Of Blood And Lies

Desperation

{ Avina }

My foot slammed the brake. The car screeched to a halt half a block away, and I killed the engine, plunging myself into silence broken only by my ragged breathing and the thundering of my pulse in my ears.

Slow down. Assess. Your surroundings will always tell you the truth.

My phone buzzed. My mother: Please be careful. Please wait for help.

I typed back quickly: I'm fine. Assessing now.

Then I slipped out of the car, easing the door shut as quietly as possible. I stared at the store before forcing myself to take another slow breath. I scanned the street. No other vehicles. No movement I could see. The shop's interior was dark—whoever had broken in either hadn't turned on the lights or had already left.

I forced myself to breathe. To think. The security system had motion sensors and glass-break detectors, but no cameras—we couldn't afford the upgrade. So I had no idea what I was walking into. One person? Multiple? Armed? Just some desperate refugee looking for food, or something worse?

The moment you focus on one thing... you stop seeing everything else.

Instead of heading for the front door, I circled the building, searching for anything I'd missed. The damage was worse up close as I got to the front of the store again—the entire front window blown in, display items scattered across the floor inside from the table that sat directly under the window. Produce bins overturned. The register... I couldn't see the register from here. My claws slid free instinctively, a partial shift I'd learned to control. Not a full transformation—I couldn't manage that yet—but enough to defend myself if needed. My senses heightened, picking up scents on the night air.

Blood. Sweat. Fear.

And something else. Something that made the hair on my arms and back of my neck stand up straight.

Rogue.

The scent was unmistakable—the sour, unwashed smell of someone who'd been living rough, mixed with the acrid tang of desperation and violence. Not just a hungry refugee. Someone dangerous. I crept closer to the broken window, staying low, using the door frame for cover.

Jace's training kicked in automatically: check corners, watch for movement, listen for breathing. The shop was small enough that I could see most of the interior from here. Scattered goods. The register—thank the Goddess—still closed, though someone had clearly tried to pry it open.

And there, near the back, a figure.

Hunched over. Rifling through the storage area where I kept the day-old bread and extra supplies. Male, from the build. Tall. Wearing torn, filthy clothes that might have been decent once. His movements were jerky, frantic—the movements of someone high on adrenaline or something worse.

He hadn't noticed me yet.

My mind raced through options. Call for help? The Ashmere Elite enforced the law, no violence inside the capital, but they wouldn't exactly rush to help omega-run shops. Especially when dawn was now just starting to peek over the horizon. By the time anyone arrived, this bastard could clean out everything we had.

Confront him? Risky. I had Jace's training, but this guy was bigger, possibly armed, definitely desperate enough to break into a shop at 6 AM. Not to mention he most likely could fully transform which I couldn't.

But this was my shop. My parents' legacy. The one thing we had that was ours. The decision crystallized in my chest, sharp and certain.

I wasn't running. I wasn't hiding. And I sure as hell wasn't letting some rogue destroy what my family had built. I straightened, stepping through the broken doorway. Glass crunched under my boots loud in the silence. The figure's head snapped up, and I got my first clear look at him.

Gaunt face.

Hollow eyes.

Scars crisscrossing his exposed forearms. His hand lashed out and my stomach dropped as I caught him picking something up—a knife. Not a large one, but enough to do damage.

"Shop's closed," I said, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline screaming through my veins. My claws caught the faint light from the street, and I let him see them. Let him see that I wasn't some helpless omega he could intimidate.

His eyes widened. Then narrowed. "You're alone."

"Am I?" I tilted my head. "Security system's already alerted the Ashmere. They'll be here any minute."

A lie. But a convincing one, judging by the way his grip tightened on the knife.

"I just need food," he said, but his stance was aggressive, coiled. "Just let me take what I need and I'll go."

"You broke my window. Ruined my displays. Tried to rob my register." My voice hardened. "You're not taking anything."

"I'm not asking, girl." He took a step forward.

I let the alpha dominance I usually kept buried rise to the surface, flooding the space between us with unmistakable authority. His step faltered.

"Neither am I," I said softly. Dangerously. "Leave. Now. Before this gets worse for you."

For a heartbeat, we stood frozen. Him calculating whether he could take me. Me calculating whether I could stop him without getting stabbed. Outside, the sun began to light up the world now with each passing minute. Then—movement outside. Voices. The rogue's head whipped toward the broken window, and I saw my opening.

I lunged.

Not to attack—to position myself between him and the door. Cutting off his escape route. Forcing him to make a choice: fight an alpha female, or find another way out. He chose the latter. With a snarl, he bolted toward the back of the shop, toward the storage room and the rear exit I knew was locked. I heard him slam into it, curse, then the sound of splintering wood as he kicked it open.

Then he was gone, disappearing into the streets.

I stood there, claws still extended, every muscle coiled and ready. The adrenaline wouldn't fade. My hands shook. But the shop—damaged, violated, but still standing—was secure. I forced myself to breathe, to lower my claws, to shift back into something resembling human.

The morning sun had climbed higher now, casting harsh light across the destruction. I grabbed the broom from the back corner and began sweeping, my movements methodical despite the tremor in my hands. Sweep. Gather. Dump into the trash bin. Repeat. The physical work helped ground me, gave my racing mind something to focus on besides the fact that things could've gone horribly wrong.

Two hours passed. I swept most of the glass, righted the overturned bins, and was boarding up the damage to the front window when movement caught my eye—two small figures pressed against the door frame, half-hidden in shadow.

Boys.

Their eyes were locked on the produce bins near the entrance, hungry and calculating in a way that made my chest tighten. The moment I turned toward them, they jerked back like startled animals, flattening themselves against the wall.

But they didn't run. I could still see them peeking around the frame—one set of dark eyes above another, the taller boy shielding the smaller one with his body. I kept my movements slow and deliberate as I raised my hand in a gentle wave, beckoning them forward with what I hoped was an encouraging smile.