Page 74 of Knot All that Glitters: Part 1

I want answers though, want to know if Haven is okay, and if I want her best friend to talk to me, I need to play thisright. Demanding isn’t right. From my very limited interaction with Florence, I know that will make her shut down, push back, refuse to answer. Asking, begging, pleading for any scrap of information is going to be the right way. With any luck, she’ll see my sincerity and fold like a blanket.

While I wait, I try texting Haven again.

Me:

Hey, angel. Checking in.

Wondering if you’re ready to talk yet.

We’re getting pretty worried over here.

I watch as the messages send and then get marked as read immediately. “Come on, angel,” I whisper. “Say something.”

I wait with my heart in my throat, thunder in my ears, hoping against hope that this is the time she’ll type something back. But there’s nothing. No response. Not even the three dots pop up.

Just silence.

Like there has been every time we’ve texted.

The door at the front of the building opens and a stream of people wearing sweats or leggings and oversized sweaters emerge. The women all have their hair in tight braids or buns and all of them carry themselves gracefully, like it’s second nature to do it. I shut off the screen of my phone and tuck it into my pocket as I step out from my car, scanning the faces of the dancers as they pass by.

Some of them give me curious or appreciative looks, but most of them ignore me, too busy chatting amongst themselves to pay me any attention. My brow furrows and frustration grows as twenty people pass by me, but not one of them is the girl I’m looking for.

Fuck. Maybe she didn’t come to rehearsal today. Can dancers do that? I have no fucking clue. But If she’s not here, I’m not giving up.

Jude can find her home address for me. I didn’t ask him for help with tracking Florence down earlier, because I didn’t want to get his hopes up. I wanted to approach her alone, and not ambush her and her family at their house, but I’ll fucking do it. For Haven I’ll do anything.

Just as I pull my phone out of my pocket, the door bursts open, and Florence stomps out. She looks absolutely pissed, arms crossed over her chest, brow pulled low and muttering an impressive string of curses about a man named Giles.

She pulls up short when she spots me, though. Her angry furrow turns into a worried one as she drops her arms to her side and hurries toward me. “Atticus? Why are you here? Is Haven okay?”

Her obvious worry for her friend both soothes and makes me even more anxious. Soothing because if Ren is asking me that, Haven doesn’t know what we’ve done, what we’re technicallystilldoing. But anxious because Florence’s first instinct is to worry about Haven’s safety.

I watch her approach. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.”

She tilts her head as she comes to a stop in front of me, confusion plain on her face. “Hasn’t she been texting you?”

“Has she been texting you?” I ask back.

The omega makes a frustrated noise and rolls her eyes. “Yes, she’s been texting me every day like normal.” Then she looks at me again. “Are you saying you haven’t been texting her?”

I shake my head. “We have, every day, multiple times, but… she’s not responding.”

“She’s not?” Florence says the confusion deepening on her face. “Then why would she tell me… Oh my god.” All the color drains from her face and she sways slightly. I curl my hand around her upper arm to hold her steady as her fingers flutter up to her forehead.

“Oh my god, what, Florence?” I grit out, resisting the urge to shake her.Begging, pleading, not forcing, I remind myself.

I glance around and spot a cafe just down the street. Florence allows me to guide her into the warm space and to a table, where she plops down bonelessly. I crouch in front of her, meeting her eyes, hating the worry I see there. “What do you want, Flo?” I ask. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Hot chocolate,” she whispers. “With cinnamon. Extra whip.”

I squeeze her knee. “Anything else? Something to eat?”

Her eyes flick up to the pastry case and then back to me. Mutely she shakes her head.

I squeeze again and push to my feet, heading to place an order as Florence scrambles into her bag and pulls out her phone. I watch as she jabs at the screen and then lifts it to her ear. She’s calling Haven. I can tell. I want to hover behind her and listen in on the conversation, but I force myself to stay where I am in line.

The omega is still whispering into the phone by the time I get back to the table. “I’m telling them,” she says stubbornly. “He can’t do this to you.”

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