Violet
“Better get to livin' 'cause life ain't long," I belt out, drumming my fingers on Dolly's steering wheel as we cruise through another mountain curve. "Better start singin' this freedom song!"
Even after eight hours of driving, I’m still feeling exhilarated, belting out every Dolly Parton song. My voice is getting hoarse, but I don't care. For the first time in five years, I can sing as loud as I want without someone telling me to shut up.
The road winds between trees so tall they look like they're trying to swipe stars right out of the sky. Their branches sag with snow and sparkle in my headlights.
Cold air zips through the crack in my window, crisp enough to sting. Way better than the exhaust-choked city smog I've been gagging on for years.
Every breath tastes like freedom. Like defiance. Like I finally slipped the leash Mark kept choking me with.
"Right, Dolly?" I pat the dashboard affectionately. "We're doing this. Freedom suits us."
Dolly responds with a troubling cough, as if trying to clear her throat of antifreeze and metal shavings. I ease off the gas, but this is the second bad noise she's made.
"Come on, girl. Don't let me down now."
Steam begins to rise from under the hood, like she's having a hot flash, then thin wisps at first, followed by thick billows that obscure my view of the road ahead.
"Dolly, no! We talked about this!" I plead with the dashboard as if my old Ford could care less about my concerns. "Texas is still hours away. Emma's couch is waiting for me. You can't give up now."
But Dolly’s had enough of my pep talks.
I yank the wheel into the first open lot I see, gravel crunching under her tires. She jerks once…twice…and then lets out an offended wheeze as I quickly turn off the engine before it overheats completely. Steam erupts like an angry kettle.
I grip the wheel, my breath fogging the inside of the windshield. My throat’s tight, but then I laugh. Sharp, breathless, on the edge of losing it. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll scream. And if I scream, I might not stop.
So I sing because it’s the only thing I’ve got that feels like mine. My voice cracks, my chest aches, and still I keep going since it helps me not to breakdown too and cry.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter between verses, patting the dash with one trembling hand. “Seriously. Nailed it.”
The dashboard clock blinks 4:23 AM.
That god-awful hour where nothing good ever happens and even the silence feels like it’s judging you.
I saw a sign a few miles back that said Cedar Ridge. Never heard of it. All that matters is Dolly’s overheated and I’m stuck.
The town’s dark. Street lamps flicker like they’re not fully committed to their job, casting sickly yellow halos onto the empty sidewalk. Mountains loom in the distance, jagged shadows against a star-punched sky. It’s way colder than my jacket was ever meant to handle.
Every breath cuts. Frost, pine, and…alpha.
I go still.
Across the square, one storefront glows like it forgot the rest of the world shut down hours ago. A bakery. Rise & Shine, painted in cheerful yellow script like it hasn’t seen someone break down sobbing in their car lately.
Warm light spills onto the sidewalk, soft and golden. Even from here, the scent hits me: yeast, cinnamon, fresh bread.
My stomach growls like I’ve got a bear trapped in there. Probably since I haven't eaten except a granola bar yesterday. Maybe the day before.
I climb out to assess the damage, boots crunching against the salted pavement, legs numb from sitting too long. My whole body protests the cold, and I wrap my arms tighter around myself as I circle Dolly.
But the real gut-punch comes from the puddle spreading beneath the engine…a viscous green smear that looks radioactive under the streetlight.
Immediately my nose wrinkles. Whatever's leaking under Dolly's hood smells like the last shred of my luck. I swear it's steaming out a message in Morse code that says: you're screwed.
"Well, this is just fan-freaking-tastic," I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter against the mountain air.
The fabric is thin – designed for California weather, not here.
Months without suppressants, and my scent is getting stronger every day.
The suppressants' effects are finally wearing off completely.
Soon my body will remember what it's supposed to do.
What Mark convinced me was disgusting. Primitive. Wrong.
The bakery door slams open hard enough to rattle the glass, the chime ringing out like a damn fire alarm instead of a welcome bell.
"You planning to blow up your radiator in front of my bakery?"
Then, the largest human being I've ever seen in real life, and I forget why I was singing, forget about Dolly's smoking engine, forget everything except the way he moves like he owns not just the bakery but the entire mountain range.
He has to duck slightly to clear the doorframe.
As he approaches, me, I can smell fresh bread and cinnamon and vanilla underlaid with something dark and warm and purely alpha.
His sandy hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it, with little bits of flour caught in the strands that catch the light from the bakery windows.
There's stubble along his jaw that should look unkempt but instead makes him look ruggedly handsome in a way that has my traitorous omega hindbrain sitting up and taking notice.
My mouth actually waters, and I'm not sure if it's from hunger or something else entirely. The omega in me wants to step closer, to breathe deeper, to discover what that underlying warmth might taste like.
I lock my knees to keep from moving toward him, because the last thing I did was stop here for an alpha. I've learned this lesson already.
He stops in front of Dolly with his hands planted on his hips, and glares at me like I've personally ruined his entire week.
"Whatever the hell you were doing. Forget it.” His voice is a low rumble of pure annoyance that I feel in my chest.
"You were waking the dead with that racket, and you need to get your heap of junk out of my way before it explodes all over my storefront."
"Racket? I was singing."
"If you think so." He gestures sharply at Dolly's steaming engine.
"And this piece of junk looks about to blow sky-high." I blink at him, sure I must have misheard.
"Excuse me?" "Your car." He nods toward Dolly.
"It's leaking coolant and smoking like a chimney. Get it off my property or I'll have it towed."
"First of all," I cross my arms to mirror his stance, "her name is Dolly, not 'piece of junk.
' Second, I didn't exactly plan this breakdown to tank your sourdough sales.
And third..." I let my gaze drag over him, how his t-shirt stretches across his chest, the way his jeans hug his thighs, the way his scent seems to intensify when he's irritated.
Then I force myself to focus on his scowling face.
"When you say 'piece of junk,' are you referring to my car or yourself? Because honestly, your attitude is doing more damage to your bakery's image than Dolly ever could."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes like he regrets it instantly.
His scent spikes again, but this time it’s not just irritation. It’s deeper. Hotter. Like dark chocolate left too long in the sun—rich and messy and impossible to ignore.
My omega instincts jolt to attention submit, run, anything but stand still. I do it anyway.
"Look, omega…”
"Violet," I interrupt, taking a step closer despite every self-preservation instinct I have screaming at me to back away.
He's bigger up close, broader, and the way he's looking down at me makes something flutter in my chest that I absolutely do not want to examine.
"My name is Violet, not 'omega.' I know it's hard to keep track of us as individuals, but do try. "
A muscle in his jaw ticks, and for a moment I think he might actually growl at me. The thought sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
"Look, Violet." He says my name like it costs him something, like it scraped its way up his throat and left a mark. Rough. Unwanted. I don't react. Not outwardly. Just tighten my arms across my chest and brace for the next blow.
"I don't care what your sob story is or what you're running from. You've got sixty seconds before I call a tow."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. The sound comes out sharp and brittle, like glass breaking. "Sure. This is exactly how I pictured my Friday.”
"I think you're an omega with drama following you around like a lost puppy, and I don't need that kind of trouble in my town."
"Right, because alphas like you are such prizes. Let me guess, you're single because you're 'focused on your business,' nothing to do with you being an insufferable ass who thinks basic human decency is optional."
"Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine? I can see why you went into the hospitality business. Your customer service skills are truly inspiring."
As he comes closer, my body betrays me completely.
My chin lifts without permission, shoulders straightening in classic omega display behavior I haven't done since college.
The movement is automatic, instinctive, and I hate the way his nostrils flare slightly in response to my vanilla and honey scent growing stronger without suppressants to dampen it.
"This isn't my problem," he growls, and the sound vibrates through my chest that's definitely not unpleasant despite how angry I am.
"You're absolutely right," I say, turning toward Dolly's back door. My hands are shaking slightly as I fumble with the handle, whether from cold or adrenaline or the lingering effects of his scent, I'm not sure. "Not your problem, right? So go back to your dough and leave me the hell alone."
I pop open the back door and shove my duffel bag into the front seat to make space, hyperaware of his eyes on me. The bag is heavier than it should be, stuffed with everything I could grab. I knew that I only had a few minutes while Mark was in the shower.
I’ve been driving for seventeen hours. I'm going to sleep before I drop."
"You can't sleep in your car."
The concern in his voice catches me off guard, but I don't let it show. Faking concern can be just another manipulation tactic. I've learned that the hard way.
"Watch me." I climb into the backseat and pull my jacket over my shoulders like a blanket. The vinyl is cold against my legs, and I can already feel the chill seeping through the windows. It's not comfortable, but I've slept in worse places.
As I arrange my jacket into a makeshift pillow, he’s still standing there in my peripheral vision. His scent lingers in the cold air: bread and cinnamon and reluctant protection. My omega instincts whisper that he's safe, but I've learned not to trust those instincts. They've led me astray before.
"This is ridiculous," he shouts, loud enough for me to hear.
He drags one large hand through his hair, sending flour drifting to the ground like snow. The gesture is frustrated and oddly vulnerable, and I hate that I find it appealing.
Pretty sure your singing's what killed your car," he says, but there's less heat in it than before.
"Don't let me keep you, then." I lie back down, facing the seat, spine stiff.
He exhales sharply.
"Fine!” he snarls. "Freeze to death in your car. But when morning comes and you're a popsicle, don't expect me to feel guilty about it."
"I wouldn't dream of expecting compassion from you," I mutter. "That would require you to see omegas as actual people."
His jaw tightens. Something shifts in his face—too fast to read. Gone before I can decide if it meant anything.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." I turn my back to him, pulling the jacket tight. "You saw someone in trouble and thought about property values."
"That's all I need to know."
"Have it your way," he snaps.
He marches away. The bakery door opens with another musical chime, warm light and delicious scents spilling out onto the sidewalk, and then it closes behind him.
I'm alone again.
The silence is heavier now, pressing in on me from all sides. The air is getting colder, and it seeps through Dolly's questionable insulation. My breath fogs in the air, and I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to conserve body heat.
Inside, he moves like he's probably done this a thousand times, walking back and forth, disappearing into what must be the kitchen.
I should be trying to sleep, or figuring out my next move. But there's something mesmerizing about seeing him work.
The way he handles the heavy trays like they weigh nothing, the way he checks each loaf with careful attention, the way his shoulders flex under the thin fabric of his tank top. It's like watching a master craftsman, someone who takes genuine pride in what he does.
Mark never looked like that when he worked. He approached everything with barely concealed resentment, like the world owed him something better than whatever he was doing.
I curl tighter in the backseat, knees to my chest. Pathetic, maybe, but it works. It’s an old habit from the Mark days, when disappearing was the only defense I had.
My stomach's cramping from hunger, and I can't feel my fingers anymore. Perfect. Just perfect.
My body's running on nothing but spite and the last dregs of gas station coffee.
I remind myself of my victory. I’m free. Freezing my ass off in a broken-down car outside a bakery owned by some surly alpha who probably thinks I'm trash, but free.
And for the first time in years, nobody gets to tell me what to do next.