Chapter 16
Burning Bridges & Bouquets
~THEODORE~
The delivery guy is almost to the elevator when I catch up to him.
My knees are screaming at me—a dull, burning ache that shoots up into my thighs with every step.
Taking the stairs at a dead run when I know better.
When every physical therapist I've ever seen has told me in no uncertain terms that stairs are the enemy.
That I should take elevators whenever humanly possible.
That I'm going to need knee replacements before I'm forty if I keep pushing myself like this.
But Grayson gave me a mission. Gave me something to focus on besides the flashbacks trying to claw their way up from the dark places I've shoved them.
Need the distraction from the image of Reverie lying motionless on that wet floor, her head at an angle that's too similar to other images I can't unsee.
Need the adrenaline to override the PTSD trigger that's making my hands shake and my breathing come too fast.
Focus on the mission. Complete the objective. Don't think about the bodies. Don't think about the blood. Don't think about the ones you couldn't save no matter how fast you ran or how hard you tried.
He's got the massive bouquet balanced in his arms—probably fifteen pounds of flowers, vase, water, and presumption.
He's already pressing the elevator button with his elbow, shifting his weight from foot to foot with impatience.
Clearly eager to get out of this building and away from the three aggressive Alphas who just blocked him from completing what should have been a simple delivery.
His scent is all wrong. Stressed. Anxious. The kind of anxiety that comes from knowing you've stumbled into something bigger than you expected. Smart boy. He should be nervous.
"Hey." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. Combat voice. The one that makes people stop and pay attention whether they want to or not.
He turns. Looks at me. His scent spikes with anxiety—that sharp, acrid smell that means fight-or-flight response kicking in. Smart. He should be nervous.
"Who's the sender?" I ask, keeping my voice level. Conversational. The calm before the storm.
He groans, shifting the flowers in his arms. "I don't know, man. I'm just doing my job. They don't tell us that information. It's supposed to be private."
I nod slowly. Step closer. The hallway suddenly feels smaller.
"Well, you have exactly one minute to tell me something useful." I let the words hang in the air. "Or I'll gladly dig up all the dirt on you that I can find. And trust me—I'm very good at finding things people want to stay hidden."
It's not an empty threat. I have skills. Connections. Ways of finding information that most civilians don't even know exist. Military intelligence training combined with natural talent for reading people and situations. I could have his entire life history by dinner time if I wanted it.
He huffs, trying to look brave and failing spectacularly. "And what are you possibly going to find about me? I'm nobody. I've been here less than five minutes because that old lady downstairs took five hundred years to finish ordering those stupid cookies that smell like shit."
Interesting. He's defensive. Deflecting. Which means there's something to find.
I smile. It's not a nice smile. "Malcom Davidson.
Twenty-three years old. Former delivery driver for three different companies before this one—you keep getting fired for attitude problems and missed deliveries.
Current occupation is with Premium Express Courier, but only because you needed to take delivery services as a form of community service instead of going to jail for that DUI last year. "
His face goes pale. The bouquet almost slips from his hands.
"How did you—"
"Which kind of sucks in small towns," I continue conversationally, like I'm discussing the weather. "Because you're not getting the luxury of three meals a day and a warm bed. Just mandatory community service hours and the eternal disappointment of everyone who knows what you did."
I didn't actually know all of that before today. But his uniform has his name on it. The rest was educated guessing based on his age, his defensive attitude, the way he kept checking his phone like he's tracking hours. People are predictable when you know what to look for.
He stares at me. Swallows hard. The elevator dings but he doesn't move.
"Okay, look." His voice cracks slightly.
"I really don't know who the sender is. I swear.
It's from the city—a few hours from here.
Someone called in the order, paid premium for same-day delivery, and I took the job because the pay was legit for some stupid flowers.
But I don't know anything else. I promise. "
The city. A few hours away. That narrows it down. There are only a few cities within that radius. And premium pay for same-day flower delivery to a small town? Someone wanted these flowers to arrive today. Specifically. Urgently.
Someone who knows Reverie. Someone who knows her address. Someone who wants her attention.
Someone who's going to regret this decision.
I nod. "Alright. You can go."
He practically runs into the elevator, still clutching those roses like they might save him. The doors close and he's gone.
But I'm not done with those flowers yet.
I head downstairs—taking them slower this time because my knees are already complaining and I don't need to completely destroy them today.
The building is old but well-maintained, with worn wooden railings that have been polished smooth by decades of hands.
Christmas decorations line the stairwell—cheap but cheerful garland wrapped around the banister, battery-operated candles in the windows.
The ground floor has a small shop—one of those local places that sells everything from greeting cards with glitter that gets everywhere to homemade cookies that actually taste like grandma's kitchen to random gifts nobody needs but everyone somehow ends up buying.
The kind of store that somehow stays in business despite existing and big box stores offering everything cheaper.
There's character here. Personality. The things chains can never replicate.
A bell chimes when I push open the door—an actual brass bell on a spring, not some electronic ding. Old school.
The smell hits me immediately and it's like walking into Christmas itself.
Cinnamon and sugar and butter so rich it coats the back of my throat.
Fresh-baked cookies cooling on wire racks behind the counter—rows of them, dozens of different kinds.
Gingerbread with perfect icing details. Snickerdoodles rolled in cinnamon sugar.
Something with chocolate chips that are still melty.
Sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes and Christmas trees.
The warmth from the ovens makes the shop feel cozy despite the cold December day outside.
It makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud—I haven't eaten since breakfast at six this morning and that was just black coffee and a protein bar. That was hours ago. Maybe eight hours. Time gets fuzzy when you're having PTSD episodes and chasing flower delivery guys.
An older woman stands behind the counter—seventy at least, maybe older, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and laugh lines carved deep around her eyes and mouth.
The kind of lines you get from smiling more than frowning over a lifetime.
Beta based on her scent—warm bread and vanilla, comforting and grandmotherly.
She's wearing a festive apron covered in Christmas trees and candy canes that looks homemade, with her name embroidered on it in green thread: Maeve.
The shop itself is decorated within an inch of its life.
Garland wrapped around every available surface.
String lights in the windows. A small Christmas tree in the corner covered in ornaments that look handmade.
Cards displayed on a spinning rack. Gifts wrapped in colorful paper stacked on shelves.
It's cluttered but in a cozy way. Lived-in. Loved.
"Hello, dear!" Her voice is warm, grandmotherly. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm here to pick up the flower delivery for Reverie Bell," I say, keeping my tone polite. Friendly. Not the interrogation voice I used upstairs.
Her eyes light up with curiosity. "Oh? And who might you be?"
Here we go. Small town gossip at its finest. But I can use this.
"Theodore Wright. But everyone calls me Theo." I offer her my best charming smile—the one I used to use to get information from locals during deployments. "I'm one of Reverie's Alphas."
She gasps. Actually gasps, her hand flying to her chest in delight. "Alphas? Plural? Oh my goodness! When did this happen? She hasn't said anything!"
Because it happened approximately thirty minutes ago without her knowledge or consent. But this woman doesn't need to know that.
I chuckle, leaning against the counter in a way that's casual and conspiratorial. "It's very new. We're still figuring things out ourselves. But I wanted to make sure those flowers didn't sit down here all day."
"Well isn't that just wonderful!" She's beaming now, already reaching under the counter where I assume the delivery guy left the bouquet.
"That girl deserves someone good. Three someone’s, apparently!
She's been alone too long. Works so hard at the bar, always cheerful even when she must be exhausted. "
She produces the massive bouquet—red roses that must have cost a fortune, baby's breath, the whole romantic cliché in crystal vase form.
They're beautiful. Expensive. Exactly the kind of thing that's supposed to sweep an Omega off her feet. And I hate everything about them.