top of my head.

I pull back enough to look up at him.

His blue eyes are soft and worried behind his glasses. There’s a small smudge of flour on his left cheekbone from breakfast, pale against his skin.

I reach up and brush it away with my thumb. Even though I barely knew him, August would never hurt me. I know it in my heart.