2. Grace
2
GRACE
T he bell over the door jingles as I nudge it open with my hip, balancing a tray of freshly potted violets in one hand and my tea mug in the other.
“Morning, Haven,” I say, like I do every day. Talking to the shop like it’s a person makes me sound nuts, but it’s comforting.
It’s mine—my safe spot.
I set the violets on the counter by the window, their leaves catching the sunlight just right. Warmth fills the shop, but there’s a breeze slipping through the cracked window.
It’s the perfect balance. Outside, the clouds are gathering, but that’s a problem for later.
The kettle hisses in the corner, and I glance at my half-empty mug. Chamomile and a splash of honey.
My usual. I’m not even halfway awake yet, but this? This is my ritual. Sip, sort the new stock, and open the doors to the town.
“Grace! You’re gonna burn the damn tea again,” Jake’s voice calls from the doorway.
I glance over my shoulder, smiling. “First of all, rude. Second, how’d you even get in here?”
“Door was unlocked. You’re slippin’, Halloway,” he says, leaning against the frame, a brown paper bag in hand. “Brought you breakfast. Figured you’d forget to eat again.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach betrays me with a growl. “Fine, what is it?”
“Egg sandwich. Bacon. Extra cheese. Just the way you like it.” He smirks as he makes his way to the counter.
“You’re too good to me,” I say, taking the bag.
“Damn right,” he says, his tone teasing but his eyes soft. It’s the same look he always gives me, and I pretend not to notice.
Jake’s harmless. Comfortable. Sweet, even. But he’s an Alpha, and Alphas are… not safe.
“You staying for tea, or are you just dropping off food?” I ask, unwrapping the sandwich.
He grins. “Got the stall to get back to. Rhys’ll kill me if I’m not there to unload the fish he’s obsessed with lately.”
“Still running his empire like a tyrant?”
Jake laughs and shakes his head. “Pretty much. Don’t know why people keep buying that overpriced lobster. You’d think they’d get sick of it.”
“Not if he keeps plating it like art,” I say, taking a bite of the sandwich.
“You closing early today?” he asks, his eyes shifting from me to the clouds.
“Probably. Don’t think many will be braving the weather for flowers.” Aside from my regular clients, I doubt anyone else will come.
Storms always cause trouble here, and no one’s out taking a casual walk when there’s one looming over the town.
He nods. “You can come over later, if you want. I got some new books in. Think you might like ’em. Or I’ll come pick you up.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, leaning against the counter, flushed at the thought. “Is the mermaid book one of them?”
His ears turn red. “How do you…? It’s not… look, it’s just a story. Nothing weird.”
I laugh, enjoying his discomfort. “Relax, Jake. I’m just messing with you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He heads toward the door. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“Damn right,” I say, grinning. “Thanks for this, by the way. Saved me from scavenging through the tea cabinet for breakfast.”
“Anytime,” he says.
A jingle sounds as he leaves, and the shop settles back into its quiet hum, allowing me to relax.
I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes until opening. Time to get things sorted.
I move through the shop, adjusting displays and watering the plants that need it.
The air smells like lavender and rosemary, a mix that always puts me at ease. My hands find their rhythm, trimming stems and arranging bouquets.
Mrs. Clarke will want her usual: daisies, yellow and white, with a sprig of baby’s breath. She’ll talk about her grandson’s latest art project and how proud she is.
Mr. Patel will come in around eleven, asking for something “bright but not flashy” for his wife’s birthday.
Every year, same request. I’ve got a mix of lilies and tulips ready for him.
The people in this town are predictable in the best way.
I glance at the storm clouds, darker already. They’ll probably scare off even my regulars, but that’s fine. I’ll use the downtime to prep for the weekend rush.
The bell jingles again, and I turn, expecting another early bird. Instead, it’s Claire, my neighbor from down the street.
“Morning, Grace,” she says, holding a steaming travel mug.
“Morning, Claire. Tea?”
“Coffee. Needed something stronger today.”
I laugh, nodding toward the storm outside. “Looks like it’ll be a good day to stay in.”
“Not for me,” she says with a sigh. “Got errands to run, and the kids are already driving me up the wall. But I thought I’d come say hello.”
“Hang in there,” I say and turn around to avoid her gaze. I know she’s been worried about me lately, but there’s no need. I’m fine.
I glance at the now-empty bottle of suppressants on the shelf behind the counter. Been taking them since I was sixteen.
Another routine, like brushing my teeth. They keep everything in check, and I like it that way. No surprises. No complications.
I reach for a small bundle of lavender and hand it to Claire. “Here. For your sanity.”
She peers at me for a second and then grins. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Okay,” I say as she leaves.
The shop quiets down again and I sip my tea, savoring the warmth. My mind drifts to one of my last memories with my parents.
It was here, in this town. We’d walked the pier, laughing about something I can’t even remember now.
They’d bought me ice cream, and we’d sat on the rocks, watching the waves.
The memory is sharp, like a thorn. But I shake it off. No time for that.
Surprisingly, by mid-morning, the shop’s buzzing. Customers come and go, chatting about the storm that still hasn’t broken and their plans for the weekend.
I keep up, smiling, laughing.
“You’ve got a gift, you know,” Mrs. Clarke says as I hand her her bouquet.
“For what?”
“Making people happy. You’ve got a light about you, Grace. Don’t ever lose it.”
I smile, but it feels a little tight. “Thanks, Mrs. Clarke. You take care, okay?”
By noon, I’m alone again. The radio crackles in the background, playing some old love song I don’t recognize.
It’s the kind that makes you think about things you shouldn’t. I turn it off.
The storm hits just as I take the last sip of my tea, the smell of it lingering in the air.
Rain hammers against the windows, leaving me no choice but to lock up, pulling the blinds and flipping the sign to “Closed.”
For the first time all day, I let myself sit still.
Being here like this—surrounded by my flowers, listening to the rain against the glass—should be comforting. But it’s not.
My body’s off, like it’s gearing up for something. I don’t like this.
I tidy up the counter, rearranging a bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus. My hands are steady, but there’s this restless energy buzzing under my skin. It’s almost… itchy.
Shit.
This can’t be happening. I took the last pill this morning.
I grab my phone and dial Dr. Avery. She’s in her mid-fifties, sharp as a tack, with a voice that always manages to calm me down. She’ll know what the hell is going on.
But the line doesn’t connect. Just static.
“No, no, no. Come on.”
I try again. Nothing.
The storm. Of course. It’s probably knocked out one of the cell towers again.
I glance outside, where the fat raindrops are splattering against the glass. The clouds are swallowing up the horizon.
My stomach twists again, and heat pools low in my belly, sharp and insistent. I grip the edge of the counter, breathing through it.
This isn’t normal. I’ve never gone into heat while on suppressants. Never.
I grab my keys and head for the door. If I can get to the pharmacist before the storm gets worse, maybe I can figure this out.
Maybe she has something stronger to give me.
“Okay, Grace. You’ve got this,” I reassure myself, pulling my chestnut hair into a messy bun.
The moment I step outside, the rain hits me like a slap. It’s cold and relentless, soaking me to the bone in seconds.
My dress clings to every curve, the thin fabric plastered against my skin. “For fuck’s sake,” I hiss.
The rain doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets heavier as I run to my car, the little red Mini Cooper that’s been my pride and joy since I bought it used.
I slide in, water dripping everywhere, and crank the engine. It sputters to life, the wipers doing their best to keep up with the deluge.
I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way my thighs are clenched, the heat between them making it hard to think.
Every brush of fabric feels like sandpaper and silk at the same time, and my clit—God, it’s sensitive. Too sensitive.
“Fuck,” I whisper, gripping the wheel tighter as I turn onto the coastal road. The pharmacist is just a few minutes away. I can make it.
But the next wave hits me like a freight train. My hands shake, and I have to pull over, chest heaving. It’s like my whole body’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
My hips shift involuntarily, chasing friction, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from moaning.
“This isn’t happening,” I whisper, but it is. It’s happening, and it’s getting worse.
I shove the car back into gear, but the engine sputters. Once. Twice. Then it dies completely.
“No. No, no, no!” I slam my hands on the wheel, but it doesn’t help. The fuel gauge mocks me with its glowing red light. I’m out of gas.
Rain pounds against the windows as I glance around. I’m on the road past the lighthouse—the one that curves toward the far side of town.
I should’ve taken the main road through the center, but I didn’t want to end up stuck in a line of cars trying to beat the storm home.
And now I’m stuck here.
It’s too far to walk to the pharmacy or head back to my shop. Not like this. Not when I’m…
I don’t even finish the thought. My brain’s too scrambled, caught between panic and the relentless pull of my heat.
My skin’s damp with sweat, even in the cold, and every movement I make feels like pushing through molasses.
The lighthouse. Thorne Beacon.
I’ve never been there, but I know someone lives there. A man. He’s supposed to be a recluse, spending most of his time at sea. Maybe he’s not even home. But it’s my only shot.
I grab my bag and step out into the storm. The rain is unrelenting, soaking me again in seconds. My sandals slip on the muddy road, and I nearly go down twice before catching myself.
Each step is harder than the last. My muscles feel like jelly, and the heat—God, the heat—is unbearable.
It’s like every inch of me is hyperaware of the slightest touch, from the scrape of wet fabric against my skin to the way my thighs brush together.
By the time I reach the path leading to the lighthouse, I’m drenched and shivering, though the heat inside me burns hotter than ever. The structure looms ahead, a stark silhouette against the stormy sky.
“Just make it to the door,” I tell myself, teeth chattering. “You can do this.”
I stumble up the stone steps, each step feeling like I’m running a mile. My fist connects hard with the heavy wooden door, but the sound barely carries over the howling wind.
“Hello?” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “Is anyone here?”
Nothing.
I try the door handle, and to my surprise, it gives. The door swings open, revealing a dimly lit interior.
It’s not much—just a main room with a table, a couch, and a staircase leading up to the beacon.
“Hello?” I call out again, stepping inside. The door creaks shut behind me, cutting off some of the storm’s roar.
Still no answer.
My body’s shaking, every nerve lit up and screaming, and I bury my face in my hands.
“What the fuck is happening to me?” I whisper. But there’s no one here to answer.