The Florist and Her Alphas (Knotted and Claimed #3)

Prologue

LIANA

The air around me is humid as I dig into soft, dark earth, pulling another weed from around the tender green shoots of my father’s peonies.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist, certain I’m leaving a trail of dirt across my skin, but too focused on my work to care.

This is where I belong. Even at the age of eighteen, the garden is comforting to me.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, huh?”

I look up to see my grandma, Eloise, coming around the corner of the bench garden with an armful of cut peonies.

Her silver hair is pinned up in its usual loose knot, escaping tendrils framing her face.

Her faded yellow sundress is hitched up slightly on one side, a smudge of rich brown soil stretching from wrist to elbow.

“I don’t know how we missed these,” I say, savagely pulling at more weeds without mercy.

Eloise reaches out with one dirt-caked finger and traces a line across my cheek. “You’ve got a proper garden growing on you. And your hair.” She tugs gently at a strand that’s come loose from my messy braid. “Looks like a fox built a nest on your head.”

“You would know,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Since you’re the fox who taught me not to care what I look like.”

Eloise smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “What time is your father’s big meeting?”

I shrug, moving down the row to where the foxgloves stand tall and purple against the garden wall. “No idea. Mom just said they were having guests. Didn’t say who. Dad’s been acting weird all week.”

I reach for a weed growing at the base of the tallest stem.

“Mhm,” says Eloise quietly.

The air suddenly feels different, as if the garden has stopped breathing. When I glance up, Eloise is still weeding, but her hands have frozen for half a second in the dark soil.

“Are you okay, Grandma?” I ask.

“Yes. Yes, I’m Fine,” she says, too quickly. “Just my ancient knees hurting.” She smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Listen, why don’t you finish up that section by the wall, and I’ll bring some flowers inside for the dinner table.”

She stands, brushing dirt from her dress, and moves toward the house. Something about Eloise’s face has left a hollow feeling in my stomach. I hope she’s okay and not in too much pain. Gardening is a lot of work, and she’s gotten more stubborn as she has aged, refusing to quit.

There’s a rhythm to gardening that I’ve always loved. I love the steady tug-pull of weeds, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle pop of roots giving way. I fall into it now, letting my mind empty of everything but the task at hand.

I jump when I hear my grandma gasp before entering the house.

I look up to see my mother at the garden entrance, one hand holding the screen door open with her hip. She’s wearing a pretty blue dress, her dark hair coming loose from its clip, but her face makes my breath catch. She’s pale, her eyes wide and frightened, and she’s not looking at me.

She’s looking at Eloise, who’s paused mid-step, an armful of peonies clutched to her chest.

“Mama,” my mother says, the word coming out fast and quiet. “They’re at the door. Daniel told them no, but they’re here anyway.”

I feel a chill run through me, even in the warm evening air. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the fear in them. I’ve never heard my mother sound like this before.

Eloise’s face goes still. “How many?”

“All of them,” my mother says. “Magnus brought his entire pack.”

Something passes over Eloise’s face. Not fear exactly, but a kind of clear-eyed resignation, as if she’s just confirmed something she’s been dreading for years. “Tell Daniel to keep them outside as long as he can.”

My mother’s eyes finally find me across the garden, twenty feet away, as I kneel among the foxgloves. She looks at me for one long moment, looking like she’s desperately trying not to cry.

Then Eloise is beside me, her hands on my shoulders, dragging me to my feet.

“Listen to me,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “Listen to me, my Liana.”

She pulls me to the wrought iron bench where the tallest flowers grow thick behind it.

With quick, jerky motions, she pushes aside the foxgloves, revealing a hollow I’ve never noticed in eighteen years of playing in this garden.

There’s a cavity beneath the bench, between the stone base and the foxglove roots.

“What?” I start, but Eloise cuts me off.

“You will go under here,” she says, her hands squeezing my shoulders hard enough to hurt. “You will lie flat. You will not move. You will not come out no matter what you hear.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “Do you understand me?”

“But what’s happening?” I ask, my voice small with fear. “Who’s coming?”

Eloise grabs my face in both hands. Her thumbs press hard into my cheekbones, her eyes boring into mine. “The flowers will hide you,” she says. “Magnus has been waiting to take you away for years, even though we said no.”

Before I can say anything else, she kisses my forehead. “I love you,” she whispers. “No matter what, remember that.”

What was going on? Why was my family acting so secretive?

And then she’s pushing me down, into the dark, damp space beneath the bench.

The foxgloves close over my face like a curtain, stems brushing my cheeks, petals catching in my hair.

My heart pounding, I lie flat on my stomach in the dirt, my face turned sideways, peering out through a narrow gap between stems.

Suddenly, I hear screaming.

My stomach drops when I hear my mom’s scream from inside the house, high and terrible. The sound of glass breaking. Furniture overturning. My heart pounds with adrenaline.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, horrified. I never heard her sound so scared.

A man’s voice laughing, low and pleased.

My father shouts something I can’t make out. Then he stops shouting. There’s a wet, thick sound that I know, somehow, I will never forget for the rest of my life.

I’m crying now, silent tears soaking into the dirt beneath my cheek.

More screams. My uncle Theo’s voice, recognizable even from this distance. Then utter silence.

No! What was happening?!

And then, suddenly, the sounds from the house stop.

For three full minutes, there is nothing but the wind in the mountain ash and my own heartbeat pounding against the dirt beneath me.

My family. What happened to my family?

Then footsteps on the stone path, coming toward the garden, slow and unhurried.

“She’s not here.” My grandmother’s voice floats across the garden, calm and steady. I allow myself one breath of relief, my chest expanding painfully against the packed earth beneath me. “She must have run.”

“Did she?” The voice that answers is older, smooth as honey, with a hint of amusement underneath. It’s a male voice I’ve never heard before. “Tell me again, Eloise. Where did she run?”

“West,” Eloise answers without hesitation. “Toward the creek. She had a head start. You won’t catch her on foot.”

“Mm,” he says as the silence in the air hangs between them. “You always were a remarkable liar, Eloise. I respected that about you.”

“I’m not lying,” my grandmother pleads as my heart literally stops while listening to her fight for her life.

“I’m sorry,” the older voice replies softly.

And then comes a sound I won’t be able to forget for the rest of my life. It’s not loud or dramatic, but soft, like the sound of a knife slicing through a melon.

Then a small, surprised exhale from my grandmother.

Thud.

Red rivulets of blood seep underneath the flowers I’m hiding behind.

My grandmother is dying three feet from me.

I can’t scream. I can’t breathe. I bite down on the inside of my own cheek hard enough to taste blood and don’t make a sound.

Voices in the distance now. Multiple men are searching for me. Their words blur together, becoming a meaningless jumble of sounds.

I’m in a daze as more footsteps come into the garden.

I count them. Four men. Maybe five. Their boots scrape against stone, then fade as they move back toward the house.

Except one. One man stays behind. His footsteps stop beside the bench. The whole structure shudders as he kicks it once, hard, the iron ringing.

I stop breathing.

He kneels. The hem of his coat brushes the foxglove stems. Through my narrow slit of vision, I see a pale hand, an expensive ring on the smallest finger, pushing the foxgloves aside.

And then I see his face for the first time. Electric blue eyes. Wrinkled face with silver-blond hair. A smile that doesn’t reach those cold, cold eyes.

“Hello, little flower,” he says.

He extends a hand, but I can’t move. My body feels frozen, locked in place by terror.

“It’s all right,” he continues, his voice soft and patient. “I came a long way to find you. You have your mother’s eyes. Did anyone ever tell you that? Beautiful eyes.”

He waits. He sits down on the bench above me. The wood creaks. Through the gap in the foxgloves, I see the polished leather of his shoes two feet from my face.

“Go away,” I croak out.

“Don’t be so rude,” he says. “You don’t have to be scared. I promised your father a long time ago that you would be my bride and that I would collect you when you’ve turned eighteen. You’re my omega.”

The tears come silently, sliding down my cheeks and into the dirt.

Don’t cry. Be strong.

After a moment, he reaches down through the foxgloves and gently takes my wrist. He stands me up. I sway on my feet, my knees weak, my legs numb from lying so long in one position. The evening air feels shockingly cold against my tear-streaked face.

I see my grandmother then.

She’s three feet away on the ground, her eyes open, looking at nothing. Her yellow sundress is dark with blood. One arm is stretched out toward the bench, her fingers curled as if she were reaching for me.

My heart suddenly races out of control, and my breathing turns shallow.

It’s confirmed.

Right in front of me.

I drop to my knees, sobbing. “No! You killed my Grandma!”

My parents…were they dead too?

He lifts me into his arms, and I’m too weak to resist. Too weak to scream. My body feels like it belongs to someone else. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

He carries me toward the front of the house, talking softly as he walks. “You are going to be my bride, little flower. You will love it. You will love our home. Your family knew this day was coming. Are you excited to start your new life?”

I can’t answer. My throat feels closed, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as horror and realization of my new reality sink in.