Page 8 of Stalked By the Alphas
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth. “What? When was this?”
“Oh, must have been around ten or so. Tall and blond. Looked a bit shifty. He was holding those roses you had with you earlier.”
Tall and blond. Rob. Did he really leave those roses? I glance at them in the bin and chew my lip. Maybe I’m being hasty dismissing it. Maybe he does want a second chance. Am I being a bit desperate? Maybe. But time is running out. Most omegas my age are already mated, with babies running around and more on the way.
“Did you see where he went?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
She shakes her head. “No, dear. By the time I’d fed Mittens and come back for a peek, he was gone, but the roses were on the doorstep.”
I force a smile. “Oh, okay. Thank you for letting me know.”
She beams and after she leaves, I sink onto the stool behind the counter, my mind racing. Rob left those roses. But why? Hours after he dumped me, he shows up with red roses. It doesn’t make sense.
Shaking my head, I try to forget about yesterday and the flowers and pick up the pile of mail to sort through. A birthday card in a purple envelope—my favourite colour—peeks out from the stack. Just looking at it makes me smile.
I frown at it as the name and address are typed out with no stamp on it. Opening the envelope, I pull out a children’s card with a masked magician on it, and I gulp. I fucking hate magicians. Creepy-arse fuckers with creepy faces. Shoving the stack of other letters under my arm, I open the card and let out a stifled gasp.
Inside is a photograph of me sleeping, curled up in my bed at home. The writing on the card is in dark red ink, which looks like blood.
Always watching.
I gulp and look over my shoulder.
Obviously, there is no one there, but my heart thunders in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears as I feel my anxiety spike. I race around the counter, dump the card and mail underneath, and snatch up my bag. I search frantically for the herbal tablets, but they aren’t there.
“Fuck! Fuck!” They are on my desk. I took them out yesterday and didn’t replace them. Those were my bagstash, and now I’m out here without them. With trembling hands, I shoulder my bag and scoop up the keys. I’m going to have to shut up shop while I go back to the house to get them.
But a pair of customers walk in, and they aim straight for me. They are not browsers; they know what they want.
I force myself to take a deep breath and plaster a smile as the couple approaches the counter. The woman, a petite brunette omega with kind eyes, speaks first.
“Hi there. We ordered an illustrated edition of The Secret Garden online. We were emailed to say it had arrived.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, of course.”
My hands shake slightly as I move to the shelves behind the counter where I keep special orders. Scanning the spines, I locate the beautifully bound copy of ‘The Secret Garden’ and pull it out.
“Here we are,” I say, handing it to the woman. Her eyes light up as she runs her fingers over the embossed cover.
“Oh, it’s even lovelier than I imagined,” she breathes. Her alpha, a tall man with kind eyes, smiles indulgently at her enthusiasm, but I notice his nostrils flare slightly when he looks at me. Can he smell my fear?
“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” I ask.
The omega shakes her head. “No, thank you.” She isgripping it tightly, so I don’t offer her a bag, either. It doesn’t look like she is going to let it go.
As they leave, I’m hyper-aware of the creepy masked magician card and photo tucked under the counter. I need to get rid of them. I gulp as I think of the time when I was a child and where I got my fear of masked magicians from. I was at Leah’s fifth birthday party, my best friend, before her pack moved to France. It was horrendous.
The memory of that masked magician flashes through my mind, sending a fresh wave of panic. I can still see its haunting white face and hear his rumbling laugh as he tried to get me to volunteer to be sawn in half. I’d hidden in a cupboard for hours, refusing to come out.
The boys had all laughed at me, the girls as well. Only Leah had been kind and tried to make me feel better, but it was her birthday, and she didn’t want a skittish baby ruining her party. So, she left as well. But that’s when the masked magician came for me. I can still feel his hands on my skin. The bile rises up, and I barely make it to the small toilet in the back before I throw up the tea.
The bell above the door jingles again, making me jump. I flush the toilet and rinse out my mouth, pushing this aside. It’s a coincidence. Nothing more. I’m not the only one who hates masked magicians. There’s a very popular book turned film about a horrible masked magician, so clearly, lots of people think they are as hideous as I do.
Sneaking back into the front of the shop, trying to remember if I put deodorant on earlier because I’m sweating like a whore in church on Sunday, a tourist busload of people crams inside the shop, and I know I won’t be going anywhere for the next couple of hours.
4
NOAH
