Page 71 of Knot a Thief

Max’s eyes narrow, a dangerous glint appearing in them. “You’re my omega until I no longer need you. That’s the reality of your situation, whether you like it or not.”

The sound I release is bitter, bordering on hysterical. “When I’ve had your baby, you mean.”

“Exactly,” he confirms, his tone matter-of-fact. “Now do as you’re told, omega, and your time here will be much more pleasant. We’ll get along just fine if you cooperate.”

I could tell him I know exactly who he is, that I’ve seen the emails, that I know about his connection to Walker. But I hold my tongue. I’ll save it for when I really need it.

Max leaves me alone in the room, the door clicking shut behind him, and the silence that follows is stifling, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing.

And then a child crying.

The sound is faint but unmistakable. My omega instincts kick in immediately, a powerful urge to comfort and protect washing over me.

I move to the window, straining to see where the sound might be coming from.

But there’s nothing. Just the lush grounds of Dupont Island and the sea that stretches out before me. No sign of a child anywhere.

I shake my head, wondering if I’m imagining things.

That the stress of the situation I find myself in, knowing it’s getting to me. But even as I try to rationalize it away, I can’t wave away the feeling it was real.

Shaking my head, I turn away from the window, my mind racing. I need to forget about phantom sounds and figure out a way out of here.

I am not Max’s to claim. And somehow, I will escape.

Again.

The next morning, my stomach churns with a mixture of hunger and revulsion as I stare at the tray of continental breakfast on the table; a Danish pastry, a bagel, a selection of fresh fruits, and a bowl of yogurt and a small box of cereal. A glass of fresh orange juice is on the side.

I hate Max Montgomery.

At least now he knows I’m refusing to eat meals with him. The man is deluded if he thinks I’m going to pretend we’re what, exactly?

What does he think we are?

A couple?

He told you—you’re nothing more than a surrogate.

Rage bubbles up inside me as I grab the glass-bottom lamp from the bedside table and fling it across the room. It shatters against the wall.

I watch the splinters of glass shimmering on the floor and plunge my head into the pillow.

“I hate him,” I spit out, tasting the poison on my tongue.

I don’t know if he’ll receive the message, but the hate I’m feeling must be seeping through our bond.

I try to send extra loathing through it.

He will regret the day he claimed me.

He fucking claimed me.

I scream into my pillow, letting out all the frustration and anger that’s been building up. But when I hear the door creak open, I hiss, “Go away.”

“Daddy,” a sweet voice says, catching me off guard.

“It’s okay, baby. She’s upset,” a familiar voice responds.

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