Chapter 4 Violet #2
But when Garrick emerges with a bowl of soup smelling like heaven and a basket of bread still warm, I find myself sinking into the nearest chair before I can think about it.
The first spoonful strikes my empty stomach like a blessing. Rich and savory and perfect, and I have to bite back a moan of appreciation. I eat with the single-minded focus of someone who hasn't had a real meal in too long, dimly aware the others are watching but too hungry to care about dignity.
When I finally surface from the bowl, some color has returned to my cheeks and the shaking in my hands has stopped.
"Better?" Meredith asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The baker's standing in the kitchen doorway, and for a second his expression is almost... gentle. Then his usual scowl slides back into place.
"Thank you," I manage. "It was really good."
He grunts and disappears back into the kitchen.
Charming.
Meredith leads me up a narrow staircase tucked behind the bakery counter. The steps creak under our feet, and I can hear the murmur of voices below. The alphas probably discussing what to do with their unexpected houseguest.
"Here we are," Meredith says, unlocking a door at the top of the stairs. "Home sweet home."
The apartment is compact and clean, with hardwood floors and windows looking out over the main street. There's a tiny kitchen, a living area with a couch and a TV, and a bedroom with an actual bed looking as though it could fit a normal-sized human.
It's more room than I've had to myself in years.
"I tutored a student who stayed here a few years back," Meredith explains, opening closets and pointing out amenities. "Jenny Patterson. Lovely girl, went on to teach kindergarten in Denver. Left some things behind. Towels, basic supplies. You should have everything you need."
She's moving through the apartment with the efficiency of someone who's done this before, checking the heating works, making sure there are clean sheets on the bed.
"The bathroom's through here," she continues, opening a door to reveal a tiny but functional space. "Hot water works fine. There are towels in the cabinet."
A real shower with hot water and privacy.
"Thank you once again." I keep repeating. I just don't know what else to say.
"No need, dear. We take care of each other here." She pauses at the door. "Does the baker live here?"
She shakes her head.
I breathe out a sigh of relief.
"But, all three of them have a key to the bakery downstairs, but only Garrick has an extra key, to the apartment, because he’s the landlord.”
Three alphas. With keys. One of them has a key to the apartment I'm sleeping in.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. Three alphas. With keys. To the apartment I'm sleeping in. While I'm off suppressants and probably broadcasting my omega status like a neon sign.
She waits for a reaction, but there is none. At least not one I'm letting show on my face. Inside, every instinct is screaming at me to grab my duffel bag and run. Find a bus station, a train, hell, I'll hitchhike if I have to.
But Meredith wouldn't put me in danger. Would she? The woman who just strong-armed a grumpy baker into housing me and made sure I had food and safety wouldn't hand me over to three unmated alphas like some kind of offering.
Right?
It'll be fine. It has to be. Meredith knows what she's doing. These are decent men. Good men. The kind who make sure strays get fed and sheltered.
Not the kind who take advantage of vulnerable omegas.
At least, I hope to God they're not.
“You have nothing to worry about. Get some rest. Monday we'll figure out your car situation."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I'm alone with the knowledge that three alphas could walk through that door anytime they wanted.
And there's not a damn thing I can do about it except pray Meredith's judgment is better than mine has ever been.
“What do I do until Monday?” I ask, more myself than her. Everyone says Monday, it’s only Friday night.
“Well, you can watch TV, go for a walk, do what you like?”
I nod my head, because I feel stupid asking a grown woman what I should do with myself until Monday.
After she leaves, I stand in the middle of the apartment and just breathe. The silence is overwhelming after days of highway noise and the constant hum of anxiety.
I'm safe. For now, at least.
My duffel bag rests on the floor where I dropped it, everything I own crammed into one worn canvas bag. Three changes of clothes, some underwear, a few personal items I grabbed in my ten-minute escape window.
Not much to show for twenty-six years on earth.
The first thing I do is examine the locks. The door has a deadbolt and a chain, both functional. The windows lock too, though they're high enough anyone trying to get in would have to work for it.
Old habits. Even if the baker doesn't live here, I'm not taking any chances.
The shower calls to me like a siren song. I haven't had hot water since I left California, and the thought of being truly clean makes me almost dizzy with want.
I secure the bathroom door. Another old habit. And turn the water as hot as I can stand. The steam fogs the mirror, erasing my reflection, and I'm grateful not to see what three days of sleeping in a car have done to my face.
The hot water hits my skin like a benediction. I stand under the spray and let it wash away the road grime, the fear-sweat, the lingering scent of Mark's cologne I swear I can still smell on my clothes sometimes.
I shampoo my hair twice, work conditioner through the tangles, scrub my skin until it's pink and clean. The motel soap smells like nothing special, but it's clean and functional and mine to use without asking permission.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel worn but soft, I feel more human than I have in days.
But as I get dressed in fresh clothes, jeans and a sweater which don't smell like car exhaust, the exhaustion hits me like a freight train. My hands shake as I brush my teeth with a toothbrush having seen better days, and I have to grip the sink to keep from swaying.
I need sleep. Real sleep, in a real bed, for the first time in days.
But as I look at the bed, queen-sized, with clean sheets and what looks like an actual down comforter, the anxiety creeps back in.
I'm in a building with three alpha males. Three alpha males who know exactly where I am, who could decide at any moment the stranger in their midst is more trouble than she's worth.
Especially Garrick. The baker with his attitude problem and the scent making my omega hindbrain sit up and take notice despite my better judgment. He made it clear this morning he doesn't want me here, and now Meredith has basically forced him to house me.
What if he decides to come upstairs? What if any of them do?
I check the door bolts again. Test the chain. The deadbolt feels solid, but it's not like it would stop a determined alpha.
Nothing truly stops a determined alpha.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my damp hair dripping onto my shoulders, and try to talk myself down from the spiral of panic threatening to take hold.
They seem decent. Meredith vouches for them. The vet, Liam, has kind eyes, and even Xaden, for all his slick charm, didn't try to touch me or crowd my space.
And Garrick…gave me food. He made sure the soup was hot and the bread was fresh. It has to count for something.
But Mark seemed decent too, at first. Charming and attentive and everything a girl dreams of in a boyfriend. It wasn't until after we moved in together the real him started to emerge.
The polite corrections regarding my clothes, my friends, my job. The way he'd touch my lower back in public, just hard enough to remind me he was in control. The gradual isolation happening so slowly I didn't notice until I was completely cut off from everyone who might have helped.
I draw the comforter up to my chin and try to focus on the positive. I'm clean. I'm warm. I have a locked door between me and the rest of the world.
Tomorrow I'll address my car situation. Find a way to pay for whatever's wrong with it. Get back on the road to Texas and Emma's couch and the fresh start I've been promising myself.
But tonight, I'm so tired my bones ache with it. My eyes keep trying to close despite the anxiety threading through my chest.
The bed is soft. More comfortable than anything I've slept on in months. Mark preferred firm mattresses. He said they were better for your back, though what he really meant was they were better for the kind of sex he liked, where he could pin me down and...
No. Not thinking about it.
I focus on the sounds outside instead. A car driving past. The distant hum of the bakery's refrigeration units. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Gradually, despite my fears, exhaustion wins.
My final coherent thought is a prayer to whatever deity might be listening: Please let tomorrow be better. Please let me figure this out. Please don't let these people be another mistake in a life full of them.
Then sleep takes me under, and for the first time in months, I don't dream about Mark's hands around my throat.
And despite everything, the fear, the uncertainty, the knowledge this can't last, I find myself hoping tomorrow might actually be brighter.
It's been so long since I let myself hope for anything.
But maybe, just maybe, it's time to try.