Page 110 of Ruthless Alpha Beast
“It’ll be fine,” he says, noticing my hesitation as we face the area where the forest narrows. “I’ve got you.”
I nod, savoring the look of complete control and competency in his moonstone eyes before forcing my legs to move.
The path ahead grows tighter, branches stretching like skeletons that seem to pull toward us. The mist thickens around us, and sensing my trepidation, Jasper edges closer to me.
I’m looking around frantically for any signs of the flower I once saw. My fingers tighten around the dagger, ready to attack.
I’ve never ‘attacked’ like this before.
There's rustling through the trees, and I pause, about to lunge with the dagger in hand, before Jasper steps in front of me. He puts one arm in front of my body.
My heart is beating out of my chest.
I glance at Jasper, his profile sharp in the dim light, and despite the fear curling in my stomach, I feel stable. Like nothing could hurt me with him there.
“Jasper—"
“Stay with me,” he says, moving forward. “The darkness is watching.”
I try not to look too closely at the shifting shapes between the trees. I can’t see exactly what’s there, but it’s like the more I look, the more I see faces staring back.
“I have a feeling that what we’re looking for—"
“Is going to be right at the end.”
We both gaze at the darkness, which opens up like a mouth at the end of the path.
Jasper slows, and I do too, taking small, careful steps. All I hear are our footsteps, creaking and slow.
And then, it happens.
What I’ve been waiting for,we’vebeen waiting for.
My hand curls around the dagger. When in front of us, the clearing opens up onto a singular, tall white flower.
My heart jumps.
It’s exactly like the vision. White feathery petals, so delicate that it’s as though they could break. The stalk is long and tall. The crown of the flower is bent ever so slightly, as though it’s stooping its head.
I grip the dagger tighter, my breath shuddering out of me. Jasper offers me a reassuring nod.
I take three careful steps before swinging the dagger high over my head.
Here goes nothing.
Then pierce it down into the heart of the flower.
It feels soft and mushy beneath the blade; my heartbeat and breath struggle to stay constant.
I’m not breathing.
But I look, and at first the flower looks broken. Not in a magical way, per se.
How am I supposed to know?
And then the petals quickly change color—turning yellow, bright yellow.
The stalk shortens, a much smaller, different flower lies withered on the floor.
