Page 4 of Stalked By the Alphas

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 of chamomile 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.”

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 bag stash, 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 is gripping 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.