Page 105 of Knot My Only Fan

Taking a deep breath, I meet Stanton’s gaze; the pain etched in his features mirroring my own inner turmoil. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words heavy with regret.

Stanton’s anger wavers, replaced by a weariness that weighs down on his shoulders. “Sorry doesn’t change what happened,” he mutters. “She told me it’s over.”

“Why didn’t you fight for her after you spoke to your dad?” Stanton stabs his finger into my chest accusingly. “Why do you always give up on her?”

“Because I’m scared,” I say, swallowing a thick lump of anguish.

He shakes his head, not understanding.

“She was mine. She was always mine, Stanton.” Stanton is getting fuzzy as my eyes fill with tears. “But she gave her neck to you. She gave her neck to the playboy, not me, the one who had wanted her since she was a beta.”

“Fuck, Lucas, this isn’t a competition between us. We’re two alphas who have the same end goal.”

“You weren’t my end goal,” I admit. “She was.”

He sighs. “That’s it then? I’ve known we’re a pack since the day I met you. I’m thirty fucking years old. I met you five years ago when you came to the club as a rookie. I waited and waited for you… and then I got sick of waiting.”

“So it’s my fault you fucked around?” I yell.

“No, but it’s your fault you never recognized what was in front of you. Your pack mate. If you did, the night of her heat would’ve been different.”

“I recognized you, Stanton, but…” I sigh. “My life is different from yours. My father doesn’t…”

“Stop! I am fucking sick of listening to you making excuses. Are you in or out?”

Her choosing Stanton as her mate, not me, still makes my heart ache like nothing else since I found out yesterday. Not even when my mother left me to live with her alpha hurt more.

And after losing his mother, Stanton needs his omega… his mate, even if our friendship and potential for being a pack are destroyed in the meantime.

As I search for the right words to mend the rift I’d caused, a realization strikes me as the weight of our shattered friendship hangs on a thread between us. I take a deep breath and say, “I’ll fix this.”

“How?” His expression softens slightly.

“I’ll make her believe you.”

“And you?”

“She doesn’t want me.”

Later that day and still fueled by anger, I storm through the hallway to my father’s office, ignoring his secretary’s attempts to stop me. My footsteps echo loudly against the pristine marble floors as I reach his door, step inside, and with a forceful push, I slam it shut behind me.

My father lifts his head as the sound reverberates throughout the room.

“Why the fuck did you get involved?”

His eyes narrow as they lock onto mine, and his lips press together in a thin line. It’s clear from his body language that he understands the gravity of the situation.

The rise and fall of his chest is steady and rhythmic before he exhales. “I was trying to make things better. I was trying to make my wrongs right.”

“What?” I grunt. “You made everything worse.”

His body tenses. Everything about him seems tense, to be honest. Normally, my father is the epitome of relaxation. Nothing ever bothers him.

But something has.

“Sorry, I never meant to.” The more I look at him, the more I notice the subtle changes. He looks like he hasn’t been home in days by his disheveled appearance.

“You look tired,” I say.

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