I curled into myself, knees drawn up to my chest, hands tucked between my thighs for warmth. The sleeping bag rustled as I adjusted it, pulling it over my head so I was completely enclosed. A tent within a tent. Layer upon layer of thin protection against a world that was too cold, too hard, too indifferent.
The humming faded to nothing, and my breathing slowed.
In the distance, I could hear voices from the encampment, someone laughing, someone else arguing, the crackle of fire. Closer, I heard footsteps passing by my tent, headed somewhere else. The city sounds continued beyond the lot's borders with sirens, engines, and the constant white noise of urban existence.
Inside my dark cocoon, I felt myself drifting. Thoughts fragmented into images, memories, and possibilities. Oak and apple pie. Hazel-brown eyes and my mother's hands. A black car idling in the darkness. A baby's weight in my arms.
Sleep took me under, pulled me down into dreams I wouldn't remember come morning.
But for now, for these few hours, I was safe enough. Hidden enough to survive one more night.
The tent stood in the darkness, one small green shelter among dozens, invisible to anyone who wasn't looking. And inside it, I slept.
Chapter Three
Kade
The city lights stretched below my office windows in neat geometric patterns, white, yellow, and red bleeding together at the edges where distance softened them. It was past midnight, and the building was empty except for security downstairs and whatever ghosts inhabited the executive floors after hours. I sat at my desk with my jacket draped over the back of my chair and watched the footage for the nineteenth time.
My security detail had captured it without being asked. They knew I'd been distracted during the drive; knew I'd ordered the car to idle longer than necessary on a street where we had no business stopping. Good staff anticipated needs. But this anticipation felt invasive in a way I couldn't articulate, but I'd watched the footage anyway. And then watched it again.
On the screen, she stood under the flickering lamppost, her slim frame wrapped in layers that made her look smaller than she probably was. The camera angle was from the car, slightly elevated, capturing her profile and the way shadows played across her face when the light stuttered. Her hair caught the illumination in shades that shifted between brown and something warmer, copper maybe, though the footage quality wasn't good enough to be certain.
Then she started to sing.
My jaw clenched involuntarily, teeth grinding together in a way that would give me a headache if I kept it up. I forced myself to relax, rolled my shoulders back, but the tension returned within seconds. I turned up the footage, and her voice came through with surprising clarity, and it cut through the ambient street noise like a blade finding flesh.
The song had no words, just a melody, but it carried weight. Grief, maybe. Or defiance. Something raw that made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with recognition. She was singing about survival, about loss, about continuing despite everything. I heard it in every note, felt it in the way her voice climbed and fell, in the careful control that barely masked something wilder underneath.
My finger hovered over the replay button. This was the twentieth time I’d watched it. Watched her.
I clicked it.
The footage reset to the beginning. Her positioning herself against the lamppost, testing its stability. The careful placement of her cup. The way she pulled her coat tighter before she began. Small details I'd missed on earlier viewings kept revealing themselves. The slight favor she gave her left ankle, suggesting an injury. The way her eyes scanned the street before she started singing, cataloging threats. The tension in her shoulders that never fully released, even when she was lost in the melody.
She was afraid. Even performing, even singing with that incredible voice, she was afraid.
My heart rate picked up. I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, a steady acceleration that my body was doing without my permission. This was the problem. This was what had kept me in my office for three hours past when I should have gone home. I didn't lose control. I assessed situations, made calculated decisions, and executed plans with precision. That was how I'dbuilt this company, how I maintained our pack dynamics, how I functioned as an Alpha.
This wasn't calculation. This was something else entirely.
On screen, she was reaching the part where she'd looked up. Where our eyes had met through the car window and I'd felt that moment of connection snap into place like a lock engaging. Her expression changed in that instant, fear flooding her features, and I watched my failure play out in high definition. I'd scared her. Sent her running into that alley where my driver couldn't follow, where I'd lost track of her completely.
I should have gotten out of the car. Should have approached slowly, hands visible, voice calm. Should have offered her something, anything. But I'd just sat there like an idiot, pinned by the sight of her, by the scent of apple pie that had filled the car's interior when I'd rolled down the window. Sweet, warm and Omega, unmistakably Omega, and every Alpha instinct I'd spent years disciplining had roared to life all at once.
The video ended. My cursor moved to replay again, but I stopped myself. Twenty times was enough. More than enough. This was becoming pathological.
Standing, I paced to the windows, and pressed my palm against the glass. The cold seeped through, while below, Shaker City continued its late-night rhythm. Cars on distant streets, lights in windows, the occasional siren. Somewhere down there, she was sleeping. Or trying to. In whatever inadequate shelter she'd found, with whatever insufficient warmth she could gather.
The thought made my hands curl into fists.
She was wasting herself on street corners. I took a deep breath in trying to calm myself. With her voice she should be on stages, in studios, reaching audiences who would pay thousands to hear it. She should have management, contracts, propertraining if she needed it. Protection. Resources. Everything she clearly lacked and desperately needed.
Under my protection, I could give her that and more.
The thought formed before I could stop it, and I didn't push it away. It was true, after all. I had the means, the connections, the infrastructure. My company specialized in discovering and developing talent. This was business. This was what I did.
Except with her it wasn't just business, and I knew it.
