Page 4 of Forget-Me-Nots and Apricots

“I can see that,” the alpha sneers, his eyes mercilessly roaming over Jamie’s form in a way that sends sparks of indignation through me. “Some best.” His words cut through the air, turning the humble shop into a claustrophobic space where the very atmosphere seemed to recoil under his presence.

The room, once a sanctuary of tulips and lilies, suddenly feels like a cramped cell as if the alpha were crowding not just the physical space but every molecule of air. Jamie inhales deeply his brown eyes close for a moment, his chest rising with a determined calm, yet I can sense the dwindling fight in him—a weary resignation that I refuse to let claim victory. I step forward from behind the meticulously arranged displays, my voice slicing through the charged tension like a silver blade. “Everything okay here?”

The alpha shifts his attention to me, and with it comes the full weight of his scrutinizing gaze that carries both arrogance and assumption. “Just waiting on a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he spits out, every syllable laced with condescension.

Jamie’s posture deflates, some of his short brown hair falling into his face, as if he wishes to vanish into the worn floorboards beneath him, but I intercept that descent. “Then you should be talking to me,” I assert, unflinching as I meet his intense stare. “I run this place.”

For a moment, his expression transforms—a flicker of curiosity appears beneath layers of irritation. “Figures,” he mutters, his voice rueful yet studded with disbelief. “An omega with a little flower shop.”

“That’s right,” I reply smoothly, the calm of my tone belying the tension in the air. “And we’ve got plenty of orders today. But if you’re in too much of a hurry, I’m sure we can cancel yours.”

A low, menacing growl rumbles from him, meant to unnerve, though I stand tall, resolute. “You think you can talk to me like that?”

Jamie shifts uncomfortably at my side, his eyes searching for a safe harbor in this verbal storm, but I raise a hand to silence his desperate plea. “I know I can.”

Undeterred, the alpha steps closer, his physical intimidation a feeble shadow against my unyielding posture. “You need to be careful,” he warns in a tone dipped in a false cordiality intended to chill. “You might think you’re in charge, but I know what you are.”

“And I know what you are,” I retort, my voice as cool and composed as the white lilies that rest by the counter. “But here, that doesn’t matter. Here, you’re just another rude customer.”

His face contorts with anger, the lines of privilege and entitlement deepening, as if each word weighed heavier than the last. He was accustomed to bending situations to his will, to the rapid submission that followed his booming declarations. “Little omegas don’t talk back to me,” he bellows, his voice rising to fill every corner of the shop, desperate to drown out the defiance.

“Guess you’ve been shopping at the wrong stores,” I reply, my tone unimpressed as if merely noting an inconvenient fact.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes flash with surprise—a fleeting moment when he evidently did not anticipate this resistance, did not expect me to stand so firmly against him. Yet that brief vulnerability quickly hardens into a petulant mask of anger.

“You’ll regret this,” he declares, pivoting sharply on his heel as he storms out with an air of malignant finality. “Both of you will.”

I let his departure speak for itself—a heavy, resounding slam of the door punctuates his exit like an exclamation point on a sentence best left unfinished. The oppressive ambiance that had filled the shop dissipates, replaced by a tentative openness akin to a room finally freed by an ajar window. I stand for a moment, inhaling deeply, counting out the seconds until the residual tension ebbs away like the last ripples of a storm.

I turn to Jamie, whose shaken expression slowly gives way to tentative color and the familiar light that speaks of promise once the threat dwindles into the distance.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly, my voice a gentle balm. He nods, but it’s a gesture steeped in automation rather than conviction. He averts his gaze momentarily, as if weighing whether to confess the fragility of his composure or simply echo the reassurance I offer.

“I’m fine,” he finally murmurs, shaking off the lingering shadows of tension. “Thanks for handling that.”

“No thanks needed,” I reply, a quiet defiance in my tone. “He’s the one who ought to be sorry.”

Jamie exhales, a long, measured sigh as the accumulated stress drains from his shoulders. “Still. That was... intense.”

“That was nothing,” I counter lightly, letting my tone dance around the remainingheat of the confrontation. “I’ve dealt with plenty worse than him.”

Jamie shakes his head, a small admittance of disbelief slipping through his words. “I need lessons.”

I grin, the warmth in my smile a declaration of resilience. “You’ll learn, eventually. But you don’t have to worry about any of that now. Let me take care of the next order.”

He interjects quickly, “I can do it,” though the relief in his posture betrays his uncertainty.

“I know you can. But let me, just this once. Take a breath and ensure everything else is in perfect order.” He hesitates for a moment —an unspoken apology in his recessed nod—then retreats slightly as I shift my attention back to the waiting funeral arrangements. My fingers delicately gather lilies and white roses, their soft, familiar fragrance enveloping me like a silent reminder of peace amid chaos. Each movement is methodical and calming, the repetition acting as a tonic for the frayed nerves of the day.

Throughout the day, as the storm of confrontation fades into a memory, the shop breathes a new calm—like the placid eye of a hurricane. I move purposefully between tasks, loading the van with meticulous care, ensuring that each arrangement is positioned with precision and care.

In the quiet aftershock of the encounter, I allow my mind to turn back to that arrogant alpha. I am acutely aware of the sting in his challenge, yet equally certain in the knowledge that he underestimated us. A small, knowing smile tugs at my lips as I shut the van doors, secure in the thought that he’ll regret his actions far more than I ever will.

As I drove toward the mortuary, another delivery was scheduled today and I couldn't shake the lingering unease from the confrontation with the alpha. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the road, and I found myself checking the rearview mirror more often than necessary. Just paranoia, I told myself, though the weight of the alpha's threat—"You'll regret this"—seemed to follow me like an unwelcome passenger.

The mortuary loomed ahead, a gray Victorian structure with ornate trim that somehow made it look more ominous rather than welcoming. I parked the van and gathered the somber arrangement of white lilies and roses, their fragrance a stark contrast to the heavy scent of formaldehyde that greeted me at the entrance.

"Miss Vivian," the mortician, Mr. Graner, appeared from behind the reception desk like a specter. His face was pale and angular, eyes too bright as he greeted me with a shark like smile.

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