Page 18 of Knot Happening Again

It's them.

CHAPTER 5

OPHELIA

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the haze of my suppressant-induced fog. I fumble for it, nearly knocking over the bottle of pills on my nightstand in the process.

Great. Just what I need—to spill my last lifeline all over the floor.

"Hello?" I croak as I pick up the phone off the dresser, my voice rough from disuse.

When was the last time I actually spoke to someone?

Yesterday?

The day before?

Everything's blurring together.

I got slammed with aches and pains almost as soon as I got back from the interview, so I've pretty much been curled up in bed with a heating pad, the few snacks that don't make my stomach turn, and my favorite comfort reads and shows. Even they aren't quite scratching the itch right now, though.

My heat is close. Inevitable, really. These pills can't stave it off much longer, and I can't risk going to the Scent Bar like this. I don't trust myself to be this vulnerable around the kinds of alphas who hire me there.

"Ophelia? This is Samantha from Temporary Bonds."

I sit up straighter, suddenly wide awake. "Oh, hi. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's wonderful!" Samantha chirps, her enthusiasm grating on my already frayed nerves. "I have some exciting news. A pack is interested in meeting you. They're actually available this afternoon if you're free."

My heart races, a mix of anticipation and dread coursing through my veins. "This afternoon?" I echo, glancing at the clock. It's barely past noon. Technically, it's already afternoon.

"Is that too soon?" Samantha asks, her voice softening. "I already sent their file over to your email, but normally, there's more time for you to look things over and consider. We can always reschedule if you need more time."

I hesitate, weighing my options. On one hand, I feel like absolute shit. On the other hand, I've already asked for a week off work—time I can't afford to waste. If this falls through, I'll be reduced to trolling rut bars for a quick fix. And at this rate, I can't even afford another refill on my suppressants.

"No, this afternoon is fine," I hear myself say. "What time should I be there?"

We hash out the details, and before I know it, I'm hanging up and dragging myself out of bed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince. Yikes. I look like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and spat back out.

I stumble to the bathroom, turning on the shower and cranking up the heat. As I wait for the water to warm up, I study my reflection more closely. Dark circles under my eyes, skin pale and clammy, my hair a tangled mess.

Not exactly a presentable omega.

But that's what makeup is for, right?

I step under the spray, letting the hot water soothe my aching muscles. As I lather up, I can't help but wonder about this pack.

Are they old?

Young?

Attractive?

Not that any of it matters. This is strictly business. Get in, get knotted, get out.

No attachments, no complications.

After my shower, I throw on a robe and start the arduous process of making myself look human. I blow-dry my hair until it falls in soft waves around my shoulders, then apply enough makeup to hide the signs of my suppressant-induced exhaustion. After putting on a full face, including enough contour magic to get me hunted by Van Helsing, I almost look like my old self.

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