Enjoy the opening chapter of The Darkness Saves — a Romantasy of shadow, fate, and forbidden power.

Chapter 1

Leyla

Some mornings feel borrowed.

Like the world hasn’t quite decided whether to wake up or not.

That’s how this one felt. The air still carried a hint of last night’s rain, cool and damp, wrapping the street in fog. I pulled my coat tighter as I crossed Sixth Avenue, the faint chime of Eleanor’s bells greeting me before I even reached the door. The shop smelled exactly as it always did. Burnt espresso, lemon cleaner, and time.

The kind of smell that clings to paper long after the story’s done being told.

Rows of mismatched shelves stretched to the ceiling, some tilting slightly like they’d grown weary of holding so many lives between their spines. It was perfect. Every crooked and carefully planned inch of it. This place was my heartbeat. Half library, half coffee shop, and wholly ours.

“About time,” came Mick’s voice from behind the counter. “I was two minutes away from declaring you dead and selling your collection of depressing poetry.”

“You’d have to find it first,” I sat my bag down on one of the back tables. “I’ve got them hidden with the good pens and my will to live.”

“Both endangered species,” she said, smirking. Her blonde curls were already rebelling against the messy bun perched on her head. Coffee grounds dusted her apron like glitter. “Are you opening today or staring wistfully at the books again?”

“I can multitask.” And I could, but she wasn’t wrong. I did stare. Often.

Our regulars were a mix of quiet readers, aspiring writers, and a few people who just came to smell the pages. I never blamed them.

“Did you finish that manuscript?” Mick asked as she poured a coffee for our incoming regular, John.  

“The one with the tragic hero and emotional trauma?” I groaned. “Barely. The protagonist had a meltdown, the love interest disappeared for six chapters, and somehow there was a surprise elf… Honestly… was kind of here for the chaos, though.” I complained… but deep down, I loved these side gigs.

Being able to assist writers with their vision, but also still running a business with my best friend, was the dream. “Was” possibly being the key word here.

“So, a typical Tuesday,” Mick laughed.

“Basically.”

I picked up the broom, sweeping absently near the front window, but my mind wasn’t on work. It hadn’t been for a while. Lately, everything felt like repetition… Words, coffee, sleep, repeat.

I used to crave quiet. Now it felt like the silence was waiting for something to answer it back.

Such a stark difference from Mick and I’s upbringing. Mick’s mom gave it her best, but she was a single mother and her daughter chose to have a best friend whose stepfather was a drunk. Whose adoptive mom died when she was a baby.

So, she’s mom. Plain and simple.

She practically raised us both since I came into their lives in the third grade.

Times were tough but we had each other, always. I officially moved in with them our junior year, when Jerry, my stepfather… I shook my head. No longer even worth a memory.

My life looks a lot different than it did. The quiet helps; the simplicity and routine help.

But lately the quiet felt heavier.

When I caught my reflection in the front glass, I hardly recognized myself. The morning light softened the edges of my face, but the faint shadows beneath my eyes didn’t lie. My dark brown hair was twisted into a loose braid over one shoulder, the ends curling where humidity refused to obey. My eyes… blue, not bright, more like the color of faded denim and just… tired. The kind of tired that coffee cannot fix.

Mick used to joke that I was raised by caffeine and the Dewey Decimal System, and she wasn’t entirely wrong. Books made sense when people didn’t. That’s probably why I opened Eleanor’s with her two years ago. We made the plan after Mick’s mom passed away just a year prior. She loved books, and she left us both with a substantial insurance policy. We opened Eleanor’s in her honor, our Eleanor. Always looking out for us, even when she was no longer here. God, how I missed her.

Mick handled the people and the coffee while I handled the stories and the coffee. It worked. The bell above the door jingled, and I glanced up automatically, plastering on my practiced shop smile. It was just the mailman, a friendly older guy who always delivered more gossip than actual mail. He waved, dropped a small stack of envelopes on the counter, and disappeared back into the fog.

Mick began riffling through the pile. “Bill, bill, postcard from my dad, bill, and—” she frowned, holding up one, “this.” It was heavier than the others. Cream-colored, sealed with dark red wax. No return address. Just my name.

Leyla.

I took it, running my thumb over the seal. The wax was beautiful with a faint pattern pressed into it and thorns twining around a circle. I didn’t recognize it, but something about it felt… deliberate. Old.

“You ordering mysterious fan mail again?” Mick asked. “Maybe it’s from your secret admirer.” She laughed to herself. “If so, he’s worse at flirting than you are.”

I giggled, perhaps more out of nerves than anything. I couldn’t open the envelope right away with the customers starting to make their steady entrances. Instead, I set it beside the register and went back to straightening the display table. But I kept glancing at it, that little flash of ivory against the wood. It looked out of place. Like it didn’t belong to this century, let alone this shop.

Once the morning rush decided to die down, I was finally able to tear the seal.

The note inside was simple. One line written in the same elegant script.

You’ve been found.

That was all.

I blinked, waiting for something else. A signature, a name, a reason.

Nothing.

Mick peered over my shoulder. “Creepy. Want me to call the FBI, or should we assume it’s the world’s worst love letter?”

“It’s probably a mix-up,” I said, though the words came too fast, too defensive. The paper felt warm in my hands, too warm. I tucked it away, forcing a smile.

She gave me a look that said ‘liar’ but didn’t push it. The rest of the day blurred by in soft light and the sound of turning pages. But even after the last customer left, my gaze kept drifting to the envelope. To the words. To the strange pull in my chest every time I looked at them.

That night, as I closed up the shop alone, I headed towards the exit. I caught my reflection on the way in the front window. Muted light behind me, darkness pressing close outside. For the briefest moment, I saw movement.

A shadow beside me that wasn’t mine.

Watching.

The air stilled. My heart tripped over itself. I turned, fast.

And then… Nothing. Just shelves. Just quiet.

Was I seeing things?

As I stepped into the fog, a whisper of warmth trailed across my skin, like the ghost of a touch. I told myself it was imagination. A trick of light.

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something in the dark had recognized me first.

Chapter 2

Leyla

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the red wax seal, the elegant handwriting, and the words that shouldn’t have meant anything.

You’ve been found.

By morning, the letter sat on my nightstand like it was waiting for me to wake up. The fog outside hadn’t lifted. It clung low to the ground, soft and soundless, swallowing the edges of the street.

I stood at my window for too long, watching the world blur at the edges, almost convincing myself I’d imagined the whole thing. But unease has a way of staying.

Quiet, steady, and waiting for you to acknowledge it.

By the time I reached Eleanor’s, the familiar smell of roasted coffee and old paper filled the air. My sanctuary. My routine. The heartbeat of my ordinary life.

Mick was already inside, humming off-key while reorganizing the poetry shelves.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said without looking up.

“More like I edited one,” I replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite land.

She snorted. “That bad?”

“Worse.” I busied myself behind the counter, wiping down surfaces that didn’t need cleaning. Anything to keep from looking at the letter now tucked safely, or perhaps stupidly, into my coat pocket.

It was barely past ten when the bell above the door chimed. The sound was innocent… Until it wasn’t.

Something in the air shifted.

He didn’t just walk in… He arrived. Like the world, my shop, had been waiting for him.

Not in the way our regulars did… with their damp coats and sleepy smiles. But with the ease of someone who rarely asked permission. The kind of man who could walk into any room and have the walls lean closer just to listen. His presence filled the doorway and also, somehow, the entire room.

He was tall, taller than any man I had met before, with a long dark coat that brushed the tops of his boots. His hair was black… not glossy, but a deep matte black, with a slight wave to it. His eyes… I couldn’t decide on the color. Somewhere between gray and blue, the kind that shift depending on the light. And when they landed on me, the air in my lungs stalled.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low, warm. Every syllable deliberate.

“….. Morning,” I managed. My mouth moved but my brain had apparently abandoned ship. I continued to stand there. Continued to stare. Mick’s pointed cough from the counter pulled me back. “Uh… Sorry. I’m sorry. Would you like a coffee or book?”

He smiled faintly as I fumbled through our interaction. “That depends. Which one do you recommend?”

“Books last longer,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

That earned me a quiet laugh, soft but genuine. “Then I’ll trust your judgment.”

He drifted toward the shelves, fingers brushing the spines like he was reacquainting himself with old friends. His movements were deliberate, not hesitant or even remotely rushed. Like he’d been here before and was testing what had changed. The air seemed to follow him, the shadows softening. The lights ever so slightly dimming as he passed through the shelves.

Mick glanced at me from behind the counter and mouthed, who’s that?

I shrugged, pretending to focus my attention on the espresso machine. After minutes of cleaning the machine and nothing else to do with my hands, I walked over towards the back library section to start going through a few new books we got in yesterday. Keep my mind busy, try not to look at the man that made me forget how to speak. Yes, that should work.

A few minutes later, the man returned with a worn copy of The Collected Works of Poe. He set it gently on the counter in front of me, leaning across the small countertop. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”  

“For the weather or the mood?” I managed.

“Both,” he said, then looked at me with an intensity that felt far too direct for a stranger. “You’re Leyla.” A statement, not a question.

My hand froze midreach. “How—?”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “It’s on the sign out front. Eleanor’s — Owned by Leyla and Mick.” I let out a shaky laugh.

“Right. Of course.” But something about the way he said my name made me feel like he wasn’t lying, just deflecting. He handed me a twenty.

His fingers brushed mine briefly, and a pulse of cold went through me, sharp enough to feel like memory.

Internally I shook my head, what is going on with me? Talk. “What brings you to our shop?” I count out his change.

“I’m just visiting,” he said. “Sort of passing through for work. My company rented a house about ten minutes away and I wanted to explore the area. I’ll be here for a few weeks.”

“What kind of work?” There was a pause.

“..… I’m in the business of books.” His lips curved. His gaze lingered a second too long, like he was searching for something behind my eyes.

“Like publishing?” I questioned, trying for steady. “You came to the right place. Plenty of stories here; some worth reading more than others, I’ll admit.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he whispered, pocketing his change. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Leyla.” The way he said my name, soft and deliberate, made it sound like a promise. Made my stomach tighten.

Before I could respond, the bell over the door chimed again, and he was gone.

Mick appeared beside me almost instantly. “Okay, what was that? Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know,” I said, staring at the empty doorway. “Just a customer.” Though as the words came out, I could feel how untrue they were.

“Hmm,” she drew out the word. “A customer who looks like a tragic novel hero and makes eyes at you while he’s pretending to look for a book. Perhaps learning his name isn’t necessary.” We laughed. Perhaps she was right.

Outside, the fog had started to lift, but when I glanced toward the street, I thought I saw him.

Standing there. Across the road.

Watching me.

Then a car passed, and he was gone.

Chapter 3

Leyla

I spent last night with Brad.

Well, technically on a date with Brad.

It wasn’t bad. Just… lukewarm. He was the kind of guy who talked with his hands and laughed at all the wrong moments, nice enough that I felt guilty for not feeling more. We went to that new Italian place downtown, the one with the mismatched chairs and candles in wine bottles. He told me about his job at the bank, his fantasy football league, his love for spicy arrabbiata. Every word passing through me like background music.

I smiled where I should have, nodded when expected, but my mind kept wandering elsewhere.

To storm gray eyes, that leaned a little blue just in the right light.

To the memory of that voice that felt like smoke and velvet.

To the way he looked at me like he already knew what I feared most in this world.

Brad had offered to take me to a basketball game in two days.

“Front row seats,” he’d said, all proud grin and easy charm. And I’d said yes. Because why not?

Maybe I needed to try. Maybe distraction was what I needed, to drown out the pull of someone I just met but couldn’t stop thinking about. I told myself it was just a night. Just a game. Just a chance to be normal for a while.

But even as I replayed his smile, his stories, and his too-loud laugh, all I could feel was that faint echo of electricity under my skin, the kind that didn’t belong to Brad at all.

I unlocked the door to Eleanor’s, and the familiar bell chimed, soft and melodic, like a lullaby for the city’s early risers. Inside, the smell wrapped around me: coffee, aged paper, and the faint sweetness of ink. Dust floated lazily in the amber shafts of light that spilled through the tall windows. Mick was already behind the counter, balancing a latte in one hand while skimming invoices with the other.

“Late again,” she said without looking up. “If the books start reading themselves, I’ll know who to blame.”

I muttered a response I didn’t mean, dropping my bag on a nearby table.

My eyes drifted to the shelves, and that strange pull returned. The subtle sensation that the shop itself was watching, leaning in a little closer.

And then I saw him.

The stranger from yesterday.

He was in the corner, inconspicuous but impossible to ignore. Leaning against the tall shelf near the poetry section, he held a leather-bound book, but he wasn’t reading. His eyes… storm-colored, edged with the faintest silver glint, were trained on me. Calm. Focused. And electric.

My pulse stumbled. My stomach turned traitor. Every sensible part of me screamed to look away, but my body refused to listen. His gaze pinned me there, the space between us thickening with something sharp and electric.

Mick noticed. Of course she did. “Leyla?” she whispered, nudging my elbow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. A terrible lie. My voice betrayed me, too breathless to sound casual.

“He’s been here since right after I opened,” she said under her breath, eyes narrowing. “He hasn’t moved.”

I forced a shrug. “He said he’s in town for work.”

“Right,” she said, skepticism dripping from every syllable. “Work. Sure.”

There was just something familiar in the way he existed. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move closer.

Just stood there.

He was magnetic, almost in a predatory way; like he had all the time in the world and the patience to wait while the world continued to spin around him.

Every so often, a customer wandered in, but I couldn’t keep from making small glances in his direction. As discreetly as possible of course. Each step the customers took felt like a ripple in the air around him, and he barely noticed.

“Stop staring,” Mick whispered, sharper now. “Men like that either write bad poetry or worse crimes. And I am not getting saintly vibes.” A snort escaped.  

He shifted slightly, sliding the book back onto the shelf with slow, deliberate care. Then, as if sensing my gaze had tightened around him like a vise, he moved toward the front of the shop.

Not too close. Not too far.

The air seemed to bend around him, and each footfall echoed faintly, almost imperceptibly, against the tile. My stomach fluttered. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.

“Did you enjoy your book?” I asked, forcing a smile that felt false, clumsy against the heat that had sprung to my cheeks.

He stopped. Just a few feet away, close enough to see the way my eyes followed him. He tilted his head, and that gaze bore into me like an unspoken question, a challenge.

“Enjoyed? No,” his voice filled with that low velvet and smoke sound I couldn’t stop thinking about. “My attention was being pulled elsewhere.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“You’re….. different.”

I froze. Was that a warning? Or a compliment? My pulse tripped over itself. I wanted to speak, to ask what he meant, but the air between us felt charged, almost alive. And when he turned toward the door, something in me refused to let him go.

“Wait,” I breathed, my hand brushing his arm before I could think.

The contact hit like lightning. A jolt tore through me, hot and cold all at once, blooming beneath my skin. The world flickered around the edges, my breath catching as the hum in the air grew louder, closer.

“You know my name,” I managed, trying to steady my voice, “I’d like to know yours.”

Instead of pulling away from my touch, he covered it. His touch deliberate, grounding, and far too intimate for a stranger. His fingers traced the inside of my wrist, and my pulse leapt.

“Thalon.” He said the name like a secret spoken into my bones.

Before I could speak, he lifted my hand. The motion was reverent and practiced. He brought it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my skin. It was nothing more than breath and heat, but it set every nerve into flames.

And for a second, just a second, his control slipped.

His eyes widened… like he’d felt the spark too. Like he hadn’t meant to.

And then he was gone.

The bell above the door chimed once, soft and final, and the rain outside swallowed him whole.

Mick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You didn’t even try not to stare,” she said. “You’re either smitten, or you’ve completely lost it.”

“I’m..… fine.” Even I didn’t believe myself. I didn’t know what was happening.

Even as I moved through the day, grinding beans, stacking books, and straightening shelves, my gaze kept returning to the empty corner where he’d been.  

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from K.L. Rutledge. This book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.