Page 11 of Knot All is Forgiven

It had been Cyrus' idea. He said we were leading Jordan on and needed to give her a chance to live happily as a Beta. He thought she would hold onto us if she thought there was any hope, so he wanted to crush that.

Crush makes it sound harsher than it was intended to be.

Of course, a huge fight ensued. Simon was adamant that he believed Jordan. He fully thought she'd present and be ours eventually. I wasn't so optimistic. But it was still brutal and devastating to lie to her and say we found a scent match when we did no such thing.

As if lying about it put a block on the real thing, we never found an Omega despite the numerous socials and events we attended. Eventually, the strain of being without Jordan, who had always anchored us, and not having an Omega caused us to fall apart at the seams.

It was slow at first. Simon started to be gone all the time. He rarely even slept at the apartment. And he started changing a lot, to the point where I wasn't sure who he was anymore. I thought he'd talk to me about it, but eventually, he pushed me away.

That was ten years ago. One day, he just never came home.

Then Cyrus sat me down and said since Simon was gone, we did not need to live together as a pack. We still hang out occasionally and have apartments across the hall from one another, but sometimes that distance feels like miles.

And thus, my hatred of grocery shopping.

The place has some excellent, underripe mangoes today, so I've got three in my basket. I'm looking at the skirt steak when I hear a commotion a few aisles away.

"Call an ambulance, quick," someone says. The voice is frazzled and worried, and I immediately drop my basket and head towards it.

I'm not sure what I think I could do. I work in finance, so unless this is a book-balancing emergency, I am not relevant, but I want to help if I can.

I come upon an elderly Beta woman crouched over a woman passed out on the floor of the dairy cooler. The older woman brushes wavy red hair off the face of the passed-out woman, tutting.

"They'll be here in two minutes," a young, pimply store clerk says, his phone held against his collarbone.

"She's so hot to the touch, poor thing. Must be going into heat. Never seen it knock someone out like this before," the woman says.

I step to the side, staying out of the way while the paramedics come in with a stretcher and load the woman up. As they walk by, I feel a yank in my gut, telling me I have to get closer.

It's obvious why almost immediately.

Jordan Cross, my Jordy, looking much the same despite all of the years, is on the stretcher, eyes closed and chest heaving. I walk alongside the stretcher despite the glares from the paramedics.

"Back up, man," one snarls at me. "Haven't you ever seen an Omega before?"

Omega.

The word rattles in my brain, and though I try to deny it, I know it is true in my soul.

Jordan is an Omega.

As we step outside, the wind blows across her still form, and I am smacked in the face with the irresistible scent of lime and mango.

But my hands are empty, my grocery basket abandoned inside.

As the paramedics slide the stretcher into the ambulance, I shout out. "She's my friend. Which hospital are you taking her to?"

"St. Michaels," the gruff one replies.

My phone is out of my pocket, nearly falling out of my hand as I rush to type in the number. "Pick up, pick up, pick up."

"Cyrus."

"Dude, you know it's me. You can see my name on your phone screen."

"What is it, Rafe?"

I pace in front of the grocery store, pulling my fingers through my hair. I don't know where to begin, and the words stumble out when I speak. "I saw Jordan."

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