He Swore Flowers Would Kill Him, Then Came Home Smelling of Roses novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: Roses on a Man Who Can't Stand Flowers
Rhett comes home smelling of roses his wolf supposedly can't bear. Clara puts lavender on the table, sees his fit arrive late, and reads a message from S.
Rhett's boots hit the porch steps at seven, and the smell reached me before the door opened.
Roses.
It came down our mate bond so hard that I had to catch the edge of the counter.
I was stirring beef stew for his supper. I had a wooden spoon in my hand and a dishtowel over my shoulder.
I had smiled at the sound of his boots for eight years.
The smile was still on my face when he walked in, and it died there.
Rich, heavy, sweet roses. Fresh ones, and a woman's oil under them.
They were all over his skin, his collar and his hair.
My wolf whined inside me and pressed against my ribs.
"How was patrol?" I said. My voice came out level, and I hated that it could.
"Quiet, love." Rhett hung his leather jacket on the hook and gave me his easy grin. "Nothing at the borders. You didn't have to wait supper on me."
He didn't wince. He didn't cough or put a hand to his head.
For six years I had been told that one flower in the room could drop him to the floor.
His wolf couldn't take the smell of a petal. That was the reason my garden was gone.
I had dug up every bed behind this house with my own hands. I had burned my seed jars and given my dried herbs to the pack kitchen.
I had stopped making teas and salves, and I had stopped wearing the lavender soap my mother had taught me to make.
I did all of it because he asked me to, and because I loved him.
And here he stood in the middle of the kitchen, smelling like a flower shop, completely at ease.
"Smells good," he said, and nodded at the stove.
He did not come to kiss me hello. He had kissed me hello at that stove every night for eight years.
"I need a shower," he said. "The pack meeting ran late."
Patrol, and then a pack meeting. He had told me two different things in one minute.
He went up the stairs two at a time.
I heard the shower start, and I heard the old pipes knock inside the wall.
The spoon slipped out of my hand and hit the floor.
I didn't pick it up.
A woman had been close enough to him to leave her scent on his hair. Close enough that he had put it on again tonight and walked in without fear.
My hands were shaking. I held them under the tap until they stopped.
Then I did something I hadn't done in six years.
I opened the cupboard above the fridge, behind the flour tins, and took out the sprig I had kept hidden in a tin, wrapped in a cloth.
It was lavender from my old garden, dried grey and stiff.
I had not been able to throw it away.
I put it in a glass of water on the table, next to his plate.
If his wolf was sick, this would show it. If he was lying, this would show that too.
The doorbell rang before the water settled.
Maureen let herself in without waiting, the way she always did. His mother was sixty-one and she kept her grey hair pulled back so tight it lifted her eyebrows.
She carried the small steel flask she brought every Sunday for Rhett's headaches.
It was Tuesday.
"I was passing," she said. She looked at the stew, then at the glass on the table, and her mouth went thin.
"Clara. What is that?"
"A test," I said.
"Take it out. You'll make him ill."
"Do you smell roses on him, Maureen?"
She didn't answer right away. She set the flask beside Rhett's plate.
"The whole east border reeks of them," she said. "The town hung rose garlands for the harvest fair, dear. He walked through all of it. Your nose is just tired."
It was smooth and kind, and it came out too fast.
Rhett came down the stairs with wet hair and a clean shirt. The roses were still on him. The shower hadn't touched them.
He sat down at the table, a hand's width from the lavender.
He picked up his fork and asked his mother how the hall roof repair was going.
He ate one bite, then a second.
Maureen's eyes were on his face. Then they flicked to the glass, and back to him.
Five breaths went by. I counted them.
Then Rhett put a hand to his temple and said, "Clara. That smell. Take it away."
His voice was flat. There was no tremor in his shoulders and no gray in his face.
The fit had come five breaths late.
"Of course," I said.
I picked up the glass, carried it to the back door and set it on the porch rail in the cold.
I came back and cleared his plate, the way I had every night for eight years.
I made up my mind while I scraped the stew into the bin.
I was not going to cook for this man again.
His phone lit up on the table beside his mother's flask.
I wasn't looking for it. It was just there, face up, a hand's width from my wrist.
A message from a contact that only said S.
Same time Thursday, my Alpha. Wear the jacket again. I love it on you.
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