Page 37 of Knot All That Glitters: Part 2

In a flurry of movement, I push the blankets off me and scramble off the bed, yanking Tic’s pillow along with me. I strip off the clothes, stride to the door and toss everything out in the hall. Then, naked as the day I was born, I scan the room for any other offensive items. The clothes I stole and tucked away, the trinkets they gave me, the books and that stupid, ugly necklace from Hale for my birthday.

God, that should have been my first fucking clue. Hale getting me something so outside of what I would pick for myself. I should have known he never actually knew me, never took the time to figure out what I like, who I am.

I bundle everything onto a towel and then toss all of that out in the hall, too. Before slamming the door shut and locking it.

I’ll have to face them eventually, have to confront them about what they were doing, why they hurt me.

But then, do I even really want to know? Is that going to make it hurt less? And worse, what if the only reason they have is because they could? Because they wanted to see who could corrupt the senator’s daughter the most. Who could get me to do the most outlandish omega instinct driven things?

Shaking myself and pushing my hurt to the side, I head into the bathroom to wash away the last bits of their scent clinging to me.

My omega wails as they swirl down the drain, but my omega is a hussy who just wants the Calloway pack for their cocks. And because, for the time I was with them, they made me feel safe. If I hadn’t felt safe with them, I never would have gone into heat.

Which is probably why they went to such lengths. I wonder if I hadn’t found out what they were doing, if they’d come home that night and instead of finding me catatonic in their yard, they’d found me in a heat spike, would they have recorded it all, watched back the tape and passed out points for each sexual act that occurred while I was out of my mind on hormones?

Probably.

Assholes.

By the time I’m clean, my skin is bright red and I’m seething. So fucking angry. I dry off in sharp jerks and braid my still wet hair while glaring at myself in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk to really let them have it.

I’m going to eviscerate them.

Nodding satisfactorily to myself in the mirror, I stride to the closet and yank on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I want to be dressed, completely covered from head to toe, while I do this. Fully armored. If I go out in pajamas clothes, I’ll look… I don’t know, weaker, softer.

I almost change into one of my Frederick Bell approved outfits—gray slacks, white button up, pale pink cardigan—but decide not to because fuck him too. Asshole.

The things I tossed out of my room are still in the hall. Though they are neatly arranged, stacked and tucked against the wall by my door like someone thinks I’ll be bringing them back in, I won’t. In fact, I kick the stack over as I pass by it. Petulant and childish, but I don’t care. These assholes broke me. No. They nearly broke me. But I’m not that brittle, that weak.

The scent of something savory floats up to me from the lower level of the house, and my stomach gives a loud grumble. For the first time, I realize that it’s dark outside, and since I sincerely doubt it’s the same night as my engagement party, I must have slept the entire day away. Maybe even two.

Which means I haven’t eaten in at least twenty-four hours, if not longer.

The low murmur of voices reaches me as I descend, still holding on to my fury, letting it bubble in my stomach, only for it to wither and die at the first sight of them, replaced by hurt.

They’re all in the kitchen, sitting at the island together. Tic is undoubtedly in the processes of making dinner, standing at the stove with his back to me. Jude has a cutting board and a knife in front of him, the steady thunk of the blade against the wood somewhat soothing. Hale is typing something on his laptop, perched on the marble in front of him, and Creed is muttering something to him in a voice too low for me to make out.

I hover there, right on the precipice of joining them, of making them aware of my presence. If I was still holding onto my anger, I would have. Hell, I might have knocked everything on the counter to the floor and stomped all over Hale’s stupid laptop.

But since I’m not angry anymore, just in agony, I can’t bring myself to take a step closer, can’t bring myself to announce my presence. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to deal with them. I don’t want to do any of this. I just want to curl up and let myself feel all of my emotions, the ones that were stolen from me first by my heat and then by the drugs my father forced on me.

It might have been weeks since I realized the Calloway pack wasn’t who I thought they were, but it’s not like I’ve had time—or emotional capacity—to really process it.

I’m about to return to my room upstairs. I’m sure they’ll deliver whatever Tic is cooking to me on a tray, leave it outside my door. But just as I spin, Tic does too, catching sight of me. “You done with those- Angel!”

Three other heads whip in my direction, pinning me in place, in a position that clearly shows I was about to sneak away, half turned away from them.

“Scurrying away to hide, little mouse?” Hale asks, his voice rough.

I try not to flinch at it but know I don’t succeed when he sucks in a sharp breath. “Haven-” he starts, but I cut him off, turning to face him fully. Facethemfully.

I jerk my chin toward his open laptop. “Busy adding points to the spreadsheet? How many do you get for undressing me while I’m unconscious?”

All of them flinch.

Oh, I guess maybe I do still feel that anger.Good for me.

“None,” Hale says, slowly pushing to his feet.

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