Page 7 of Stalked By the Alphas
As I reach my temporary residence, I pause at the door, my hand hovering over the handle. The thrill of the hunt courses through my veins, but I force myself to take a steadying breath. Patience, I remind myself. We’ve waited years for this moment. A few more weeks won’t kill us.
Inside, I return to my makeshift office, settling back into the chair in front of the monitor. Hazel hasn’t moved, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of drug-induced sleep. I lean forward, drinking in the sight of her.
“Soon, tiny omega,” I murmur, tracing her face on the screen again. “Soon, you’ll understand that you’ve always belonged to us.”
3
HAZEL
I wake with a start,my head pounding and my mouth dry. Sunlight streams through a gap in the curtains, stabbing at my eyes. Groaning, I roll over and fumble for the clock on the bedside table.
10:47 AM.
“Shit!” I bolt upright, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washes over me. I’m nearly two hours late opening the bookshop.
Stumbling out of bed, I rush to the bathroom. Brushing my teeth feels like heaven. My mouth is dry and tastes like a bird shat in it at some point during the night. Not nice. Turning to the shower, I turn it on and set it to cool. The humidity has risen since the storm last night, and it’s going to be another sticky day.
I step under the cool spray, letting it wash away my grogginess. As the water cascades over me, flashes of last night come back in disjointed fragments: the wind, the crash upstairs, the open window.
I get goosebumps and shiver slightly. The unease from yesterday lingers, clinging to me.
Shaking off the feeling, I quickly finish my shower and throw on a light sundress. No time for breakfast or even tea.
As I hurry down the stairs, something crunches under my shoe. I look down to see shards of glass scattered across the kitchen floor. “Shit.” I’d forgotten all about it.
Shaking my head, I feel a bit idiotic for panicking. In the sunny light of day, it all seems so ridiculous. It’s just my overactive imagination getting the better of me again.
Quickly sweeping up the glass, I grab a bottle of water for my parched throat and my keys and head for the front door. When I open the door, something catches my eye. A bouquet of rain-soaked roses lies on my doorstep.
My breath catches in my throat. So, someone was here.
I look around nervously, but there doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. The high street is already bustling with activity. Mrs Haber is walking her dog, the postman is doing his rounds, the bakery with its usual queue for bacon sandwiches and a sneaky early pie. Picking them up, I close the door, and the Yale lock automatically clicks into place.
The roses feel heavy in my hand as I hurry down the street towards my bookshop. Who could have left them? Rob? The thought makes my stomach churn.Like all the others, I’d been so sure he was done with me.
Mrs Pemberton, the elderly beta who runs the tea shop next door, is clearing the outside tables as I reach the bookshop. She waves cheerily.
“Morning, dear! Bit of a lie-in today?”
I force a smile, tucking the roses under my arm. “Something like that. Have a good day, Mrs P!”
The familiar jingle of the bell above the door greets me as I enter the bookshop. The scent of old paper and leather bindings usually calms me, but today, it does little to ease my nerves.
I dump the roses unceremoniously on the counter and flip the sign to ‘Open’. My mind races as I move through the shop, straightening displays and turning on lamps. Could they be from Rob? But why would he leave them without knocking or calling? And after dumping me so suddenly?
I move behind the counter and drop the soggy bouquet into the bin. There is no card or note, and honestly, even if they are from Rob, should I give him a second chance?
The bell above the door jingles, startling me from my thoughts. I plaster on a smile as Mrs Pemberton bustles in, a steaming mug in her hand.
“Thought you could use this, dear,” she says, setting the tea on the counter. “You look a bit peaky.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. The familiar scent ofchamomile wafts up, soothing my frazzled nerves. “That’s very kind of you.”
Mrs Pemberton peers at me over her glasses. “Everything alright, Hazel? You seem out of sorts.”
I hesitate, torn between my desire to confide in someone and my fear of sounding paranoid. “I’m fine,” I say finally. “Just a bit tired. Didn’t sleep well with the storm last night.”
She nods sympathetically. “Nasty weather, wasn’t it? Though I must say, I didn’t hear much. Sleep like the dead these days.” She chuckles. “Unlike some, apparently. Saw a fellow outside your place last night when I let Mittens in from her evening constitutional.”
