Page 63 of Break Me Knot

Elliot nods and leaves the office. I get up and close the door, needing to move.

“I thought she might have gone to Haven, short of not knowing any of her history.” I plow a hand through my hair. I haven’t been able to find any information on Mira at all. On paper, she doesn’t exist, and it makes my search for her frustrating. “Perhaps she’s one of those omegas hidden by her parents. She never mentioned having gone to Haven, so maybe she's always been in hiding. It happens far more often than the government wants to believe.”

Zane leans forward, his expression all focused intensity. “There has to be something on her, Cole. Something from her youth when her designation came through at least. Every omega gets tested. It's federal law. Even if she went into hiding after, there should be some record of her initial designation. A doctor’s report. Her school report. Anything.”

“That is true...” A doctor would have to have officially logged her designation as omega when she presented, and it should have been shared with Pinnacle. I switch tactics, pulling up Pinnacle's archived database. Hardwick's bureaucratic nightmare has one advantage—we maintained access to old omega records as part of our medical research division. Records that predated Haven's formation, back when local councils independently tracked omega designations.

I start with our old database, typing 'Mira' into the search field. The field populates with omegas named Mira, and then continues to populate with derivatives: Mira, Mirah, Miranda, Mirabel, Almira.

Zane stills when he looks over my shoulder, “Do you think… I never thought Mira was a shortened version of another name.”

My heart thunders because I believe we’re onto something. “Now by age range… assuming she's between 24 and 26.” The list narrows significantly.

“There.” Zane points to the screen. “Miranda Jensen. Registered as an omega nine years ago by her parents.”

My fingers are already pulling up the full record. “Millpark district records... shit, we've been looking in the wrong place entirely. She lived in CamdenStreetin Millpark, not Camden thetown.” The realization makes me sit back, running a hand through my hair.

More details populate the screen: Miranda Elizabeth Jensen. Education: Millpark Middle School. Omega designation confirmed: Age 16.

“That’s why Elliot couldn’t track her. She’s registered as Miranda. Not Mira,” Zane says.

“And here's her Haven registration form. She did go there,” I say, pulling up another file. She enrolled at Haven two years after the institute’s founding.

My hands clench on the desk. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I hack into Haven's database and find everything we’ve been searching for.

The screen displays a basic designation record: Jensen, Miranda Elizabeth. DOB: March 15. Designation: Omega. Parents: Thomas Jensen (Beta) and Elizabeth Jensen (Beta). Residence: 47 Camden Street, Millpark.

There’s a photo of a young Mira. The girl in the school photo stares back at me, her emerald eyes holding none of the fear our current-day Mira carries.She looks so young. A smile plays on her lips, full of soft hope. I scroll down the screen until I find something that makes my blood freeze.

“Fuck.” I stare at the death certificate on my screen. “Miranda Jensen, declared deceased four years ago. Age 21.” I scroll further, my gut churning. “Along with her parents. Listed cause of death: fatal car accident.”

“Dead?” Zane's voice is sharp with disbelief. “She’s not dead. She's very much alive, Cole.”

I'm about to close the death certificate when a familiar name catches my eye. My blood runs cold as I read the signature at the bottom. “Zane, look at who signed it off.”

Zane leans in, and I hear his sharp inhale. His scent spikes with anger. “Why the fuck did Silvia Mercer sign a death certificate on an omega who is very much alive?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mira

Iwake to find Adrian smiling down at me, his gaze warm and gentle. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest. I fell asleep on him, imposed on his space… surely he'll be angry? But his scent remains steady, calming, wrapped around me like the soft blanket I don't remember being covered with.

“Hello, Little One,” he murmurs, and somehow everything is okay. His chest rumbles with that delicious purr that makes me want to melt. When I reach for the omega biology book, he simply hands it to me. “It'syours. Take it with you back to your nest if you want,” he says, as though sharing knowledge isn't a dangerous thing. As though I deserve to learn.

I do take it to my nest.

And he doesn’t say another word about it.

Days blur together after that moment, each one challenging everything I thought I knew about relationships between omegas and alphas. About this different view of the world I’m living in. Thankfully, I’m spared of any more heat spikes, although the strange heat still prickles under my skin. Memories of that morning in Adrian’s office chair, spread open for him, filter into my mind. The way he made sure my pain went away with his tongue and his hands. The way he demanded nothing in return for giving me an earth-shattering climax. I spend hours in my closet nest reading the book, absorbing information that contradicts everything I was taught. The pages speak of choice, of consent, of natural cycles, notpunishment.

In fact, there’s nothing at all between the pages about punishment.

Sometimes I touch the pages of the book, as if I could absorb the truth of its words through my fingertips. The book describes heats as natural. Beautiful for both the omega and her pack. Not dirty, shameful episodes.

Somehow, I find myself drawn back to Adrian's office while he works on his laptop. I curl up in what I've come to think of as my chair, reading whichever book I’ve chosen for the day and occasionally asking quiet questions—questions he always answers. His dry smoke scent has become synonymous with safety and learning.

In the kitchen, Zane teaches me where everything is kept. His playful nature makes it easier and less frightening to learn new things when he teaches me a recipe. “Try this,” he'll say, offering tastes of whatever he's cooking. He never comments when I flinch, just adjusts his approach. When I finish my plate at dinner, there's always somehow a little more on my plate the next time, served so casually I almost don't notice the careful way they're helping me regain weight.

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