Page 22 of Knot Just A Fan

“Well, it’s done, so you and your grape gonads don’t have to concern yourself anymore. Just sit back and wait for Grayson to see reason and sort his shit.”

We politely make our way through the crowd that’s leaking alcohol from its pores. The confetti papers the floor and the closing band, a group of guys and one girl called The Labelmakers (questionable name) are doing their best to bring the house down but I think it’s already been leveled.

No one here cares if this tune is from their latest album or what inspired it. Frankly, I’m surprised the promoter didn’tchoose someone who was more versed in the needs of the New Year’s crowd: covers. Lots of covers.

“Where are we headed?” I ask.

“Try and find him,” shouts Ronan, who, to his credit, stands aside when groups of ladies try to pass, sloshing their last drinks on each other and laughing hysterically. I give a little bow when one of them eyes us but I don’t think she knows we were on stage an hour ago, and honestly, I hope she doesn’t. She needs her bed.

“Man, I think he might’ve gone home. He was upset about Briella getting hurt. And she and her friend have gone. Why would he still be here?”

He shrugs and carries on, standing aside for the bigger groups dancing and swaying and leaning on one another. Someone pops a cracker hat on his head and he leaves it there. I grin and hold out my hand and the empty cracker gets placed there. The group laugh and someone slaps me on the back. “Good one, Enzo,” says a voice, but no one follows us, and that’s frankly the level of fandom I enjoy.

I sigh and follow Ronan to the far front corner of the room, where often Grayson will hover, checking out the other artists. He’s not there though. I could’ve told Ronan that but I’m too busy trying to figure out how to keep us together through this latest shitstorm that I myself have allowed.

Maybe it speaks to my desperation to find our Omega and let her glue us together. Or to admit that we’re losing us, after all this time.

“Ronan, man,” I shout. “I’m going back to the house, too. Tomorrow when the shit hits the fan, my grape-nads will be sitting in my room, waiting for you and him to yell it out.”

“You agreed,” he calls, almost good-naturedly over his shoulder. We stop in the corner where a broken metal chair sits and an empty pizza box sits open on the floor, greasy and spent.

“I did, but I didn’t agree to what you’ve just done. There was no call for that. You warned her. You didn’t even give her a chance to get on with her work before doing what you did.”

I feel the anger rising in me again, but I’m so goddamned torn.

“Hey, look, Ronan. I don’t want to start fires we can’t put out either.” His voice is calm, and his eyes look more sincere than they have all night. Possibly because he’s already done what he wanted to do, maybe for awhile. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission and all that.

“The thing is,” he continues, “We needed to force both their hands. She’ll stay away, she won’t tell him what we did. She’ll have gotten the message. And he’ll just get stroppy for a week and then we can bring up Willow again. Have a pack meeting, bring in Ash, and just say, look, mate, get her down here or we all split. And you know none of us really want to do that.”

“No,” I say fiercely, feeling my balls return. “We don’t. But if this doesn’t work, Ronan, I will make sure Grayson knows exactly what we’ve done. I’ll ask forgiveness. But I’ll also ask his permission to punch you in the dick.” I grin back at him, good-naturedly. And hate myself a little bit for the road we’ve started down tonight.

CHAPTER 11

Briella

“Ms. Phillips,the nurse will see you,” says the man behind the glass. Cami’s got her seemingly-permanent elbow-lock on my arm and we walk together toward the nurse and enter the room she gestures to. She doesn’t raise a brow at Cami’s presence so she can probably figure out what’s going on.

I sit on the paper-covered exam table and Cami wavers, then sits in the chair. The nurse closes the door and her nostrils flare.

She’s smelled enough Omegas in heat that I’m guessing she can sense mine. She’s professional though, and says nothing.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“Well,” I clear my throat. I feel much the same as the early hours. I slept maybe four. Cami probably slept less, keeping me entertained as we watched whatever was on telly, making up wilder and wilder scenarios about the contestants in the reality shows that were on repeat.

So on top of delirious exhaustion, I feel a buzzing sensation ringing in my veins. Electrified, sweaty, jumpy, and wired. Like I’ve had too much caffeine and I have a need to create, to produce—but in an increasingly feral, uncontrollable way.

I don’t know how to clearly state all this, so I stick to the facts.

“I think my heat suppressant’s stopped working. I’m in pre-heat.”

The nurse nods as she takes my vitals. “Have you been in heat ever before?”

“Just the initial time,” I say. Cami stifles a yawn, but I know she’s alert. She’s been in heat a few times. She knows how predictable it is in its unpredictability. And how volatile.

“And your file says you’ve been taking Duo-supprex Max for fifteen years?”

I nod. “I … don’t have a pack. I’m a Guild member.”

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