"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 talentfor 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-daydelivery, 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 Amazon 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 racksbehind 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!"
