Bound By Blood (Bound by His Alpha #1)

Chapter 1

Ikneel before the lock, the thin carpet of the hallway digging into my knees, and unroll my cloth of tools. Each pick gleams under the fluorescent lights, arranged by size and purpose.

My client shifts his weight behind me, anxiety leaking off him heavy enough to tickle my nose, and I fight back a sneeze.

“How long will this take?” he whispers despite the empty corridor.

Based on the way he keeps checking over his shoulder, this door doesn’t belong to him, but it’s not my job to ask questions.

I go where the company sends me and do the job I’m paid for in cash the second the door opens.

Keeping my head down and my lips zipped is how I keep my baby sister’s college fund growing by increments too small to celebrate but too necessary to ignore.

“Come on, man,” the client shakes my shoulder. “Speed things up.”

I shrug off his touch. “I work faster without interruptions.”

The hallway stretches empty in both directions, institutional beige absorbing sound far better than the place I rent for my sister and myself.

Air swooshes over the back of my neck from a vent above, carrying the scent of carpet cleaner and a floral freshener meant to mask the years of human traffic.

I select the tension wrench first, the metal cool and familiar between my fingers.

The small L-shaped tool slides into the keyhole at the bottom, and I apply gentle pressure to create tension without binding the pins.

Next comes the slender, hooked pick designed for single-pin manipulation.

This lock isn’t complex, but it requires skill.

My fingertips read the metal like Braille, searching for resistance and surrender.

As I work, my breath slows, falling into the rhythm of the work. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The world narrows to the pin stack inside the cylinder.

The first pin catches, then yields, settling into place with a vibration so subtle that only practiced fingers would notice. The second pin follows, stubborn at first, then clicking up with a whisper.

The sound changes as I work, metal scratching against metal in a language it took me years to become fluent in.

Pin three, the binding pin, sticks a little, and I increase pressure on my tension wrench by fractions, feeling for the sweet spot.

When it sets, satisfaction curls through me, a quiet pleasure I allow myself because no one can see it.

Four and five fall into line, and the lock surrenders.

The final pin requires a slight change in angle, and my wrist adjusts without conscious thought.

The cylinder rotates under the tension wrench with a victorious click, and I turn the handle with one gloved hand, pushing the door open an inch as proof of completion without crossing the threshold.

That’s not part of the service.

“Done,” I say, gathering my tools and wiping each one before returning it to its place on the cloth.

The client sags with relief. He’s in his mid-forties, with an expensive watch and a pale spot on his left finger, once occupied by a wedding ring.

“That was…” he pauses to search for a word, “impressive.”

I shrug, rolling the cloth and securing it with a small leather strap. “It’s mechanics.”

I keep my head down, the brim of my hat hiding my face from the apartment security, if they have any.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out folded bills, pre-counted and ready. Smart. Nothing extends these interactions like fumbling for payment.

“The amount we discussed,” he says, holding it out.

I take the cash without looking at it and slide it into my front pocket. No counting, and no receipt.

“Remember what I told you on the phone,” I say, standing and brushing invisible dust from my knees. “I opened it. I didn’t break it. Lock still works.”

“Got it, man,” he says, already dismissing me as he heads inside, which is how it should be.

I shoulder my small backpack and turn away.

I walk toward the stairwell rather than waiting for the slow-ass elevator.

I live by a system that includes never lingering and never regretting.

The temperature in the stairwell drops several degrees as the door closes behind me, and my footsteps echo as I hurry down to the ground floor, running mental calculations.

With this job, the rent is covered, utilities handled, groceries managed, and the college fund is added to.

It’s the endless math of living paycheck to paycheck.

I push through the exterior door, and the late afternoon sunlight stings my eyes after the dim stairwell.

Car exhaust fills the air, and the cold autumn breeze sweeps fallen leaves across the sidewalk.

In a few more weeks, they’ll be clogging the gutters in Brickwell until the city sends some street cleaners to sweep up the mess.

People rush past on their way home from jobs, and I cut between them, invisible in my ordinary clothes and unmemorable appearance.

Two blocks away, I pull out my phone and tap a message to the dispatcher at Ironclad.

Ash

74 complete.

No details, no context. Just a job number closed out, and another tick mark in the ledger of my particular skills. The phone buzzes with a reply.

Dispatch

Wednesday, 9am.

I confirm with a thumbs-up and pocket the device.

The sun hangs low over the buildings as I angle toward the bus stop that will take me across the invisible border between Brickwell and Ashford Heights.

On the ride over, I shrug out of my coveralls, revealing my basic black slacks and black shirt, the uniform for my legal job. The hat, gloves, and coveralls go into my backpack, along with my locksmith tools.

Using my reflection in the window, I rake my hands through my dark brown hair and tie it back into a short ponytail.

The bus deposits me two blocks from the Beacon on Beacon Diner Street, close enough to see the flickering neon sign through the early evening haze.

I have thirteen minutes before my shift starts.

I slip through the back entrance where delivery trucks unload during the day. The heavy metal door groans on its hinges, announcing my arrival to nobody in particular. The kitchen already pulses with activity, the dinner rush preparations in full swing.

Heat slams into me like a physical wall, carrying the mingled scents of frying onions, simmering stock, and industrial cleaner.

Sweat springs to my forehead as I stow my backpack in the employee lockers.

The time clock hangs beside the door, an ancient, mechanical device that the owner claims never lies. I punch my card, and the machine stamps three fifty-two in faded ink.

“Ash, get your ass in here,” Carlos calls from the grill without turning around, spatula moving over sizzling patties. “Rodriguez called out again.”

Without a word, I take my position at prep. The station sits in the corner, away from the main line, but is essential to the restaurant’s smooth function. A laminated sheet taped to the wall lists tonight’s specials and required preparations. I scan it once, memorizing quantities and priorities.

I move to the sink first, scrubbing under hot water until my skin flushes pink.

“Need the chicken broken down,” the head cook calls over his shoulder. “Then start on the soup base.”

I retrieve the chicken from the walk-in, the cold air a momentary relief before the door swings shut behind me.

The metal countertop reflects harsh fluorescent light as I arrange my workspace with the cutting board centered, knives positioned for efficient access, and the waste bin pulled close to minimize movement.

The rhythm of the kitchen pulses around me, but my corner remains my own, a small territory under my control for the next several hours.

The chicken yields to my knife, bones separating from flesh with minimal resistance. Without consulting my brain, years of experience tell my hands where to cut, how much pressure to apply, and how to maximize yield while minimizing time.

In under ten minutes, I break down four whole chickens into their parts, all prepped and sorted into separate containers. Nothing wasted, nothing rushed.

“You ever talk?” A new prep cook pauses beside my station, watching my hands with open curiosity.

His name tag reads “Anthony.” This is only his third day on the job, and he’s still learning boundaries.

“When necessary.” I keep working, dicing onions into uniform pieces that will disappear into the soup base.

He lingers, hoping for a conversation. When I don’t provide any, he shrugs and returns to his own station.

I’ve seen his kind before, always too friendly, searching for connections and stories to swap during down moments. They don’t last long in places like this, where efficiency trumps camaraderie, and everyone is replaceable.

The soup base comes together in stages of onions sweated until translucent, carrots and celery added in turn, stock poured over all. The scent rises in layers, building complexity with each ingredient.

Four hours pass in this manner, prep tasks completed and new ones assigned, each finished with the same mechanical efficiency.

My hands stay busy while my mind runs parallel calculations of hours worked multiplied by hourly rate, minus taxes, divided into budget categories. The mental math never stops.

“Halloway,” the kitchen manager calls across the line. “Take your break. Now.”

I glance at the clock. Seven fifty-seven. My break should have started seventeen minutes ago, but the potatoes needed cutting, and nobody else does them right.

“Five minutes,” I say, finishing the current batch.

“Now,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Labor laws. Take your thirty.” I wipe my hands on a towel and step back from the counter.

The manager nods once, then turns away. The push doesn’t come from concern for my well-being. It’s concern for regulations and timecards, which I understand and prefer.