Chapter 36 Some People Send Flowers
Chapter Thirty Six
Some People Send Flowers
— Xavier —
The morning is annoyingly bright—the kind of light that makes everything feel too sharp, too honest.
We got up early, leaving Grayson snoring below the packhouse while the rest of us turned our attention to the townhouse—trying to make the place feel like something closer to a home. I’m whistling, mostly to annoy Tomas, enjoying the weather, and keeping an eye on Sunday, Ben, and Mishka—all my favorite chingones right where I can see them.
Yeah, sure, there’s a trip to New Orleans later with another delightful vampire royal to deal with. And of course, there’s the looming threat of Texas making a comeback. He’s like the world’s worst ex—the kind who doesn’t just text you at three am, but might also leave you chained to a radiator while they commit some light genocide.
My jaguar huffs, a mix of irritation and unease. Bluffing. Mostly.
It’s not like we walked away unscathed last time. The reminder sits heavy in my chest. I can’t quite shake the fear, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
But here’s the weird part—I still feel hopeful.
There’s a buzz of it under my skin, a low thrum of maybe things are finally shifting in the right direction. Crazy, right? Because so much can still go wrong. But a hell of a lot had to go right to get me here, too.
I’m pretty much off the venom. Bonded to Grayson, Sunday, and if the stars align, Ben soon enough. The Prescotts are a big, loud, ridiculous bunch, and I’ve somehow slipped right in. Like I truly belong. Like I’ve found family, a purpose—maybe it’s a peek at the end of all the bad times.
Ben stacks the latest deliveries, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt in a way that keeps my attention lingering just a little too long. My mind wanders to the image of him chopping wood for us later—shirt off, sweat glistening. The sudden, absurd need to find a tiny dangling axe earring nearly derails me, but I shake it off and try to stay focused on the task at hand.
Sunday and I are knee-deep in the avalanche of boxes already piled on the porch. Tomas wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be getting a few packages today. It looks like every merchant on the internet decided to treat overnight delivery as a personal challenge.
I lean back, breathing in the crisp morning air, watching Sunday in full-on Cinderella mode. Each time she opens a new box or padded envelope, she lets out this adorable little gasp, covering her mouth like she can’t quite believe Anthropologie just threw up on our porch.
It’s ridiculous, and I can’t help but grin.
She’s glowing over piles of decorative throw blankets and tiny, useless vases—the kind that might somehow make our house look like adults who have their lives together live here.
But my jaguar, feeling just a little overlooked, decides it’s time to join the party.
It’s not just impatience—it’s the way her focus is completely absorbed by these new treasures instead of us. My jaguar shifts restlessly, his bratty streak surfacing like an itch I can’t scratch.
A single claw slides from the tip of my finger.
With an exaggerated flourish, I slice open one of the boxes, smug satisfaction curling in my chest as I hope to pull just a fraction of her attention back our way.
Sunday glances over, one brow arching with that perfect mix of curiosity and warning.
She doesn’t tell me to stop.
Not yet.
I get a little too absorbed in the joy of ripping up paper and cardboard. Packing tape curls in neat strips under my claw, and Styrofoam peanuts scatter like confetti. It’s oddly satisfying, this chaotic destruction, and I’m feeling pretty damn pleased with myself as I shred through the remaining pile of boxes.
Sunday’s attention bounces between her new treasures and my dramatic claw work, and I revel in the chaos, smugly ignoring Ben wandering behind us with a garbage bag like the responsible adult he pretends to be.
The next box gives way easily, my jaguar urging me to make an even bigger show of it. I swipe with dramatic flair, layers tearing with satisfying violence.
And then it happens—a sound that’s not quite right. A soft, whispery rip.
My jaguar stills, the thrill ebbing like a tide as realization sinks in.
Sunday frowns, her brow furrowing. I glance down at the unraveling remains of what was once a very expensive-looking Pottery Barn pillow. Tomas insisted on these pillows because “the house should have some nice touches.” And now someone has disemboweled one.
“Oops.”
I try shoving the stuffing back in, but it’s hopeless—the pillow’s guts spill out in a mocking cloud of white fluff.
“You’re paying for that one,” Sunday says, her tone flat but her lips twitching at the edges.
I shrug, retracting my claw with a twinge of discomfort. “Worth it,” I reply, flashing her my best grin.
Ben turns, garbage bag in hand, and gives me that look.
“No more claws near the merchandise,” he says, his voice half-annoyed, half-amused.
My jaguar grumbles— I let it fade, rolling my eyes. “Fine, fine.”
I open my mouth to crack another very funny joke when the sense of ease vanishes. The shift is subtle—a shadow slipping beneath the surface of my senses. Something’s off. Tension coils under my skin, sharp and cold, cutting through the morning’s warmth.
My eyes narrow as I scan the mess.
That’s when I see it.
Off to the side, half-hidden behind a flowerpot—a box.
My jaguar goes deathly still, all the lazy contentment of the morning draining away in an instant.
No address. No postage. The wrongness hums like a discordant note, low and sharp.
Unease crackles across the bond like static. Sunday tilts her head, catching my shift in mood, her gaze following mine.
“Everything okay?”
I nod once, short and clipped, my eyes never leaving the box. “Can you go inside, Amor?”
“Why?” The word is cautious, but she’s already moving—standing, stepping back, her hand on the screen door. Her gaze flicks to Ben before she slips inside, tension bleeding into her movements. “I’m gettin’ Tomas.”
Ben moves closer, solid and steady at my side. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. This is what we do—shifting from laughter to the edge of a blade.
I crouch, fingertips brushing the edges of the box. Not just searching for something physical, but feeling for the buzz of magic, the heat of a rune under the cardboard, anything out of place.
I tilt my head, inhaling slow and deliberate, my jaguar keyed up, ready.
Gunpowder. Poison. C4. Silver.
I’m listening, scenting—waiting for the first whisper of danger.
But there’s nothing.
The absence of scent makes my jaguar’s growl go from a low rumble to a full-on warning. Before I even need to call for backup, Tomas appears. I glance up, and Sunday’s just on the other side of the screen door, brows drawn tight with worry.
“We need to move it away from the house.” Tomas is all business. His eyes move to Sunday. “Stay inside with Mishka.”
She starts to argue, but a brief surge of Alpha command make her lips press together as she retreats into the gloom and safety of the townhouse.
Ben steps closer, reaching for the package. “Let me carry it.”
“No.” I shake my head, keeping my voice even. “I’m the only one here who can dip into a shadow and be across the yard in under a second.” My jaguar thrums beneath my skin, coiled and ready.
Tomas nods, his gaze assessing. “All right. But stay sharp. Just to there.” He points to the shadowed spot beneath the magnolia tree. “If anything feels off, we wait for the vampires to rise. Let one of them handle it.”
I give a quick nod, turning my attention back to the box. My fingers are steady, senses cranked up to eleven. In one fluid movement, I lift the box and step into the shadow of the railing, slipping back out beneath the tree.
The world sharpens. A bird calls overhead, its song a thin thread of normalcy. In the dried leaves at my feet, a beetle continues its tiny odyssey, oblivious to the danger hanging in the air.
I brace myself, breath held tight, as I peel back the plain brown paper and lift the lid.
And that’s when it hits.
The sharp, metallic tang—silver and vampire blood, so strong it burns my throat.
The world tilts, memories crashing in like a tidal wave. Farin’s broken body sliding across the floor, the foul water seeping beneath him. The cold laughter, the sickening scent of being hunted, cornered, violated.
Texas.
My jaguar recoils—backing into a dark corner, small and shaking.
Thank the Moon Goddess for the pack bond.
Tomas’ steady pulse of calm reaches out, wrapping around me like a lifeline. I cling to it unashamedly, sending back a feeling that’s supposed to say all clear —but his response snaps back, sharp with doubt. That didn’t feel like all clear.
A moment later, they’re both beside me. I don’t know how they got here so fast, but their presence keeps me from spinning off to dark places. We gaze down into the box.
The severed head of Texas stares back, lifeless eyes framed by a jaunty pink bow.
Ben’s hand lands on the back of my neck, his fingers pressing firmly. His voice is a low murmur, words meant to soothe. But they’re lost under the rush of blood in my ears.
He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches into the box. Carefully, he lifts the head, encased in a thick plastic bag.
Something green catches my eye beneath the pink tissue paper. I blink, my mind stumbling to process it.
Ben pulls out a ball of yarn—bright green, almost garish. A thick piece of card-stock dangles from it. His brow furrows.
“What the hell is this?” he mutters.
Tomas takes the card, his eyes narrowing slightly as he reads it. A beat passes, then he looks up, his expression unreadable.
“Rurik sent gifts.” He holds up the ball of yarn, the bright green almost obscene in the morning light. “The head—for Sunday.” His lips twist into something between a smirk and a grimace “And this is, apparently, for you.”
He hands me the yarn. It’s ridiculous—a teasing insult. My jaguar hesitates, claws still half-sheathed, but I squeeze the ball anyway, reluctantly enjoying the squishy give of it.
Then, there’s a moment—a heartbeat of disbelief—as we both stare at it. My boogeyman, laid low, reduced to nothing more than a grisly token in a box.
And Rurik.
I should hate him for this—for inserting himself deeper into our world, for taking every chance to endear himself to Sunday. But here’s the thing—my jaguar doesn’t hate it. Not at all.
The ghosts still linger, shadows curling at the edges of my mind. But beneath them, there’s a small, bright flicker of something new—a spark of victory. A sense that, for once, we’re not just surviving.
Maybe we’re starting to win.
Back on the porch, Sunday peeks into the box, her eyes widening before she snaps the lid shut again. Her face pales, her gaze drifting upward, as if seeking strength—or maybe an explanation—in the wide expanse of the sky.
A long, quiet beat stretches between us. She exhales slowly, a thread of humor cutting through the tension.
“You know… some people just send flowers.”
My grin spreads, unhurried and unapologetic. I take the box from her hands, the weight of it light now, almost laughable.
“Well,” I say, eyes gleaming, “some people are boring.”