Page 11 of Veil of Smoke

“Looking for anything specific?” I ask again.

“Just browsing,” he says. His voice is flat. Tired, maybe. Or just uninterested.

But he’s not looking at flowers. He hasn’t touched a single one.

He lingers by the hydrangeas. Then drifts toward the shelf where I keep the order forms, the card holder, the extra receipt paper. He’s scanning the shop like it’s a layout he’s memorizing.

I slide a little behind the work table.

The shears are on my right, half under a cloth napkin. I move them closer, just enough that I could grab them without looking obvious.

“Nice rain, huh?” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

He moves toward the table. Three feet away. Then two.

My stomach knots.

“You local?” I ask. I try to say it like I don’t care about the answer.

His eyes settle too long. He’s not just seeing—I’m being measured.

“I’ve been around.”

His eyes are sharp now. Focusing. His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile.

He steps closer. I match his movement with one of my own, small, just enough to keep the table between us.

“This place yours?” he asks.

I nod once.

He lifts his gaze over my shoulder. To the workbench. The drawers. The stack of flower slips beside the till.

Then he says it.

“Red Thorn.”

Everything inside me freezes.

He waits. Watches.

“I don’t know what that is,” I say, flat. Too fast.

“No?” He cocks his head.

I grip the edge of the table. My other hand hovers near the shears.

He steps around the corner.

“You should’ve stayed home,” he says.

I don’t think. I react.

My hand closes around the shears and I swing.

The blade slices into his forearm, deep. Blood spills fast. He yells, stumbles back. Lets go.

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