3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
T he alpha loomed in the doorway like a storm incarnate—a towering figure cloaked in a leather jacket that screamed arrogance. His mere presence seemed to weigh down the air, thickening it with unspoken threats and simmering disdain. “Is this going to take much longer?” he drawled, his voice low and saturated with entitlement, reverberating off the shop’s walls like a loaded gunshot.
I don’t even need to see Jamie’s face to know he’s straining to maintain a semblance of calm. His shoulders square and his eyes remain fixed on the counter, where the flicker of fluorescent lights meets the neatly arranged order slips.
“We had a lot of orders this morning,” Jamie explains calmly, his tone laced with forced courtesy as he stacks layer upon layer of politeness. “I can check for you again.” His voice wavers just slightly under the weight of the confrontation, as if every word carries the burden of unvoiced apologies.
The alpha’s smirk broadens into a disdainful curl of his lips, revealing the stark contrast of his teeth against the smudged leather of his attire. “You think I have time for you to ‘check again’?” he retorts, his tone dripping with scorn.
“We’re doing our best,” Jamie replies, mechanically flipping through the order sheet—a flimsy hope that the paper might rearrange itself to suit the alpha’s impatient demands. His hands, though steady in their duty, betray hints of tension; the constriction of his jaw, and the even cadence of his strained voice, all speak of an internal battle against the rising fury within.
“I can see that,” the alpha sneers, his eyes mercilessly roaming over Jamie’s form in a way that sends sparks of indignation through me. “Some best.” His words cut through the air, turning the humble shop into a claustrophobic space where the very atmosphere seemed to recoil under his presence.
The room, once a sanctuary of tulips and lilies, suddenly feels like a cramped cell as if the alpha were crowding not just the physical space but every molecule of air. Jamie inhales deeply his brown eyes close for a moment, his chest rising with a determined calm, yet I can sense the dwindling fight in him—a weary resignation that I refuse to let claim victory. I step forward from behind the meticulously arranged displays, my voice slicing through the charged tension like a silver blade. “Everything okay here?”
The alpha shifts his attention to me, and with it comes the full weight of his scrutinizing gaze that carries both arrogance and assumption. “Just waiting on a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he spits out, every syllable laced with condescension.
Jamie’s posture deflates, some of his short brown hair falling into his face, as if he wishes to vanish into the worn floorboards beneath him, but I intercept that descent. “Then you should be talking to me,” I assert, unflinching as I meet his intense stare. “I run this place.”
For a moment, his expression transforms—a flicker of curiosity appears beneath layers of irritation. “Figures,” he mutters, his voice rueful yet studded with disbelief. “An omega with a little flower shop.”
“That’s right,” I reply smoothly, the calm of my tone belying the tension in the air. “And we’ve got plenty of orders today. But if you’re in too much of a hurry, I’m sure we can cancel yours.”
A low, menacing growl rumbles from him, meant to unnerve, though I stand tall, resolute. “You think you can talk to me like that?”
Jamie shifts uncomfortably at my side, his eyes searching for a safe harbor in this verbal storm, but I raise a hand to silence his desperate plea. “I know I can.”
Undeterred, the alpha steps closer, his physical intimidation a feeble shadow against my unyielding posture. “You need to be careful,” he warns in a tone dipped in a false cordiality intended to chill. “You might think you’re in charge, but I know what you are.”
“And I know what you are,” I retort, my voice as cool and composed as the white lilies that rest by the counter. “But here, that doesn’t matter. Here, you’re just another rude customer.”
His face contorts with anger, the lines of privilege and entitlement deepening, as if each word weighed heavier than the last. He was accustomed to bending situations to his will, to the rapid submission that followed his booming declarations. “Little omegas don’t talk back to me,” he bellows, his voice rising to fill every corner of the shop, desperate to drown out the defiance.
“Guess you’ve been shopping at the wrong stores,” I reply, my tone unimpressed as if merely noting an inconvenient fact.
For a fraction of a second, his eyes flash with surprise—a fleeting moment when he evidently did not anticipate this resistance, did not expect me to stand so firmly against him. Yet that brief vulnerability quickly hardens into a petulant mask of anger.
“You’ll regret this,” he declares, pivoting sharply on his heel as he storms out with an air of malignant finality. “Both of you will.”
I let his departure speak for itself—a heavy, resounding slam of the door punctuates his exit like an exclamation point on a sentence best left unfinished. The oppressive ambiance that had filled the shop dissipates, replaced by a tentative openness akin to a room finally freed by an ajar window. I stand for a moment, inhaling deeply, counting out the seconds until the residual tension ebbs away like the last ripples of a storm.
I turn to Jamie, whose shaken expression slowly gives way to tentative color and the familiar light that speaks of promise once the threat dwindles into the distance.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly, my voice a gentle balm. He nods, but it’s a gesture steeped in automation rather than conviction. He averts his gaze momentarily, as if weighing whether to confess the fragility of his composure or simply echo the reassurance I offer.
“I’m fine,” he finally murmurs, shaking off the lingering shadows of tension. “Thanks for handling that.”
“No thanks needed,” I reply, a quiet defiance in my tone. “He’s the one who ought to be sorry.”
Jamie exhales, a long, measured sigh as the accumulated stress drains from his shoulders. “Still. That was... intense.”
“That was nothing,” I counter lightly, letting my tone dance around the remainingheat of the confrontation. “I’ve dealt with plenty worse than him.”
Jamie shakes his head, a small admittance of disbelief slipping through his words. “I need lessons.”
I grin, the warmth in my smile a declaration of resilience. “You’ll learn, eventually. But you don’t have to worry about any of that now. Let me take care of the next order.”
He interjects quickly, “I can do it,” though the relief in his posture betrays his uncertainty.
“I know you can. But let me, just this once. Take a breath and ensure everything else is in perfect order.” He hesitates for a moment —an unspoken apology in his recessed nod—then retreats slightly as I shift my attention back to the waiting funeral arrangements. My fingers delicately gather lilies and white roses, their soft, familiar fragrance enveloping me like a silent reminder of peace amid chaos. Each movement is methodical and calming, the repetition acting as a tonic for the frayed nerves of the day.
Throughout the day, as the storm of confrontation fades into a memory, the shop breathes a new calm—like the placid eye of a hurricane. I move purposefully between tasks, loading the van with meticulous care, ensuring that each arrangement is positioned with precision and care.
In the quiet aftershock of the encounter, I allow my mind to turn back to that arrogant alpha. I am acutely aware of the sting in his challenge, yet equally certain in the knowledge that he underestimated us. A small, knowing smile tugs at my lips as I shut the van doors, secure in the thought that he’ll regret his actions far more than I ever will.
As I drove toward the mortuary, another delivery was scheduled today and I couldn't shake the lingering unease from the confrontation with the alpha. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the road, and I found myself checking the rearview mirror more often than necessary. Just paranoia, I told myself, though the weight of the alpha's threat—"You'll regret this"—seemed to follow me like an unwelcome passenger.
The mortuary loomed ahead, a gray Victorian structure with ornate trim that somehow made it look more ominous rather than welcoming. I parked the van and gathered the somber arrangement of white lilies and roses, their fragrance a stark contrast to the heavy scent of formaldehyde that greeted me at the entrance.
"Miss Vivian," the mortician, Mr. Graner, appeared from behind the reception desk like a specter. His face was pale and angular, eyes too bright as he greeted me with a shark like smile.
The mortician's thin fingers reached for the arrangement, his nails perfectly manicured and oddly shiny in the subdued lighting of the reception area. "Beautiful work as always," he murmured, inhaling deeply as if the flowers' scent could somehow mask the clinical sterility that permeated the building.
"Thank you," I replied, maintaining a professional distance as I handed over the delivery slip. "The family requested something elegant but understated."
Mr. Graner nodded, studying the arrangement with an intensity that seemed excessive even for someone in his line of work. "You've captured the essence perfectly. Life amidst death... the transient beauty that reminds us of our own mortality." His voice had taken on a dreamy quality that made my skin prickle.
"I just followed the order specifications," I said flatly, eager to complete the transaction and leave. I still had to bring the other flowers in, so I wanted to get this over as quickly as possible.
“I have more to bring in, can you lead me where I can put them, then I can get the others.” I asked, smile forced as I shifted one foot to the other.
Mr. Graner's eyes lingered on me a moment too long before he gestured toward the main viewing room. "Of course. Right this way." The mortuary was eerily quiet, our footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. I'd been here dozens of times before, but something about today felt different—a heaviness in the air that wasn't just grief or formaldehyde.
"You seem tense today," Mr. Graner observed as we entered the viewing room. The casket was already positioned at the front, draped in a deep blue cloth. "Something troubling you?"
"Just a busy day," I replied, carefully setting the arrangement on the stand beside the casket.
Mr. Graner gave a low hum, and was about to say something when a woman came in interrupting us, “Sorry to bother you, but someone is here to see you.” She was looking at Mr. Graner, before moving to follow the woman.
“Place the flowers anywhere or arrange them like you usually do. It's up to you, depending on how busy you are. I shall see you before you leave…” It was a statement and not a request, making me give a tense smile. He was creepy but he had never done anything wrong.
“Of course.” I told him, and he gave a nod before leaving me alone making me sigh in relief.
Left alone in the viewing room, I arranged the flowers with practiced efficiency, my movements automatic as my mind drifted. The silence of the mortuary wrapped around me like a shroud, broken only by the soft rustle of petals and stems as I positioned each arrangement. Every so often, I'd pause, certain I heard footsteps approaching, only to be met with nothing but stillness.
When I finished with the first batch, I returned to the van for the remaining arrangements. The late afternoon had deepened into early evening, the sky now a watercolor of purples and oranges. As I pulled open the van's rear doors, a prickling sensation crawled up my spine—that same feeling of being watched that had haunted me the night before.
I spun around, scanning the parking lot. Empty, save for a few cars that presumably belonged to the mortuary staff.
“It's nothing.” I mutter to myself as I quickly grabbed the last flowers to make my way back inside.
The mortuary's chill seemed to seep into my bones as I hurried down the corridor with the second batch of arrangements. The feeling of being watched persisted, making my skin prickle despite the rational part of my brain insisting I was alone. I paused at the threshold of the viewing room, taking a steadying breath before stepping inside.
A soft sound from the far corner made me freeze.
"Hello?" I called, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hushed space. No answer came, but as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed a shadow shift near the back exit—a fleeting movement that could have been nothing but felt like everything.
"Mr. Graner?" I tried again, setting down the flowers with trembling hands. When silence was my only response, I moved quickly, arranging the flowers with practiced efficiency that belied my racing heart. As I finished I heard something and I quickly turned around eyes looking around me. There was nothing.
“It's all in my head.” I mutter to myself as I step back so I could look at how the full display of the flower arrangements looked. I nodded, about to turn and leave when I heard fast footsteps and someone slamming into me, then being pinned down.
A small whine of distressed left my throat, but the person pinning me down only tightened his hold on me and I could only stay still not knowing what the hell was going on.