Chapter 2 Rya
RYA
The fluorescent lights of the library break room hum a lonely tune that always manages to get on my nerves. It’s too quiet in here, and for the last hour, I've felt a familiar prickle of paranoia running down my spine. It’s nothing specific, and yet… something is definitely off.
Shaking my head of those thoughts, I try to comfort myself by blaming the feeling on lack of sleep. I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, and my late nights sitting in front of a computer screen certainly doesn’t help.
Maybe I’m feeling extra aware of my surroundings because I’ve been running digital interference for a local animal shelter that’s being unfairly audited. It’s taxing, playing digital Robin Hood, but what else would I use my skills for? The downside is, lately I’ve felt like someone is watching me.
I peek over the top of my laptop screen, scanning the breakroom.
Empty. It’s not just empty, though. I don’t know any other way to explain it except that the air feels…
hollow. Like I’m in a vacuum of space or a deep underground tunnel.
The only sounds are the air conditioner fan and the quiet click of my personal laptop's keys as I browse a few financial forums.
My official job is being a librarian. I love the quiet, predictable rhythm of it, surrounded by the comforting, dry smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in the columns of sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Out there, the library is an oasis, a fortress built of books.
But this break room, with its chipped Formica counter and the perpetual, stale scent of lukewarm coffee, always makes me feel exposed.
The relentless hiss of the vents and the cool air-conditioning on my skin do nothing to soothe the tension knotting in my shoulders.
A sudden, sharp movement makes me jump.
“Oh, Rya! Didn’t see you sitting there,” Susan, one of the newer clerks, chirps, dropping her lunch bag on the counter with a loud thud.
I flinch, clutching my chest as my heart attempts to jump right out of my cardigan. “It’s fine, Susan. Just… focused.” I try to offer a breezy smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace.
Susan looks at me, then quickly looks away, muttering, “Right. Well, I’ll be quiet.” She grabs a coffee cup and retreats to the far end of the room.
It’s always like this. I've never been good at making friends. I’m too quiet, too focused on my screens, too much of a loner. People see the glasses, messy bun, curvy body, and just assume I'm happiest alone, buried in books or code. And, honestly? They’re right most of the time.
My mom was always loud and colorful, dragging me on her wild adventures until she left for good.
Our life was a constant exercise in whiplash; one week we were living in a high-rise apartment in the city, the next we were sleeping in a rusted-out van in a desert town, just waiting for the next 'big break' that never materialized.
I never had a stable school, a permanent bedroom, or a consistent routine. I learned early that the only person I can truly depend on is myself, because the world around me was always shifting under my feet, ready to be ripped away without warning.
That frantic, unstable energy became the baseline for my entire life, setting the stage for every rejection that followed.
Every time I reached out, hoping for connection, the ground crumbled.
I was always the girl on the outside, looking in, terrified that if I stayed in one place too long, the floor would vanish again.
I remember third grade on the blacktop. I walked up to the group of girls with my heart pounding, offering to share my new rainbow loom band kit.
A girl named Tiffany looked at my offering, then at my plus-sized body, and just smirked.
"We don't need your baby toys, Rya. Go play with your books.
" The sting of rejection was like a physical burn.
I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but instead, I just retreated.
No one tried to be my friend after that.
When I finally saved up enough money to go to community college, I decided to put my best foot forward.
This was it, the new Rya, the confident Rya.
I carried my tray into the student union, saw a table full of laughing people, and thought, I’m going to walk up, introduce myself, and become their friend.
I got halfway across the room, my legs feeling like cement, and then I panicked.
The room was too loud, their smiles too bright, and my new leaf crumbled.
I ended up eating my lunch standing in the corner of the room, huddled over a trash can so I didn’t have to look anyone in the eye.
My luck here at the library, surrounded by other book lovers, hasn’t been any better.
I turn back to my screen, the familiar comfort of the glowing display washing over me. I’m deep in my code when the feeling hits again. It’s not the sickening spike of paranoia, but a cold, heavy weight sending chills shuddering through my body with each frantic beat of my heart.
My internal fire alarm goes off, and I blink a few times at my screen to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing. My personal computer—my fortress, my secret life—just registered a massive, targeted security breach. I’m not just being scanned; I'm being erased.
Shallow, panting breaths wheeze out of my throat as it starts to close.
My mind is screaming, Danger. Immediate.
Physical. The air in the break room, usually stale and innocuous, now feels thick and ominous.
Every shadow in the corners deepens into a threat.
The soft rattle of a book cart passing outside sounds like a gunshot.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, and a dizzying wave of lightheadedness washes over me.
I shouldn't be here. I should be hiding. I should be running.
Focus, Rya. I try to pull up the emergency kill-switch for my local server, but my fingers are shaking too badly to hit the right keys.
I clutch the edges of the desk, forcing myself to take a deep, shaky breath.
“No one is going to kidnap you in the middle of a public library in broad daylight,” I tell myself.
It does little to soothe the pulsing tension behind my eyes or loosen the knot in my stomach.
A low, squeaking sound sends my blood pressure through the roof, and I worry I might pass out for a second. The sound of the main door opening is a sudden, jarring noise. I don't look up immediately, frozen by the sheer, primal terror gripping me.
But then I feel him.
It’s not just a man walking in; it’s an event. I slowly lift my head, pushing my glasses up my nose, and my breath utterly dissolves in my lungs.
He’s massive. Towering. A wall of muscle clad in what looks like expensive, tactical black clothing. His messy brown hair is swept back, and his sharp blue eyes—my God, his eyes—lock onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from the room.
I can’t breathe, but the panic is gone, replaced by something warm and magnetic.
Terror should be flooding me, but all I feel is a dizzying recognition, a sharp, claiming spark that feels straight out of the romance books I secretly devour.
This man is an alpha, a protector, a brute carved from granite and heat, and his gaze tells me he is here for me.
He moves toward me, silent and shockingly graceful for his size. Every step eats up the distance between us, and by the time he’s standing directly in front of my table, I have completely forgotten how to speak.
The man is close. Too close. The smell of gun powder and something woodsy and masculine fills my senses.
His shadow engulfs me as his dazzling blue eyes roam up and down my body, as if checking for injuries.
There’s no other reason this man would be looking at me like that.
Certainly not… Get it together! I yell at myself.
This is not the time to fantasize about being swept away by a bronze god with intense, all-seeing blue eyes.
He slowly, gently raises his hand. It's huge, scarred, and intimidating, but it moves with impossible tenderness. The back of his rough knuckles grazes my soft cheek, and my entire body turns to liquid. My breath hitches, a helpless, needy sound.
I swear I see a tremor run through his powerful body, a flicker of something raw and possessive in his eyes.
“Rya?” His voice is a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrates through my chest.
I can only manage a single, shaky nod.
The next second is a blur. Before I can even register the shock, he bends down, one arm scooping behind my knees and the other supporting my back.
I’m suddenly airborne, tossed over his massive shoulder like a sack of soft potatoes.
The blood rushes to my head, and I gasp, clutching the back of his shirt.
He feels hard, solid, and utterly secure.
“You’re in danger,” he informs me, his voice low and urgent as he starts walking rapidly toward the exit. “I’m your bodyguard. We’re leaving.”
The terror should be back, but it's not. I'm too shocked, too overwhelmed by the sheer possessive power of this man, and honestly, far too turned on by the rough, caveman extraction.
My voice is thin, but steady. “Well, alright then.”