Page 3 of Break Me Knot

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He sneers, spitting out the last word. “Omega.”

The slur slaps me, but I'm already backing away, clutching my overpriced lifeline. Five measly pills. Five days to figure out how the hell I’m going to pay for more. Five chances to remain free before my biology betrays me.

I slip back into the shadows, leaving Marcus to his victory. The bottle is impossibly light as I slip it into my pocket, each step carrying me closer to the edge of a cliff I've been avoiding for two years.

Five pills. Gods help me.

Chapter Two

Mira

Avicious cramp from nowhere twists through my abdomen. The plates on my tray rattle as cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. A bead trickles down my spine. My hands shake as I try to steady the tray, my knuckles white against the cheap plastic.

“Here's your order,” I manage through clenched teeth, carefully setting down the greasy burgers in front of the four college boys who've been making my life hell for the past hour. Their expensive watches glint under the fluorescent lights. Rolex, Cartier, the kind of accessories that cost more than I make in a year. Trust fund babies slumming it in a downtown diner for kicks while I’m battling the reality of myworst nightmare.

The blond one—Chad or Brad or something equally pretentious—brushes his hand against mine as I set down his plate. His fingers are soft, uncalloused, having never known a day of real work. “Thanks, sweetheart.” His touch lingers, making my skin crawl. “You sure you don't want to join us? I bet you're due for a break.”

Another cramp twists my insides. Heat floods through my body in a terrible, familiar wave. I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile, though it’s probably more like a death rictus.

One pill every two days instead of daily seemed a reasonable compromise when I was rationing what I had left, but my body knows better. It's been storing up this heat, like a pressure cooker, waiting for the smallest crack in my defenses. Fucking biology at its best.

An omega needs a heat every three months “to maintain optimal biological harmony.” I still hear Dr. Richards's clinical voice explaining how our bodies are designed to serve our alphas, and how fighting our nature would only hurt us. How we hunger for strong alphas to guide us through our heats, fill us with their knots, and breed us like the animals they think we are.

I've been forcing my body to deny that cycle for two years. Two years of black-market suppressants, of living on the edge, of victory in every heat-free month. Now my biology is staging a revolt without its daily fix.

I thought it might work the other way—that the build-up of suppressants would give me a buffer.

I didn’t think I’d go through withdrawal.

I’d do anything—anything—not to be omega. I’m not the only one. Just ask any omega. No one wants to be biology's cruelest joke.

“Can I interest anyone in dessert?” My voice sounds strange in my own ears, higher than usual. Wrong. “Our apple pie is fresh baked daily.” The words come out automatically, rehearsed customer service patter that is surreal as panic starts to set in.

My stomach lurches as a wave of heat rolls through me. I can’t let this happen. One last pill is the only thing I have that stands between me and the heat I should have had years ago after my first one nearly killed me.

I can’t do that again… the craving, the loss of control, the helplessness.

Iwon’tdo that again.

One heat spent writhing on the cold concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse is enough for lifetimes. Still, it was better than being sold to the highest bidder in my first heat.

All I need is that one measly pill left in my measly stash back in my measly apartment.

Why didn’t I bring it with me?

Leaving it in the back of my cupboard, secure in the lockable box hidden behind the cleaning fluids alongside the locket my mother gave me seemed like a reasonable thing to do… this morning.

“How aboutyouserved up with that pie?” Chad/Brad leers, his friends snickering like it's the height of wit. He pulls out a wallet fat with hundreds, making sure I see them. “I'll make it worth your while. What's your rate, honey? Got to be more than the pitiful amount you make here.”

The way they're looking at me turns my stomach. I recognize that predatory gleam. I’ve seen it too many times before. Omega chasers… betas with alpha complexes and something to prove. They get off on the fantasy, hunting what they think are weak betas who look like omegas. Looking for someone small, delicate, breakable. Someone like me. I pretend I’m a beta, but my body is all omega.

They don't understand what I really am, not with my scent suppressed, but that almost makes it worse. To them, I'm just another petite beta waitress they can intimidate, someone they can pretend is an omega while they act out their twisted fantasies. They target girls with my build all the time, those with fragile features and a small frame—the kind of body that screams 'vulnerable.' The kind that real omegas have.

The irony would be amusing if I wasn't in the middle of a suppressant failure.

The blond one licks his lips, probably imagining how wet I could get, how easily I could take a knot even though they don’t have one. That's what they're all thinking… how fun it would be to play pretend with a beta who can make their fantasy real.

I try to steady myself. These wannabe alphas are dangerous in their own way. No biology holds them back, just pure human cruelty dressed up in alpha pretense. They're the type who'd hurt a beta for fun, telling themselves it's what a “real” alpha would do.

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