Chapter 26 Roses And Remembrance
Roses And Remembrance
~HAZEL~
Four-thirty AM is when the world belongs to bakers and bad memories, when darkness still has teeth but dawn threatens at the edges.
I step outside to grab the mail—because apparently even pre-dawn has deliveries now—and freeze at what's waiting on my doorstep.
Roses.
A full bouquet of them, blood-red in the dim streetlight, wrapped in cellophane that crinkles like whispered threats. The smell hits me immediately—that cloying sweetness that once meant romance but now just means pain.
No. Not these. Anything but these.
My hands shake as I stare at them, unable to move forward or back.
The roses sit there, perfect and poisonous, such a contrast to the wildflowers that now decorate every surface of my apartment.
Levi's cheerful sunflowers in mason jars.
Luca's thoughtful lavender in tiny pots.
Rowan's careful arrangements of whatever's blooming wild.
Those flowers mean safety, choice, love without thorns.
These roses mean something else entirely.
I've been finding things lately—strange mail, packages with no return address, items that shouldn't be here but are. I've been pretending it doesn't bother me, shoving the anxiety down with flour and sugar and the warmth of my pack's presence. But this...
Roses. He knows what roses mean. That's why he sent them.
The memory crashes over me like cold water:
The banquet, three years ago. I'd spent hours getting ready—a deep purple dress that hugged every curve, heels that made my legs look endless, makeup that took forty-five minutes because I wanted to be perfect. I'd felt beautiful, powerful, worthy of standing beside my Alpha husband.
"You look like a whore," Korrin had said, voice flat. "Too much makeup. Dress too tight. You're embarrassing me."
"But you said to dress formally—"
"I said to dress appropriately. You look desperate. Ugly. Like you're trying too hard to hide what you really are."
The words had cut deep, but the punishment had cut deeper.
"Every rose," he'd said, gesturing to their sprawling garden. "Pick every single one. By hand. Maybe that'll teach you to think before you embarrass our pack."
Six rose bushes. Hundreds of blooms. Each one defended by thorns that caught and tore and wouldn't let go. My hands had been shredded within minutes, blood mixing with the perfect petals, but I couldn't stop. Marcus and the others had watched from the patio, laughing every time I cried out.
It took four hours.
My hands took months to fully heal.
I never wore that purple dress again. Never wore any dress that showed my curves, highlighted my body, made me feel beautiful. Started hiding in oversized sweaters and baggy clothes because if I couldn't be beautiful, at least I could be invisible.
You know, I really loved dressing up back then.
The thought comes unbidden, bitter and sweet. I'd loved showing off my curves, wearing tight dresses and heels, taking time to look gorgeous. I'd put so much effort into that night, wanting to make Korrin proud, wanting to belong.
But it wasn't enough. I was too curvy. Ugly face. Even makeup couldn't cover my ugliness.
The roses blur in my vision, and I realize I'm about to cry. Here, on my doorstep at 4:30 AM, about to sob over flowers like some kind of Victorian maiden.
"Hazel?"
I don't know how long I've been standing there, but suddenly Luca is crouched in front of me, his storm-gray eyes level with mine. He must have come down to check on me when I didn't come back up, or maybe he just knew—he always seems to know when something's wrong.
My vision is blurry with unshed tears, and his face swims in and out of focus. He doesn't say anything at first, just stays there, patient and solid while my lip trembles and the tears finally spill over.
"Who sent them?" His voice is quiet, controlled, but there's something underneath—a darkness that reminds me he's not just the quiet twin who fixes things.
I could lie. Make up some story about a satisfied customer or a secret admirer. But the look in his eyes says he'd find out anyway, and I'm so tired of pretending things don't hurt.
"Korrin."
He nods once, no surprise on his face. "Why do they bring tears?"
I bite my bottom lip hard enough to taste copper, but I don't look away from him. His eyes are steady, patient, waiting for truth without demanding it.
"I used to love roses," I whisper. "Before. They were my favorite—romantic and classic and beautiful. But then..." The words stick in my throat like thorns. "There was a banquet. I dressed up, really tried to look beautiful. But I was too much. Too curvy. Too made up. Too ugly."
"Hazel—"
"He made me pick every rose from their garden. By hand. As punishment for embarrassing him by being ugly." I laugh, but it's bitter, mocking. "You know what's stupid? I really loved dressing up back then. Showing off my curves. Tight dresses. Heels. Taking time to doll up and just look gorgeous."
More tears fall, and I don't bother wiping them away.
"I put so much effort into that night. Wanted to look good standing beside my Alpha. Wanted to be worthy. But it wasn't enough. I was still too curvy. Ugly face. Even makeup couldn't cover my ugliness."
I close my eyes, exhaling shakily. "That's why my style changed.
Big sweaters. Anything that hides my shape, my skin.
But god, I loved when I owned it. When I felt confident and knew I could flaunt it and stand beside my Alphas looking good too.
I lived for those moments. And I guess..
. I guess I lost sight of that. Which sucks. "
The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. Luca has this way of making silence feel safe, like it's okay to just exist without filling every moment with words.
"Does that mean that version of you is gone?" he asks finally.
I think about it, really think. About the woman who threw pies at gropers. Who danced on tables at harvest festivals. Who wore purple dresses and didn't apologize for taking up space.
"No," I say slowly. "She's still here. I think. Somewhere."
He nods once and rises to his feet with that fluid grace all the Alphas seem to possess. He holds out one hand.
"Flowers."
"What?" I blink at him, confused. "What are you going to do with them?"
His smirk is sharp, dangerous in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"What we're going to do with them."
I frown, not understanding, but I hand him the bouquet. The roses look wrong in his hands—too delicate, too formal for someone who smells like gingerbread and fixes broken things in the dark.
He offers his other hand.
"Trust me."
Two words. Simple.
But from Luca, they carry weight.
I stare into his storm-gray eyes, seeing something there I can't quite name.
Not pity—never pity with him. Not even sympathy exactly. More like... recognition. Like he knows what it's like to have something beautiful turned into a weapon against you.
The October pre-dawn is cold, biting at my exposed skin where my sweater has slipped.
Somewhere down the street, a dog barks. The bakery behind us smells like rising dough and possibility.
And Luca stands there, patient as stone, one hand holding roses that represent everything I've lost, the other extended toward me like a lifeline.
Trust him. Trust that this won't hurt. Trust that he knows what he's doing.
It's harder than it should be. My body remembers what happened the last time I trusted an Alpha with roses.
The blood, the thorns, the laughter from the patio as I cried.
But this is Luca. Luca, who fixed my door without being asked.
Who researched Omega Wellness? Who kissed me like I was something precious rather than something to possess.
My hand trembles as I reach out, and time seems to slow. This feels bigger than just taking his hand. It feels like choosing to believe that not all Alphas will turn beautiful things into punishments. That's not all love comes with thorns.
That maybe…I can trust again.
The moment our hands touch, his fingers close around mine—gentle but firm, warm against the cold morning. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I realize he's looking at my hands. At the tiny white scars that crosshatch my palms and fingers, barely visible unless you know to look.
"From the roses," I whisper, though he didn't ask.
"From him," he corrects quietly. "The roses were just the weapon."
Something in my chest cracks at that—the simple acknowledgment that the roses weren't to blame, that beautiful things twisted into cruelty aren't inherently cruel themselves.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he starts to lead me further inside the bakery.
"You'll see."
"That's ominous."
"That's mysterious."
"Ominously mysterious."
"Mysteriously ominous."
Despite everything—the roses, the memories, the tears still drying on my cheeks—I feel my lips twitch toward a smile. "You've been spending too much time with Levi."
"Impossible. Time with Levi is barely survivable in current doses."
We reach back to the door to the suite, but he remains outside.
“Change into something suited to your style but comfortable.”
“Why?”
He simply smirks.
That should be enough to tell me I’m shortly going to find out.