Chapter Five
Jasmine
I jolted awake to voices outside my tent.
.. inaudible murmurs that slithered through the thin canvas walls.
My heart hammered three rapid beats before I forced it to slow.
I shivered as my breath fogged the air before me.
The cold had crystallized in my bones overnight, fracturing sleep into jagged shards of consciousness.
My dreams had clawed at me. Though they felt more like memories that burned to touch, yet froze when I tried to push them away.
I tried to stretch out, but my ankle screamed with each pulse of blood, and every frozen ridge of earth beneath me dug in like a knife-edge against my spine.
I yanked my useless coat tighter and crawled toward the tent flap, my hands finding the familiar positions on the cold ground, my ankle dragging slightly behind me.
The pain spiked when I put weight on it wrong, a sharp reminder that I needed to be more careful, that I couldn't afford an injury that would leave me unable to run if I needed to.
My fingers found the zipper, and I worked it down with stiff movements.
The metal teeth separated with a sound that seemed too loud in the morning quiet.
As I pushed the flap open, I expected to see the usual view of other tents, morning cook fires, and the slow shuffle of people starting their day.
Instead, I saw boots.
Black leather, polished to a shine that seemed impossible in a place like this, where everything was coated in a film of dust and grime.
Expensive boots, the kind that cost more than I'd made in the last month.
Heck, the last three months! They were planted firmly on the frozen ground directly in front of my tent, close enough that I could have reached out and touched them.
My breath caught in my throat.
I looked up slowly, my eyes traveling over dark slacks that held a perfect crease, a charcoal suit jacket that fit with the precision of custom tailoring, and finally to a face I recognized with a jolt of pure terror.
Him.
The Alpha from last night. The one with the black car, the oak scent, and the eyes that had pinned me in place like a butterfly on a board.
He was here. At my tent. In the encampment where I'd thought I was safe, where I'd thought I could hide.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice quiet and controlled, the same careful neutrality I'd seen in his expression last night.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. My hands were still gripping the tent flap, my body half in and half out, completely vulnerable.
He shifted slightly, and then he extended his hand toward me. Palm up, fingers relaxed, an offer rather than a demand. “Let me help you up.”
Every instinct screamed at me to retreat into the tent, to zip it closed and pretend I wasn't here, that he couldn't see me. But that was impossible. He'd already found me. Already knew exactly where I was.
I stared at his hand. It was steady, unshaking, with long fingers and a broad palm. No rings. Clean nails. It was the hand of someone who didn't do physical labor, who paid other people to handle the difficult things.
I should refuse. Should crawl out on my own, maintaining what little independence I had left.
But my ankle was throbbing, and the cold had made my muscles stiff, and something about the way he stood there patiently, just waiting, made me reach out almost before I'd decided to.
My fingers touched his palm, and warmth flooded through me.
It wasn't just the heat of skin contact, though his hand was warm compared to my frozen fingers.
This was something else, something that started where we touched and spread up my arm like liquid sunlight, filling my chest with a sensation I didn't have words for.
It felt like standing too close to a fire after being cold for hours, like the first sip of hot tea, like safety and danger all tangled as one.
I gasped, a small sound I couldn't suppress, and his fingers closed gently around mine.
He pulled, and I rose, my body responding automatically even as my mind raced to catch up.
My bad ankle protested when I put weight on it, and I stumbled slightly, but his grip steadied me.
He didn't pull me closer, didn't use the opportunity to invade my space.
Just held my hand until I had my balance, then released me.
I stood there, breathless and confused, and that's when the scent hit me fully.
Oak; deep, rich, and overwhelming, filling my nose and lungs with every breath. Alpha. Unmistakable and undeniable, the chemical signature that my Omega biology recognized and responded to against every rational thought in my head.
I backed away fast, nearly tripping over my own feet. My hands came up automatically, a useless defense, as my heart started hammering against my ribs.
“No,” I breathed. “No, I don't—I can't—”
He raised both hands immediately, palms out, a gesture of peace that did nothing to slow my racing pulse. “I'm not here to hurt you,” he said, his voice still quiet, still controlled. “I promise. I just want to talk.”
Talk. As if talking were safe. As if words couldn't be weapons just as sharp as fists.
I shook my head, taking another step back, ready to bolt if he moved even an inch closer.
He seemed to understand. His hands stayed up, his posture open and non-threatening, though I knew that meant nothing. Alphas could move fast when they wanted to. Could close the distance before you had time to run.
“My name is Kade Killion,” he said. “I saw you singing last night. On Seventh Street.”
Recognition must have shown on my face because his expression shifted slightly, something that might have been satisfaction flickering in his hazel-brown eyes.
“You ran,” he continued. “I understand why. But I'm not here because of what you are. I'm here because of what you can do.”
Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his jacket pocket. I tensed, ready to run, but he only pulled out a small black card. He held it between two fingers, extending it toward me, but not coming closer.
“I'm the CEO of Killion Records,” he said. “Your voice—it's extraordinary. I'd like to offer you a contract.”
I stared at the card, not moving to take it. A contract. A record company. This had to be a trick. Had to be some kind of trap disguised as an opportunity.
“There's a gala in six weeks,” he continued when I didn't respond. “A spring event for high-profile donors and industry professionals. I need a performer, someone who can captivate an audience. Two hours, one performance. The fee is substantial.”
My mouth was dry. “Why me?”
“Because you're talented. Because you deserve better than this.” His gaze swept briefly across the encampment, taking in the rows of tents, the mud, and ice, the visible desperation. “And because I think you need this as much as I need a performer.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling exposed and transparent under his assessment. He was right. I needed this. Needed money, needed resources, needed a way out of this place where every day was a battle against the cold, the hunger, and the constant threat of violence.
But accepting help from an Alpha—that had its own kind of danger.
My hands were shaking as I stepped forward, keeping as much distance as possible, and took the card from his fingers. Our skin didn't touch this time, but I still felt that pull, that warmth which wanted to draw me closer.
The card was heavy, expensive stock with embossed lettering. Kade Killion, CEO. Killion Records. An address in the tower district where I'd never set foot, where people like me weren't welcome.
I looked up from the card to his face, then past him to the street beyond the encampment entrance. A black car idled there, the same one from last night, sleek and impossible in this neighborhood of rust and decay.
“The car is for you,” Kade said, following my gaze. “If you accept my offer. I have a contract prepared and accommodations arranged. Everything you need to prepare for the performance.”
Accommodations. That meant a roof. Walls. Heat. Safety.
My jaw clenched as I fought with myself, weighing the danger of staying against the danger of going with him. The streets were killing me slowly, by inches and degrees, cold, hunger, and an ankle that wasn't healing properly. But Alphas—they could destroy you in ways that left nothing behind.
I looked at the card again. At the car. Then at his face. He was still calm, patient, and waiting.
What choice did I really have?
I gave a single, sharp nod.
Something flickered across his expression, too fast for me to read. “Thank you,” he said, and gestured toward the car. “After you.”
“But my things?”
“Grab what you need, we will provide the rest.”
I sighed. Was I doing the right thing? Inside the tent, I knew the only thing I needed was the scan picture of my baby. It was a reminder never to trust again.
Taking one last look around, I closed up the tent and limped past him, keeping maximum distance, my body tense and ready to bolt at the first sign of a threat. Every step felt like a betrayal of the survival instincts that had kept me alive this long.
The driver got out and bowed his head to me, opening the rear car door as I approached, and I slid into the backseat, immediately pressing myself against the far side to create as much space as possible.
The leather was soft under my worn clothes, the interior warm and smelling faintly of something clean and expensive that made me acutely aware of how I must smell.
Movement in the front seat caught my attention.
Another man sat in the passenger seat, turning to look at me over the headrest. He was built like a tank, broad-shouldered and solid, with dark hair and brown eyes that held surprising warmth.
A scar ran up the right side of his face, stark and brutal, but he was smiling.
Another Alpha. I could smell him now too, leather mixing with oak in a combination that made my pulse spike again.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gentler than I expected from someone who looked like he could break a person in half. “I'm Theo. Welcome aboard.”
I said nothing, just pressed myself harder against the door, my fingers finding the handle and gripping it tight.
Kade slid into the seat beside me, though he kept a distance between us, and the car began to move.
I was leaving. Leaving the encampment, the tent, the relative safety of the known for the absolute uncertainty of whatever came next.
I kept my hand on the door handle and didn't let myself look back.