Shattered Salvation (Beta Accepted #10)

Chapter 1

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 being bullied 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 want the 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 sharp taste 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.

The tote rips open when my elbow catches it.

Flour spills down over my sleeve, my hip, and the pavement between us.

White dust blooms between us, clinging to both of us.

It should be funny. It would be funny if this were a story I told Priya tomorrow, about how I weaponized bakery supplies against a criminal and deserved a raise.

Instead, I can’t breathe.

I drag in a breath and start coughing, my lungs screaming for air as my strength starts to give. No! I can’t go out like this. I should have left the bakery earlier. I should have allowed one of my coworkers to drive me home. I should have...

A loud bang echoes through the evening, the sound of one of our apartment doors hitting the apartment wall. Heavy footsteps pound down the stairs and then the scent of cedar and whiskey cuts through the night.

Relief pours through me as my eyes drag past the man’s shoulder toward the building entrance, and for one impossible second, all I can think is Kade.

Not Mr. Kade Rourke from ten feet down the hall.

Not the giant Alpha who holds the lift when he sees me coming with grocery bags and then stands a careful half-step away so he doesn’t crowd me.

Not the man who once left cough drops and ginger tea outside my door after hearing me hack up a lung through the wall. Just Kade.

The side door opens so hard it cracks against brick, the Alpha stalking toward us.

One second, the man’s forearm is against my chest. The next, Kade has him by the back of his coat and hauls him away from me like he weighs nothing.

Air rushes into my lungs so fast it hurts.

I fold forward with it, coughing around blood and spit, my hands shaking as they scrape against brick.

My knees try to give, but I catch myself on the wall because going down feels like letting the night win.

The man swings at Kade, catching him in the shoulder before Kade throws a punch into his face, sending the man stumbling into the bins.

“Stay behind me,” Kade growls.

I don’t have to be told twice as I stand there in my flour mess, pressing my back into the brick.

The attacker struggles to his feet, looking between the both of us, seemingly irritated by Kade’s appearance. The man lets out a small growl before taking off down the street, a flurry of flour flying off of him.

Kade starts to follow for half a step, then stops. His head turns toward me, and whatever he sees on my face drags him back faster than the chase pulls him forward. He comes to me slowly, both hands raised where I can see them, his chest rising hard beneath his black shirt.

“Emrys,” he purrs, a hint of worry mixed into that deep baritone. “Rys, look at me.”

I manage to raise my gaze to him, admiring the ink peeking just above his collar and the way the streetlight seems to make his eyes almost clear.

Then my eyes drop to the flour smeared across his shirt and arms. It looks so stupid covering his ink.

And even though I’m terrified and seconds from collapsing, I can’t help myself.

A laugh bursts out of me, coming in wet, broken huffs which then turns into a sob. My hands fly up to cover my mouth, but the moment my palm touches my lips, I flinch so hard my elbow hits the brick. Tears stream down my face at the new jolt of pain, Kade raising his hands in defeat.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. I won’t touch you. Are you bleeding?”

I nod, then shake my head, because I don’t know. My lip is split. My shoulder hurts. My ribs feel like something is still pressing against them. The side of my face throbs where the man’s fingers dug in, and my throat feels scraped raw from the scream that never made it out.

Kade’s gaze moves over me, checking my face first and his jaw tightens when he sees my mouth. “Did he hit your head?”

“I don’t,” I whisper, but my voice barely works. “I don’t know.”

His expression changes, enough that the dangerous part of him shows through the restraint, there and gone so fast I might have missed it if I weren’t staring at him like he is the only solid thing left in the world.

Sirens rise in the distance, the reality of what could have happened bringing me back. I reach toward Kade, my hands trembling as they snag across his shirt. “Please,” I whisper.

I’m not even sure what I’m asking for until Kade lets me tug him forward. I press my face into his chest, sagging against him as his scent fully fills my lungs. In all the years we’ve lived in this apartment, we’ve never shared more than a few words but he’s always been in my head.

He’s always been mine and this right here just proves it.

It takes Kade a moment to soften before he wraps his arms around me. “I got you, Rys. You’re safe, okay? Fuck, I got you.”

His chest starts to rattle with an uneven purr luring me into the safety of his embrace when the night turns chaotic again.

“Hands where I can see them! Let go of him! Hands!!!”

Kade pulls away from me as I look ahead to see several officers rushing toward us with their guns raised. A shriek pulls from my throat as an officer sweeps past Kade and pulls me off to the side, two other guards nearly tackling Kade to the ground.

“No, what are you doing?” I struggle against the Beta who has me. “What—why? Kade?” A fresh wave of tears runs down my face.

Kade looks up at me from the ground, not even resisting as the officers pull his hands back to lock cuffs around his wrists. “Emrys was attacked and I was just—”

One of them pushes out a chuckle. “Oh, we know this poor Omega was attacked. We got a call almost ten minutes ago that an Alpha was hurting an Omega. Lucky for us, you were still here.”

Ten minutes ago?

That doesn’t even make sense. “It wasn’t him! He was helping. No, it wasn’t him,” I sob, falling to my knees, any lingering strength completely gone. “Don’t! Why are you doing this?”

My vision tunnels as they drag Kade to his feet and guide him to a patrol car. The night fills up with bodies and commands, all of them moving around me as if I’m a piece of evidence instead of a person.

The only thing I can see is Kade, though. I struggle against the cop and dart toward the car, screaming at them to listen to me. It doesn’t help that he’s now covered in flour. That’s my fault.

“He didn’t do it,” I say, taking a step forward.

My shoe slides in wet flour. An officer catches my arm, and I jerk away so hard I nearly fall. “Don’t touch me!”

She lets go, palms up. “Okay. Easy. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not listening! That man,” I hiccup, pointing toward the corner with a hand that shakes so badly I don’t know if anyone can tell where I mean. “There was a man by the bins. He grabbed me. He said my name. Kade came out and stopped him.”

The officer glances past me at Kade, then at my face. Her expression doesn’t give away much but she clearly just thinks I’m confused.

“He said my name,” I repeat. “He knew my name.”

“Can you sit down for me?” she asks.

“No, listen to me.”

The officer reaches for me again, but this time I go because there’s no use fighting it. I have too many questions and no answers, the one person I’ve been pining after now being driven to the station after helping.

“He was protecting me,” I say one more time.