His Little Flower (Felix and Flora) novel Chapter 87

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Chapter 87 

The hallway echoed with the soft sounds of our shared grief. We knelt on the cold oak, a tangle of limbs and tear–streaked faces, my sobs weaving a melancholy through the silent house. My head rested against his chest, its steady rhythm a metronome against the chaotic beat of my own heart. 

“I’m so sorry, Flora,” he whispered, his voice thick with remorse. “I never meant for it to happen. I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, and I tried so hard to find you, I swear. I… His sentence dissolved into a sob, echoing my own. 

He slowly wiped the tears from my cheek. 

“No, it’s my fault,” I choked out, the words twisting in my throat like barbed wire. “I never told you the complete truth. And I…never contacted you. I 

was scared.” 

Silence descended, the only sound the rhythmic sniffles and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. It felt like an eternity, a void heavu with unsaid words and unspoken truths. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely a tremor, 

“I missed you,” he breathed, the words falling between us like fragile snowflakes. “Every. Single. Day.” Each word was punctuated by a soft kiss on my mouth. Itis lips were so soll. 

His words struck a chord deep within me, resonating with the echo of my own longing. I squeezed my eyes shut, the tide of memories threatening to engulf me. The stolen glances, the shared laughter, the late–night whispers, all laced with a yearning we had both felt, for so many years. 

“Me too,” I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. “Every, Damn. Day.” 

A sub wracked his body, shaking me in its intensity. We held each other tighter, finding solace in the shared pain, the bittersweet c weren’t alone in our misery. 

confirmation that ww 

“We wasted so much time,” he murmured, his voice a rasp against my ear. Five years… gone. The first two years, we all searched for you. My Dad. Mr. The whole family. Then it Just…seemed like all hope was lost. And I’d just lost you, in one single night. Just like that.” 

Five years. Five years of pretending, of building walls around my hearte, of living an existence that felt strange and lonely and like I wasn’t even in that life, like a half–written story, a melody missing its harmony. Of me, missing him. My incomplete body and incomplete soul. 

“We can’t get them back,” I whispered, the truth a bitter pill on my tongue. “But… maybe…” My voice trailed off, the thought too fragile to voice. 

3, once stormy with anger, now held a raw 

He cupped my face, his calloused fingers tracing the contours of my tear–streaked cheeks. His eyes, vulnerability that mirrored my own. “If you think I’m ever going to let you go again, you’re so wrong” 

I cracked a smile at that. “I never want to be apart again.” 

“Not even for a second.” 

He lay another kiss on me, this one longer than the others, our tongues met for a second. 

He pulled back. “Why did you leave, Flora?” he asked, his voice a plea. “Tell me. Please.” 

ain I’d built around myself, exposing the raw wound beneath. Tears welled up, blurring my vision. 

The question pierced through the layers of pain 

“I didn’t want to,” I stammered, my y voice barely a whisper. “Believe Felix. I didn’t.” 

His brow furrowed, confusion warring with disbelief in his eyes. Then what happened? Flora, please tell me. Don’t leave me hanging again.” 

I didn’t know how to say it to him. From where to begin. How to explain what had happened, why I hadn’t contacted him, why I had stayed so long with my father. I looked up at him, and his eyes were transfixed on me, like he was maybe trying to pull words right out of my brain. I hit my lip. 

“Flora,” he whispered again. “Please 

His plea cracked open the dam I’d held together for so long. The story I’d buried deep within, suffocated by guilt and fear, spilled out in a toment of words, punctuated by sobs and shaky breaths, I told him everything. 

1/2 

His Little Flower 

Chapter 88 

(Then) 

My eyes snapped open, terror coiling in my gut. The scream, raw and desperate, had ripped through my dream and shaken me awake, leaving me gasping in the darkness. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. This wasn’t the familiar sound of the night, the sounds of cars honking sometimes, or the call of a raccoon, that I was used to now; they now lulled me to sleep. This was silence, oppressive and heavy, pregnant with the unknown. 

I 

– 

Grabbing the first weapon I could find a sturdy wire hanger from my closet–1 crept out of my room, bare feet whispering on the creaking floorboards. Shadows writhed on the walls, playing tricks on my already frayed nerves. Every groan of the house as I walked amplified the silence, turning it into a deafening roar, 

The library, offered no solace. The guest room, only underscored my solitude. Panic threatened to pull me under, but I pressed on, need to understand. 

driven by a desperate 

Then, the voice. A low murmur, carried on the air like a phantom echo. It seemed to come from downstairs, near the kitchen. Adrenaline surged through me, replacing fear with a cold, calculating focus. I crept down the stairs, each step a declaration against the unseen terror. 

Even the lights of the garden were off. A chill crept over me. Something 

The house was bathed in darkness, Maybe there was an electricity issue? Ex seemed very wrong. 

The kitchen stood bathed in moonlight, a tableau of eerie stillness. Pots and pans hung frozen on the rack, the stove gleaming coldly. Yet, the voice, now clearly a man’s, hung in the air- menacing, guttural, Was I imagining it? Was the fear playing cruel tricks on my mind, conjuring phantom sounds from the emptiness? 

But the prickling on my skin, the goosellesh erupting on my arms, told a different story. This was real, and the danger, though unseen, was terrifyingly close. 

I had to be smarter than the fear, become invisible in the shadows. 

God, I was so stupid, I shouldn’t have ventured on my own. I should have gone to my parents.