Page 1 of Break Me Knot

Chapter One

Mira

Ijolt awake to the electronic bell of my phone alarm, the sound sending a spike of adrenaline through my exhausted body. My hand trembles as I reach for it, knocking over the nearly empty bottle of water beside my mattress where I sleep on the floor. The screen illuminates the darkness—9.00 p.m. I’m late before I’ve even rolled out of bed. If I don’t move, I won’t get to my cleaning job, and I can’t afford to give Stacey any reason to fire me.

“No, no, no...” My voice comes out as a raspy whisper in the cold air.

The phone, a beat-up model with a screen protector that's more crack than protection, was Stacey's requirement when she hired me at Squeaky Clean Cleaning Service. Not charity, she’d said when I told her Ididn’t own a phone. Just insurance that she can reach me anytime, anywhere. My very own digital collar. I’m not in a position to knock back any shifts she might throw my way, no matter how exhausted I am.

My bones are filled with lead as I force myself to move. Three hours of sleep after a ten-hour shift at Jerry's Diner has left me more exhausted than when I collapsed onto the mattress. My muscles spasm in protest, a deep ache that never really goes away anymore. The suppressants don't help either. They make everything hurt worse.

Still, the pain is better than the alternative.

The incessant cold bites at my exposed skin as I roll off my pathetic excuse for a nest. My T-shirt, worn thin enough to see through in places, might as well be tissue paper. The blankets, three mismatched throws from Goodwill that scratch against my skin, provide little warmth. They smell wrong too, like dust and other people's lives, nothing like the soft, clean scents a proper nest should have.

Not that I’d know from personal experience.

I've seen pictures in magazines of omega nests in wealthy pack homes. Plush duvets, memory foam mattresses, silk pillows in calming colors. Everything designed to soothe and comfort. Sometimes, in my weakest moments, I imagine what it would be like to sink into something so soft, to be warm and safe and...

“Stop it!” I dig my nails into my palms until the pain drives away the dangerous thoughts. Those fancy nests come with a fancy price. Freedom. Dignity. An entire existence reduced to being a glorified breeding machine for whatever pack pays the highest price. One bite is all it takes to belong to a pack of alphas who view you as nothing more than a convenient hole and an incubator.

I stifle a shiver, this time not from the cold. Living in this apartment is better than that life. The training at Haven did pay off. I know what I’ll absolutely do anything to avoid.

My tiny apartment matches my nest, bare and broken. The walls sweat with condensation, feeding the black mold that spreads across the ceiling. My possessions fit in a single cardboard box—three sets of uniforms, someunderwear, a plate, two forks, a spoon, basic toiletries. The mini-fridge hums erratically in the corner, its empty shelves a reminder of my growling stomach.

I check it anyway, hoping I somehow missed something. Nothing but a half-empty bottle of ketchup and some expired coffee creamer. If Mac had been cooking at the diner today, I'd have a container of leftover meatloaf or soup. He always makes sure we waitresses eat. But Andy was on shift. that beta bastard probably jerks off to the thought of women starving.

Hunger pangs are constant and familiar, like the ache in my muscles and the ingrained fatigue. Better than being owned. Better than being “protected” by a pack that would use my biology against me. The government can spew all the propaganda they want about omegas needing guidance and protection for their own good.

There’s no way I can unknow the truth.

My uniform still smells like bleach and toilet cleaner from yesterday, but I pull it on anyway. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat, but it'll soften as I work.

I brush my teeth at the kitchen sink, the tap's weak stream barely enough to rinse. The communal bathroom down the hall will have to wait. No time for a shower when I'm already running late but when I reach for my suppressants, my heart stops. One lonely pill rattles in the plastic bottle in a sound that sends ice through my veins.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I need to see Marcus tonight; somehow scrape together enough cash for another bottle. The thought of being late to work makes my stomach clench, but going into heat would be so much worse. My only heat—the one I would have been bought for—still haunts my nightmares. Five days of burning agony, of my body betraying me, of unending lust overriding my mind.

I'd rather die than go through that again.

Pinnacle Therapeutics, those corporate vultures, have their claws in every aspect of omega “care.” They're the only legal manufacturer of suppressants, setting astronomical prices because they can. Because the government lets them.The legislation enrages me. Only alphas can legally purchase suppressants, as if we omegas are too stupid to manage our own medication. We need an alpha's “permission” to control our bodies, our biology, when they do nothing to control theirs. The rage devolves into helplessness.

Here I am, forced to buy black market pills at triple the price. But what choice do I have? One slip of my carefully constructed facade and it's over. I'll be registered, tagged, and sold to the highest bidding pack before I can even scream.

And then I’ll be screaming for the rest of my life.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, cheekbones too sharp from so many missed meals. I put hunger from my mind and pray to any gods listening that Mac is back at work tomorrow. I shrug on my coat, a threadbare thing from a church donation box that's more holes than warmth, and double-check the three locks on my door. Not that they'd stop anyone determined to get in, but the illusion of security is better than nothing.

The sharp tang of urine mingles with stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer in the hallway. I bury my nose in my coat and inhale my own sweat, hating that my omega senses are so acute. Behind paper-thin walls, life plays out in a cacophony of misery: a couple screaming about missing rent money, the thud of something heavy hitting a wall, a hungry baby wailing three doors down. The flickering fluorescent light casts sickly shadows across walls where the paint peels away in leprous patches, revealing decades of darker stains underneath.

But these are beta problems, beta fights. They might get drunk, throw punches, or scream until sunrise, but there's no underlying threat of biological compulsion. No alpha pheromones turning the air thick with dominance and control. Not one of them can bark and order and hijack my body over my own will. I'll take the devil I know over the one that could destroy me with a single bite.

My feet find the familiar path down the stairs, avoiding the spots that creak and the metal strips that have worked loose. Three flights down, each floor marked by graffiti and the occasional needle. The elevator stands as a metal coffin, doors permanently ajar, cables long since stripped for scrap. I hug the shadows out of habit. No, out of survival.

Two years on the run teaches you things. How to walk silently. How to keep your head down while still tracking every movement in your peripheral vision. How to become forgettable… not too fast, not too slow, nothing to make you memorable.

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