Page 10 of Break Me Knot

I shake off the memory, my hands trembling as I head into the staff kitchen. As painful as it was, enduring the heat unclaimed was still a better alternative than being used by any alpha. Those bastards rule the world. I wish I was one of them. Even being a beta is preferable to my omega designation. Then I wouldn't have to worry about heats and being owned and ruled by biology. No overwhelming pheromones, nothing trying to tear me apart from the inside out. No government tracking, no mandatory registration, no Haven Institute waiting to “train” me.

Betas can walk down the street without fear. They can go to university, build careers, choose their own partners. They don't have to spend every cent they earn on black market suppressants. Don't have to change jobs constantly to avoid detection. Don't have to live in constant fear of their own biology betraying them.

A beta wouldn't be here right now, fighting back heat symptoms while cleaning the offices of the very company that helps keep omegas enslaved. A beta wouldn't wake up every morning wondering if this is the day they get caught and claimed; the day their life stops being their own.

Sometimes I watch the beta women at the diner—Cindy with her sharp tongue, Sarah with her community college textbooks. They complain about their lives, about low wages and bad boyfriends and broken dreams. They don't understand how lucky they are to have those ordinary problems. To have the freedom to have problems at all.

I'd give anything to be ordinary. To be invisible not because I'm hiding, but because I'm just another face in the crowd. To live without this constant fear, this endless vigilance, this desperate struggle to deny what I am.

My reflection in the window catches my eye again. Pale, drawn, obviously unwell. No matter how much I wish otherwise, I can't change what I am. I can only keep running, hiding, surviving. Until I can't anymore.

And then permanent decisions will have to be made.

Chapter Five

Mira

Iblink away the memories and the hopelessness and take in the sleek appliances and granite countertops. This is a staff kitchen? It’s better than anything I’ve ever seen before. Everything speaks of money and privilege.

There's half a pot of coffee left in an expensive-looking machine. I shouldn't—it's not mine to take—but my body is crying out for anything that might give me energy. I pour the dregs into a paper cup with trembling hands, the rich aroma making my mouth water.

I tell myself I'll wash the pot extra carefully to make up for my theft. It's not like they'll miss it. They probably throw out better things than this every day. The coffee burns my tongue, but I drink it anyway, savoring the warmth,the caffeine, the momentary relief from hunger before I wheel my cart into the foyer of the executive office.

This space is set to impress. Soaring ceilings with recessed lighting cast a soft glow over marble floors so polished I see my reflection. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city lights spread out below like scattered stars. The reception desk is a sweeping curve of exotic wood and brushed steel, its surface gleaming with perfection that speaks of money and power.

I empty the trash cans first, noting how even their garbage is different; sanitized. Mostly coffee cups from expensive cafes and high-end takeout containers. No half-eaten food or actual waste.

The vacuum pack is heavy as I strap it to my back, the weight making my already tired muscles protest. It's an industrial model, meant for these vast open spaces, but it’s like strapping on a concrete block. My steps are unsteady as I start the methodical back-and-forth pattern across the plush carpeting in the waiting area.

Custom-made furniture in butter-soft leather creates intimate seating areas throughout the space. Abstract art pieces worth more than I'll make in my lifetime hang on walls covered in silk wallpaper. On the bright side, cleaning these offices beats the down-trodden buildings I usually get to clean.

I step into the first office and freeze. The space is all clean lines and modern luxury, a massive dark wood desk dominating the room, its surface gleaming under subtle recessed lighting. The ergonomic chair behind it is smooth leather. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes and subtle displays of academic achievements. A wall of windows offers a commanding view of the city, the lights below twinkling like earthbound stars. Everything speaks of power carefully contained, intelligence wielded with precision. But it's not the décor that stops me in my tracks.

It's the scent, rich leather and fresh pine, layered and masculine and complex and it makes my knees weak. It speaks of forests after rain, of strength tempered with something deeper, something that makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. The leather note isn't overwhelming or aggressivelike most alpha scents. It's sophisticated, almost gentle, like well-oiled saddle leather warmed by the sun. The pine brings freshness, vitality, making the combination devastatingly perfect. Together, they create something that bypasses all my carefully constructed defenses.

To my horror, I realize I've closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the scent fill my lungs. My mouth waters, omega instincts responding to something that calls to the deepest part of me. My skin is too tight, too hot, and there's a hollow ache low in my belly that has nothing to do with hunger. My fingers tremble as they grip the vacuum handle, knuckles white with the effort of staying upright.

No. No, no,no.

This scent is nothing like the alpha stench of the guards at Haven. They reeked of aggressive dominance, their smell made me sick with fear and revulsion. Even now, most alpha scents make my skin crawl, trigger memories of control and captivity.

But this... this is different. This scent promises something else… safety, strength, protection. It whispers to parts of me I've kept locked away, making promises I can't afford to hear. This is coming home, finding something I didn't know I was missing, and that response terrifies me more than any amount of aggression.

I stumble backward, hitting the doorframe hard enough to bruise. This is wrong. This is dangerous. This is exactly what I've been fighting against. Biology trying to override reason, instinct trying to betray survival. The vacuum pack shifts awkwardly on my back, its weight suddenly unbearable.

The leather sofa in the corner calls to me. Every instinct I possess screams to curl up there, to bury my face in the cushions where the alpha’s scent would be strongest, to let it wrap around me like the safety I've never experienced. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to nest, to claim this space that smells like everything I've trained myself not to want.

But my logical brain, the part that's kept me alive and free, fights back with cold reality. I can't run. Running means losing this job, losing double pay, losing mychance at more suppressants. I can't give in to these instincts. Iwon’tlet them get the better of me.

Clean. Just do what I have to do and get out.

I hold air until my lungs burn, hurrying through the necessary tasks. Empty the waste basket, vacuum the immaculate carpet, wipe down surfaces that probably haven't seen a fingerprint in their existence. Every movement is mechanical, forced, fighting against the part of me that wants to slow down, to savor.

To stay and roll around on the sofa and coat myself in this delectable scent.

When I finish I slam the door behind me with more force than necessary, and lean against the hallway wall, gulping in air that isn't saturated with that intoxicating scent. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure anyone passing would hear it. My skin is fever-hot, my clothes too rough, too constricting.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters. This is a one-time job. I never have to come back here or smell that scent again; never have to fight this battle between instinct and survival.

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