Page 1 of The Florist and Her Alphas

Prologue

LIANA

The air around me is humid as I dig into soft, dark earth, pulling another weed from around the tender green shoots of my father’s peonies.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist, certain I’m leaving a trail of dirt across my skin, but too focused on my work to care.

This is where I belong. Even at the age of eighteen, the garden is comforting to me.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, huh?”

I look up to see my grandma, Eloise, coming around the corner of the bench garden with an armful of cut peonies. Her silver hair is pinned up in its usual loose knot, escaping tendrils framing her face. Her faded yellow sundress is hitched up slightly on one side, a smudge of rich brown soil stretching from wrist to elbow.

“I don’t know how we missed these,” I say, savagely pulling at more weeds without mercy.

Eloise reaches out with one dirt-caked finger and traces a line across my cheek. “You’ve got a proper garden growing on you. And your hair.” She tugs gently at a strand that’s come loose from my messy braid. “Looks like a fox built a nest on your head.”

“You would know,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Since you’re the fox who taught me not to care what I look like.”

Eloise smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “What time is your father’s big meeting?”

I shrug, moving down the row to where the foxgloves stand tall and purple against the garden wall. “No idea. Mom just said they were having guests. Didn’t say who. Dad’s been acting weird all week.”

I reach for a weed growing at the base of the tallest stem.

“Mhm,” says Eloise quietly.

The air suddenly feels different, as if the garden has stopped breathing. When I glance up, Eloise is still weeding, but her hands have frozen for half a second in the dark soil.

“Are you okay, Grandma?” I ask.

“Yes. Yes, I’m Fine,” she says, too quickly. “Just my ancient knees hurting.” She smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Listen, why don’t you finish up that section by the wall, and I’ll bring some flowers inside for the dinner table.”

She stands, brushing dirt from her dress, and moves toward the house. Something about Eloise’s face has left a hollow feeling in my stomach. I hope she’s okay and not in too much pain. Gardening is a lot of work, and she’s gotten more stubborn as she has aged, refusing to quit.

There’s a rhythm to gardening that I’ve always loved. I love the steady tug-pull of weeds, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle pop of roots giving way. I fall into it now, letting my mind empty of everything but the task at hand.

I jump when I hear my grandma gasp before entering the house.

I look up to see my mother at the garden entrance, one hand holding the screen door open with her hip. She’s wearing a pretty blue dress, her dark hair coming loose from its clip, but her face makes my breath catch. She’s pale, her eyes wide and frightened, and she’s not looking at me.

She’s looking at Eloise, who’s paused mid-step, an armful of peonies clutched to her chest.

“Mama,” my mother says, the word coming out fast and quiet. “They’re at the door. Daniel told them no, but they’re here anyway.”

I feel a chill run through me, even in the warm evening air. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the fear in them. I’ve never heard my mother sound like this before.

Eloise’s face goes still. “How many?”

“All of them,” my mother says. “Magnus brought his entire pack.”

Something passes over Eloise’s face. Not fear exactly, but a kind of clear-eyed resignation, as if she’s just confirmed something she’s been dreading for years. “Tell Daniel to keep them outside as long as he can.”

My mother’s eyes finally find me across the garden, twenty feet away, as I kneel among the foxgloves. She looks at me for one long moment, looking like she’s desperately trying not to cry.

Then Eloise is beside me, her hands on my shoulders, dragging me to my feet.

“Listen to me,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “Listen to me, my Liana.”