Page 1 of Shattered Salvation
Emrys
By the time I lock the back door of Ardor, my shoulder is already screaming from the tote hanging off it, and the flour dusted along my sleeve has settled into the seam. The alley behind the bakery is damp from the rain that passed through an hour ago, turning the pavement glossy beneath the weak yellow light over the door. I pause long enough to make sure the lock catches, then tug once more because Priya will text me at midnight to ask if I checked it twice, and I love her, but I do not love beingbullied by a woman who thinks “just making sure you’re alive” is a normal coworker sentiment.
The tote shifts when I adjust it higher on my shoulder, the leftover flour inside heavier than it has any right to be. I don’t even need it. That’s the stupid part. I could have left it for morning, letting Marco deal with inventory, while I walked home with nothing but my hoodie, my phone, and the tiny knot of tiredness tucked behind my eyes. Instead, I said I’d take it because I always say yes before my brain gets a chance to check with the rest of me.
I huff out a little sigh and head toward my apartment, Ansdale peacefully quiet the way it always gets this time at night. A car passes at the end of the block, tires whispering over wet asphalt. Somewhere above me, a window slides shut. The bakery’s warmth follows me for three steps before the night takes it back, and I tuck my chin into the collar of my oversized sweater as I start home.
It isn’t far. That’s what I always tell myself when the shift runs late, and my feet ache from standing for nine hours. It’s only six blocks to the building, two turns if I cut past the laundromat, three if I stick to better lighting. Priya hates when I cut past the laundromat. I do it anyway because I am a grown Omega with a set of keys, a phone, and exactly enough stubbornness to make questionable decisions feel like personality traits.
Tonight, I take the longer route.
I don’t know why. Maybe because the rain left the laundromat alley smelling like old detergent and wet cardboard when I passed it on my break. Maybe because the tote is heavy and the better-lit street has fewer cracks in the pavement. Maybe because something under my ribs has been sitting a little wrong since the last customer of the night stared at the front windows too long before leaving without buying anything.
“Stop being dramatic, Em,” I whisper to myself. Most people who come through the bakery are odd in some way, either with their strange orders or how long they linger.
The windows of closed shops catch my reflection in pieces as I pass. Dark curls gone frizzy from steam and humidity, my cheeks flushed from the ovens, and flour on my face that I apparently missed when I scrubbed my hands raw at the sink. My hoodie is too big, my jeans are cuffed because I bought them on sale and told myself length was a problem for people with fewer sewing videos saved on their phone, and the tote keeps bumping my hip with every step.
I look exactly like someone coming home from a bakery, not like someone interesting enough for the world to bother with.
That thought makes me smile a little, mostly because it sounds like something Priya would smack me for. I can hear her voice in my head.You’re not boring, Rys. You’re just tired. Go home and eat something with protein before I call your mother.
I don’t need anyone calling my mother, so I fish my phone out one-handed at the corner and send Priya a quick text before she can start.
Home in ten. Door locked. Twice. Don’t start.
Her response comes almost immediately.
I’ll need proof when you actually get in.
I snort, shove the phone back into my hoodie pocket, and tighten my grip on the tote strap. Relief hits me as I turn the last corner to my apartment before I can stop it. It always does when I turn onto my street and see the narrow front steps, the scratched glass door, the familiar buzz of the entry light that the landlord insists he fixed last month, even though it still flickers like it’s being haunted by a very lazy ghost.
My feet hurt, my shoulder aches, and there is flour inside one of my shoes. I want my shower. I want my nest. I wantthe leftover honey rolls I hid behind the frozen peas because I cannot be trusted with myself if I leave pastries in plain sight.
The bins sit near the side of the building, half tucked into the recessed bit of brick by the service door. Usually, I don’t look at them. They’re just there, that awful sour trash smell wafting from it, and the occasional raccoon making eye contact like he pays rent and I’m the intruder. Tonight, my attention catches on someone standing near them before I reach the steps.
“Maybe he’s waiting for someone,” I tell myself before shrugging and continuing on. But no one waits there. Especially not this late.
Fear spikes in my chest as I reach for my keys, grimacing when they catch on my pocket, the jangle stealing the man’s attention.
I force my hand deeper into my pocket, fingers brushing the metal. “Evening,” I push out, trying to keep my voice calm.
The man’s eyes lock onto mine, a small smile spreading across his face. “Emrys.”
My brows furrow with confusion as I shake my head, the tote sliding down my shoulder as I step back. “I think... I think you have the wrong person.”
He chuckles. “No, I don’t think I do.”
Then he starts toward me. I yank my keys from my pocket before twisting to run back down the street. But his hand catches the front of my hoodie and yanks me sideways so hard my shoulder cracks against brick.
Pain bursts white at the edge of my vision. The back of my head hits a second later, hard enough to scatter the scream trying to climb out of me. He crowds in before I can find the strength to scream again, one forearm pinning me high across the chest while his other hand clamps over my mouth.
Tears blur my vision as I scratch at the hand over my mouth, my teeth scraping against his palm, but that just makes him press harder, crushing my lips against my teeth until the sharptaste of blood floods my tongue. I jerk my knee up, but the tote is tangled around my hip and his leg blocks mine before I can get any force behind it.
“Quiet,” he says.
I dig my keys into his arm, still struggling against his grip. The Alpha hisses and drags me forward before slamming back into the wall, harder this time, enough that the air leaves my chest in a muffled sob. Then he yanks the keys from my hand and tosses them off to the side.
“Why,” I try to say into his palm as he lifts me off the ground. I scratch weakly at his arms again, fear radiating through my scent.
