Page 72 of The Florist and Her Alphas

One of Cole’s guys is up on a ladder, installing a camera so small you’d have to know exactly where to look to spot it. The lens is the size of a pencil eraser, matte black, angled to cover the door and the sidewalk. Another man is at the back door with a drill, swapping out the deadbolt for a biometric lock that will read Liana’s palm and all four of ours. A third is sweeping the shop with a handheld device that beeps softly every thirty seconds, and I don’t ask what he’s looking for.

“Full system live by sundown,” the team lead says beside me, clipboard in hand. He’s Cole’s oldest friend from his military days.

“Good,” I say. “Before she reopens, I want this place to be a fortress by then.”

He nods once and goes back to his clipboard. No wasted words. I appreciate that. They’re here strictly for one job without wasting a lot of time.

Leaving them to it, I leave the store and cross the street to my car.

The brick storefront sits quiet behind me, the chalkboard sign pulled in, the whiskey barrels of dahlias catching the last of the sun. I slide behind the wheel and sit there for a minute with my hand on the ignition.

I rub my jaw. The stubble there is rough under my palm.

Liana is going to be furious. The look on her face this morning at breakfast when Ezra laid out the security plan was the look of a woman who refused to be told what to do ever again.

I get it. I fucking get it.

But Silus Thornton bought a croissant from her best friend’s bakery this morning. That is a man who knows exactly where she is and exactly how to find her, and the thought of him standing on that quiet tree-lined block with his cold eyes and his patient smile makes something in my chest go very still and very cold.

I pull my phone out.

My thumb hovers over Liana’s contact. I want to hear her voice and tell her that the shop is safe. I put the phone down. She’s in heat and exhausted. I can tell her after her heat is over.

The elevator to the penthouse is too slow. I jangle my keys in my pocket. Tap my foot. The doors finally open onto the great room, and the first thing I hear is Pepper.

“Goddamn it,” the bird says in August’s voice, clear as a bell, from his perch by the kitchen window. “Where the fuck is my pen?”

I snort. Pepper is picking sunflower seeds out of a small ceramic bowl, his yellow head bobbing, his emerald body puffed to twice its normal size. He spots me and tilts his head exactly ninety degrees.

“Hi gorgeous,” he says, in my voice. My own fucking pickup line, thrown back at me by a parrot.

Ezra is at the island. Charcoal sweater, laptop open, phone to his ear. His jaw is tight. The scar through his eyebrow stands out pale against his skin.

He glances up when I walk in. Nods once. Goes back to his call.

I drop my keys on the counter and pour myself two fingers of whiskey. Don’t bother with ice. Pepper watches me with one suspicious yellow eye. I lean against the counter and wait for Ezra to finish his call.

He does, finally. Sets the phone down and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“How’s the shop?” he asks, without looking up.

“Secure. Or it will be by tonight. Cole’s guys are good. Very thorough. Very quiet.”

He nods. His eyes are on the screen. Something about the set of his shoulders tells me the legal situation is complicated.

“Where is she?” I ask. Ezra does not look up from his laptop. His fingers keep moving over the keyboard, steady and measured.

“Library,” he says. Dry. Flat. The single word carries approximately eight tons of unspoken context.

“What?”

Ezra glances up. The look on his face is somewhere between amusement and resignation. “According to my camera footage, August has been in there with her for an hour and forty minutes.”

“Oh,” I say, setting my whiskey down. “An hour?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re…?”