Page 83 of The Florist and Her Alphas

Were the Frostwoods trying to buy me out again? Feeling betrayed, with tears in my eyes, I quickly tear the envelope open, fully expecting to read a letter from them because I walked away.

Something slides out of the envelope and lands on the counter.

I stare down at it.

A single sprig of dried white pine, needles gone brittle and pale, tied together with a thin strip of black ribbon. No note tucked inside. No card. No signature.

Just the sprig.

The smell of pine hits me. Memories of Magnus and his pack wash over me, and I suddenly know who left this for me.

I stumble back.

My shoulder hits the wall behind the counter, hard enough to jar my teeth, and I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t scream; I can only stare at that small, brittle sprig lying innocent and terrible on the counter.

Silus knows where I sleep. He knows where I live. And I know he won’t stop even after I’ve moved on with a new pack. He will always come after me.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor behind the counter, knees drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them. My phone is still in my apron pocket. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to unlock the screen.

I scroll to Cole’s name. I press it, and hold the phone to my ear with both hands because one alone isn’t steady enough.

He answers on the first ring. “Liana.”

“Cole…?” I start to say, unable to continue. My throat feels tight, and I have no idea how to explain what’s going on.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t waste a single second of breath on questions.

“Liana. Where are you? Are you at the shop?”

“Yes.”

“I am six blocks away. I am coming now. Stay where you are. Lock the door. Do not move. I will be there in three minutes.”

He doesn’t hang up.

I hear him moving on the other end — a car door slamming, an engine catching, his voice pulling away from the phone for a second to bark something short and clipped into another line. He’s already calling his brothers. Shaking, I stare at the sprig of pine, watching it like it’s going to wrap a hand around my throat any second.

Twenty-One

LIANA

The squeal of tires outside comes before I’ve even lowered the phone from my ear. Tires brake hard, then the sound of a car door slams violently. The bell over the door rings loudly, and Cole is through it before the sound finishes.

He rounds the counter in two strides, boots loud on the old wood floor, and then he’s on the ground in front of me, gathering me against his chest in one motion.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he mutters, folding himself around me, his cheek pressed to the top of my head, one hand spread wide between my shoulder blades, holding me together like I might come apart otherwise.

Still shaking, I bury my face in his shirt and inhale his scent. “It’s okay.”

He holds me like that for a long minute.

His hand moves in slow circles on my back until my breathing starts to even out, until the shaking in my shoulders slows to something smaller. Only then does he pull back enough to look at my face. His thumb brushes a strand of hair off my cheek.

“What happened?” he asks.

I can’t make my mouth form the words. I just point towards it.

He sees the sprig of dried white pine lying there, needles gone brittle and pale, tied off with its thin black ribbon. His face doesn’t change. Not really. But his jaw tightens, trying to figure out what I was telling him.