5. Emrys
Emrys
They release me at half past one with two cards, a folded leaflet, and the foil blanket still wrapped around my shoulders because nobody asks for it back.
I keep waiting for someone to notice. It seems like the sort of thing that should belong to a process, like the blanket should be returned to a bin or a cabinet or whatever other place the city keeps objects that have touched people during the worst night of their life.
Instead, I stand near the front desk of Ansdale station with the silver edges crinkling under my fingers while an officer explains follow-up numbers, victim services, signs of concussion, and what I’m supposed to do if I remember anything else.
She’s so careful with me. Everyone has become very careful now that the wrong man has already been put in cuffs, but careful still doesn’t feel like listening.
I ask about Kade again before she finishes talking.
It might be the fifth time. It might be the sixth if the question I tried to ask in the hallway counts, the one that got stuck somewhere between my throat and the card Reyes pressed into my hand.
I asked the nurse who checked my pupils.
I asked Detective Reyes twice. I asked Skylar, though he gave me the only answer that didn’t feel like it had been sanded down by policy before being handed to me.
Everyone else keeps giving me sideways versions of the same thing.
Mr. Rourke is cooperating. Mr. Rourke has counsel.
Mr. Rourke is not being booked at this time.
Mr. Rourke will be notified of next steps.
Nobody says he’s fine.
Nobody says they’re sorry for putting him in the back of a patrol car while I was standing there with blood in my mouth trying to tell them he was the reason I could still breathe.
This officer glances toward the hall as if the correct answer might be walking past with a file in its hand. “Mr. Rourke has been released from custody for now. I can’t discuss any restrictions, but he has counsel, and the investigation is active.”
Restrictions.
The word tucks itself under my ribs and stays there. “But he didn’t do it.”
“I understand that’s your statement,” she says, and I hate the way she makes that sound. “Detective Grayson has your account.”
I mutter a thank you as another officer guides me into the back of a cruiser before heading back to my apartment.
I huff out a breath and look at the window, a tear slipping down my face.
This night wasn’t supposed to end like this.
I was going to go upstairs, maybe bake something, and then leave it in front of Kade’s door for him to find in the morning.
Now, I can’t...
My phone buzzes in my pocket, dragging me back to reality. I pull it out and grimace as Priya’s name scrolls across the front. “Hey, Priya...”
“Hey! Why do I feel like you aren’t home? You always text me when you get in. Did you... were you sleeping?”
Her concern makes me feel worse as I try not to cry, slapping at my face with my free hand to wipe away my tears. “I... something bad happened but I’m okay now. An officer is driving me home.”
I can almost hear the concern in Priya’s voice deepen. “Em, what the fuck? What do you mean? Do you need me to come get you?”
A small chuckle filters through my lips.
“No, I’m good. It was just someone around the apartment that wasn’t supposed to be there.
Can I call you tomorrow? I don’t really feel like talking.
” I wait for her to mumble a yes before I hang up, trying to hold back my emotions until the officer pulls up to my apartment.
He keeps looking back at me, the Beta checking through the rearview mirror to see if I’m okay.
I’m not but I try to keep a neutral expression on my face anyway, all but bolting out of the car when it pulls to a stop.
Maybe I should have said thank you but all I want right now is food, my nest, and Kade.
Two for three isn’t all that bad.
Except, the moment I get into my apartment, tremors running through my hands, something already feels off.
I pull my phone back out, staring at the screen, knowing I shouldn’t.
The officers explained that a protective order had been put in place to keep me safe.
No matter how much I screamed that I didn’t need it, they promised me that Kade wouldn’t be able to get to me.
I blow out a small breath, my finger hovering over his number. I’ve never called it. We only switched numbers several months ago, just in case. Now feels like the time to use it. I think.
I press it, my breathing kicking up a little as I lean the phone against my ear. It dials three times before the call is picked up, a low rumbling sound filling through the earpiece. “Rys?”
My heart falls into my stomach as a small cry falls past my lips. “Kade?” My voice wobbles as I wrap both hands around the phone and put it on speaker.
There’s a shift on the other end, like he’s moving somewhere quieter the second he hears me. “Rys, are you hurt worse than when I saw you?”
The nickname does something awful to my chest. I press my lips together, forgetting the split until pain flashes sharp enough to make my eyes water. “No. I’m home. They drove me back, and I know I probably shouldn’t call, but I couldn’t sit here with everything quiet and not know if you were okay.”
“I’m okay enough.” His voice is steady, but there’s a strain under it that makes me wish I hadn’t asked and also makes me glad I did.
“You shouldn’t apologize for calling me, but I need you to understand that I can’t call you back after this.
There’s a protective order in place, and if I cross it, they’ll use it to keep me farther away. ”
I stare at the phone like the words might change if I look hard enough. “They said it was for my safety. I told them I didn’t need to be kept safe from you, but no one listened.”
“I know you did. Baxter—my lawyer made it clear arguing tonight would only give them something else to write down.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“I want to be outside your door. I want to check the hallway and the side entrance, and I can’t do any of that without making this worse for you. ”
The apartment is too quiet around his voice. All the little sounds that hung around in the background seem so much louder now. I move into the kitchen and sit down on the floor, relishing the cold bite of tile through my jeans. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that your door’s dark. I hate that I can smell you in the hallway, and you aren’t there.
I hate that he knew my name.” My breath catches, and I try to swallow around it.
“He said it like he had a right to. Like he knew me.” I whisper the last part, trying and failing to keep the confession on the tip of my tongue.
It’s been months of harboring a crush on the one Alpha who has seen me and now I may never actually get the chance to start something.
Kade goes silent long enough that I can hear him breathing. “Listen to me. You lock your door, stay away from the side entrance, and keep your phone charged. If you feel unsafe, you call Grayson, Reyes, or the station before you call me. I need you to promise me that.”
“I don’t want to call them. I want to call you.”
“I want that too.” The words come out rougher, and my fingers tighten around the phone. “That’s why you can’t. If I come, I might not be careful enough with a system already looking for a reason to make me the problem.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve, but more tears come before I’m done, flour mixing with the wetness. “You’re not the problem.”
“No. I’m not. Neither are you.” His voice steadies again. “The man who hurt you is the problem. The people who used fear to make a bad call are the problem. You calling me because you’re scared isn’t the problem.”
I bow over the phone, crying too quietly for how much it hurts. I don’t want him to hear it when he can’t do anything, but he hears it anyway.
“Rys,” he says, my name almost broken in his mouth.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“I have to hang up, and it isn’t because I want to. If you need someone tonight, call Grayson. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good boy,” Kade says, so softly I almost miss it.
The sound I make is small and embarrassing, but he doesn’t point it out. Neither of us says goodbye. The line stays open for another breath, then the call ends, and I sit there with the phone in my hands until the screen goes black.
For a while, I don’t move. The apartment still feels too quiet, but now it has his absence in it too, and that’s worse. I push myself up from the floor and go to the pantry because if I stay still any longer, I’ll start listening for him on the other side of a door he can’t come through.
I pull out flour, yeast, cardamom, honey, and butter. My hands shake before I even get the bowl down. Flour spills over the rim and dusts the counter, suddenly everywhere, bringing me back to the moment I was pressed against the wall.
“It’s just flour,” I tell myself, shoving that memory back down.
It isn’t just flour, but I make myself scrape it back toward the bowl. I can’t make myself concentrate, all of my hard work ending up with a sticky ball of dough that’s too heavy and not quite right. I could make the bread in my sleep but tonight everything is wrong.
And when baking has always soothed me, tonight, it’s failing me.
A frustrated growl rips from my throat as I push the dough away and stomp toward my room, hoping that my nest can smother me to sleep. I strip off my clothes as I get closer, only stopping in the bathroom to wash my hands.
The usual expanse of plush swallows me whole and I dig my face into one of the pillows, willing myself to settle.
But the safety I’m so used to doesn’t come.
That absence of Kade in my building grows larger, overriding the panic, the quietness of my apartment, and the fear that Kade will get wrongly charged.
Nothing about my nest has changed, and that’s the problem.
It still belongs to the person who came home from normal shifts and slept through hallway sounds without checking the door.
I pull the cream blanket up to my chin and try to make my body settle.
It doesn’t. The softness feels too open around me, making my skin crawl.
I last maybe five minutes before I sit up with my chest tight and my hands already reaching for the first blanket.
The cream blanket comes off first, yanked so hard one of the cushions tumbles with it.
The blue throw follows, then the pillows, then the old hoodies I’d tucked along the back because they usually made the corner feel warmer.
I drag everything apart with my breathing getting rougher, panic blooming in my chest. Fabric catches under my knee.
A cushion hits the dresser. The lavender sachet Priya gave me falls somewhere in the mess, but I don’t stop to find it.
I can’t. I can’t make myself stay in something that feels like it’s lying to me.
By the time the corner is empty, I’m standing in the middle of the room with blankets around my feet and both hands shaking at my sides.
My chest hurts from how hard I’m breathing.
The nest is gone, and the empty space looks worse for half a second, like I’ve ruined the only place that was supposed to work.
Then I see the closet door half-open across from the bed.
I grab one blanket and one cushion from the floor, not caring which ones, and shove my way inside.
Clothes brush my face. Hangers knock together above me.
I push everything back with one arm, drop the cushion, and fold myself down onto the floor before I can think too long about how small it is.
The wall is close on one side, the door close on the other, and for the first time since I walked into the bedroom, my breathing has something solid to push against.
I pull the door most of the way closed, leaving only a thin line of dark room outside, then yank the blanket up under my chin.
My body aches from what happened but the tightness of this space feels perfect.
It’s nothing I can make sense of but my Omega starts to settle.
I drag my phone out and text Priya, ‘home’.
I hate that it no longer feels like that.