Flower In The Attic Book Novels & Stories

Why not let me leave? The thought made me sick. His words and actions were nothing but a web of lies. Clutching my torn dress, I bit my lip until I tasted blood. If he wouldn’t let me leave, I would find a way out myself. ***** Just as Kieran promised, I was locked up again. This time, it was in the attic, a place long abandoned and forgotten. The attic was dark, with only faint light filtering through cracks in the wooden roof. The air was thick with dust, making it hard to breathe. The wooden floor creaked with every step, and cobwebs hung in every corner, giving the space an eerie, neglected feel.

Chapter 19 – Brewing Magic Selene’s POV The attic door creaks open, and I’m instantly enveloped by a wave of rich, layered scents... floral, earthy, and tinged with the faintest trace of citrus and spice. My breath catches in my throat. I blink once, twice, to be sure I'm not imagining it. This isn't the dusty, unused attic I remember.

Zane’s POV I climbed to the attic, my breath coming in short bursts as I reached the top faster than I ever should’ve. The smell of freesia hit me before I even opened the door. It was her scent. The girl. The door stood between me and her, the silence thick enough to swallow me whole. I paused, letting my mind settle, recalling how I had searched the Silverwood packhouse from top to bottom. Why hadn’t I thought to check the attic first?

“Past me was so helpful.” I tore the flap open and dug inside—old books, loose beads from a broken bracelet, a cracked snow globe, and an old notebook from my late teenage years. No balm. I let out another irritated sigh, pressing my palm against my forehead. The attic was already warm, and the more I moved, the more suffocating it felt. “Ouch—okay, okay, bad idea,” I hissed through my teeth, readjusting my stance. “Just… stay still. Goddess, just work with me.”

“Follow me, miss.” We stepped into a fancy elevator right inside the house. It moved up smoothly and quietly. She pressed the button for the last floor and counted sixteen levels. When the doors opened, we stepped into a cute little attic room. It was small but charming. A single bed sat in the middle with clean sheets. The roof had glass panels that opened up to the sky. Stars filled the dark night even with light snow falling softly. I loved it right away. It felt peaceful and far away from everything bad.

Callie opened her eyes and she was inside the attic, she looked around and realized it wasn’t hers but she also recognized it. She had been there before. It looked like the same attic where she saw the boy with the green eyes, she spun around and saw a mirror with bronze framing, it had carvings all over it. She walked over curious, her fingers traced all over the carvings committing everything to memory. It was very fine work and she smiled her eyes appreciating it. She took a step back and decided to explore the rest of the attic.

"It’s a bit... tight, Lila. I hope His Majesty doesn't mind sharing a bed that doesn't have a remote control. It’s the only room left." "Tight" was an understatement. The attic room had slanted, low ceilings with exposed oak beams that Adrian had to duck under just to move. There was a single, heavy oak bed that looked like it had been handed down through five generations, covered in a thick, handmade floral quilt. A small window stood open, letting in the sound of crickets and a cool breeze that carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine.

I said, disappointed we hadn’t been able to interrogate anyone. My mother wasn’t deterred. “Reach out to the other packs while you are trying to get to the bottom of why.” She stood and walked over to the large wall of books. Thumbing over the spines, she pulled out a book and opened it carefully. I stood and peered inside. A dried flower lay on the pages, delicate and brittle. It was golden with five leaflets, the central three held above the rest. A jolt went through me. “Where did you get that?” My voice sounded hoarse, and she shot me a look.

“Yeah.” There was a pause. Then, gently, she said, “They’re in the attic.” The word hit me like an insult. I stared at her. “The attic?” She nodded. The attic was where unused furniture gathered dust. Where broken objects were shoved out of sight. Where a pack hid things it no longer valued but hadn’t yet discarded. So that was what I had become to Victor?. I forced a tight smile at Rose. “Thank you.” The words tasted brittle. I turned and climbed the narrow staircase to the attic.

I wasn't sure what she meant. But an hour later... I found myself climbing the narrow attic stairs with a flashlight and a pair of work gloves. --- Dust floated through the air as I switched on the old ceiling light. The attic smelled like forgotten years. Wedding decorations. Old furniture. Suitcases. Christmas ornaments. Photo albums. Pieces of a life we'd built together. I started with the easiest boxes first. Books. Old magazines. A broken lamp. Then I found a cardboard box marked in Amelia's handwriting.