Chapter 1- A Gentle Bloom

London, 1892

The sky wore a heavy coat of grey that morning, as though the city had forgotten how to breathe without the weight of smoke and fog. The scent of coal clung to the air, seeping into brick and bone alike. Horse-drawn carriages rattled down slick cobblestone streets, their wheels cutting sharp through puddles. The lamplighters had already gone, leaving faint halos around the still-flickering gaslights.

In a narrow room tucked between two aging brick buildings, Detective Alfred Seymour, an Alpha by designation but not by temperament, sat at his desk, fingers absently drumming against the edge of a case folder. The scent of tobacco lingered faintly in the space, though his pipe had long since gone cold. He leaned back in his chair, attention drifting instead to the note in his hand—written in an elegant, flowing script on thick ivory paper, the kind that didn’t belong in this part of town.

“I saw a man—tall, with a strangely stiff bearing. His hands moved constantly, as though anxious, but the rest of him remained still. Something about him unsettled me. I couldn’t shake the feeling, even after I returned home.

If you wish to discuss it further, I’ll be at Harrow Street—The Blossom & Verse.”

There was no signature. Only the name of a certain shop..might be a florist’s shop judging by the name..

Alfred folded the note neatly, tucking it into his coat pocket as he rose from his chair. He didn’t usually entertain vague accounts like this. But something about the way this one was worded—precise, unexaggerated, yet oddly evocative—compelled him.

Harrow Street was quieter than most districts—less soot, more sunlight filtering through tangled iron balconies and ivy-covered windows. And there, nestled between a modest tailor’s shop and a dusty bookbinder’s stall, stood a storefront with its sign painted in soft script: The Blossoms and Verse

Alfred pushed open the door. A small brass bell tinkled above his head.

The scent that greeted him was a blend of lavender, freesia, and earth—warm, comforting, and wholly unlike anything from his usual haunts. And underneath it all, just barely noticeable to his Alpha senses, was a subtle thread of something soft, distinctly Omega—not provocative, but grounding, like the scent of spring after rain.

Flowers bloomed in elegant disorder, vases of fresh peonies and sprigs of rosemary sharing space with delicate bunches of daisies and violet crocuses. Poetry verses were tucked between arrangements, scrawled on parchment and pinned lovingly among petals.

Behind the wooden counter stood a young man arranging a bouquet, fingers moving delicately as though each flower had a soul of its own. Short curls of pale blond hair framed his face, and when he looked up, his blue eyes held a quiet brightness that softened the room around him.

“Good morning,” the young man greeted gently, setting down a pair of ribbon shears. His voice carried that unmistakable lilt often found in well-bred Omegas, calm and composed, even under scrutiny. “You must be Detective Seymour?”

“I am,” Alfred replied with a slight nod. “And you would be…?”

“I’m Esther Thorne,” he said, stepping forward. “I sent the note.”

Esther’s presence had a subtle steadiness, a poised grace that Alphas rarely encountered outside the most refined circles. But there was no subservience in it—just quiet confidence, layered with restraint.

“You run this shop?” Alfred asked, glancing about.

“I do. It’s small, but it’s mine,” Esther said modestly. “Bit of a humble nook, but it keeps the day gentle.”

“I don’t usually make visits based on anonymous letters,” Alfred said, eyeing a nearby verse pinned beside a vase of forget-me-nots. “But yours was… different.”

“I didn’t mean to be mysterious, truly,” Esther replied, pouring tea with delicate grace. “I simply wasn’t sure if a florist’s hunch would carry any weight with a man of your profession.”

Alfred gave a faint huff of amusement. “You’d be surprised, Mr. Thorne. I’ve chased cases on far dafter things than a florist’s hunch.”

Esther smiled, faintly amused. “Then perhaps I won’t feel quite so daft myself.”

Alfred accepted the offered cup and settled into the chair across from him. As he took a sip, his senses were again brushed by that quiet trace of Esther’s scent, faint but grounding.

“Go on then. Tell me about this fellow you saw.”

Esther hesitated for a brief moment before speaking..

“He was peculiar,” he said softly. “Not frightening at first glance—but the longer I looked, the more wrong he seemed.”

Alfred looked at him, waiting.

“He wasn’t doing anything overt,” Esther continued, “just standing near the lamppost across the street. But… it was the way he stood. Perfectly still—unnaturally so. As if he didn’t quite belong in his own skin.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Esther glanced out the window, voice gentler now, thoughtful. “There was tension in him, but not the kind you’d expect from someone waiting or hiding. He wasn’t anxious—he was composed. Controlled. Like a man on a stage, playing a role that didn’t quite fit him.”

“And his hands,” Esther added. “He kept adjusting his gloves. Not fidgeting… more like resetting a habit. Smooth, precise. Again and again. It was deliberate.”

“Deliberate,” Alfred echoed.

Esther nodded. “It felt like a rhythm—one I wasn’t supposed to notice. But once I did, I couldn’t stop watching it. The way he moved his fingers, how his gaze never followed people, only corners and shadows.”

Alfred tilted his head slightly. “You believe he was watching for something.”

“Or listening,”Esther replied quietly. “His head kept turning, just a little—like he was trying to hear something beneath the noise of the street.”

There was a pause, then Esther finished softly, “I don’t know what it was about him, Detective… but I’ve never seen anyone stand in silence and still feel so loud.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“You’ve an eye for detail, Mr. Thorne,” Alfred remarked.

Esther gave a modest shrug. “Floristry is all in the details, Detective. A bloom can wither by the slightest wrong touch.”

Alfred stood, brushing down his coat. “If anything else comes to mind, send word.”

Esther nodded politely. “Of course.”

As Alfred turned to leave, he paused at the door. “The Blossom & Verse… it’s an odd name for a flower shop.”

Esther chuckled softly. “Well, sir… some souls bloom better with a touch of verse, don’t they?”

Alfred gave a slight smirk, tugging his coat collar up as the bell chimed behind him.

Out on the street again, with fog curling at his heels, Alfred walked away with a faint scent of freesia still clinging to his coat—and a mind more stirred than he'd expected.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***