Page 42 of Break Me Knot

My ratty backpack sits by the wall, looking even more pathetic against the luxury surrounding it. I pad over on bare feet, the plush carpet cushioning each step. Inside are my few possessions… three shirts, two pairs of pants, some underwear.

The clothes smell musty from being stuffed in the pack. Some were already due for washing before my heat hit. I'll have to ask if I can clean them, but...the thought trails off. Ask what? To use their facilities? To borrow more clothes? Everything here is a trap waiting to spring and I will not ask for a thing. I don’t want to owe them anything. Well, nothing more than the food I’ve already eaten, although my heat should have paid them back for that.

Now dressed in my cleanest outfit, which isn't saying much, I perch on the edge of the bed, not knowing what to do. I’m not rushing to get to a job, or being ordered around. Minutes tick by, but no one appears. No instructions have been given, no expectations laid out.

What am I supposed to do now that my heat is over? Just... leave? Stay? Wait for orders?

At least the heat itself is done, though the thought of finding more suppressants makes my stomach clench. I don't know of any other reliable dealers than Marcus, and he turned out to not be reliable at all. The black market is getting more dangerous by the day, prices climbing as police crackdown on suppliers.

A twinge in my abdomen makes me pause. It’s almost like... but no, that's impossible. My heat should be over. This lingering sensation, like warmth coiling deep inside… I've never experienced that before. When my last heat broke, I was done, but really, what would I know? I’ve only had one heat before this one, and they were each as horrendous as the other.

Yet…something is different this time. Wrong, maybe. Or just... different.

The scent of cooking wafts through the air, something savory that makes my stomach clench with hunger. Bacon, eggs. An omelet, perhaps? These alphas don’t do things by halves. Movement and low voices drift from somewhere in the penthouse, domestic sounds so different to the raised voices and loud music that pounds through the walls in my apartment building. Not that I’ll be going back there. My room has probably been ransacked and become someone else's step above living on the streets.

Suddenly, I can’t remember if I packed my locket. I fall to my knees and upend my pack on the floor. Dirty laundry falls over the carpet. A few toiletries. I rifle through the articles, nausea rising in my gut.

I can’t find it.I’ve lost the locket.

I must have dropped it when the alphas found me in my apartment, momentarily forgotten in my panic of being discovered. I’ll never get it back now. It was the last thing I had of my parents.

Now I have nothing.

I sit back on my heels, staring at the wall until my vision blurs. Until the cold from the snow falling against the window permeates my bones.

I’m never going to get warm again.

Not until my next heat. When the desperation will start all over again.

I wrap my arms around my stomach and clench my eyes shut. If I were a beta, life would be so different. Okay, I might not have a lot, but I’d have my parents. I’d have a home. Maybe even a job I liked. My future would be certain. That present would be nothing like my stark reality now.

The stark reality I can’t waste any time not planning for.

At least I have a few months to rest before my next heat. If I can’t find any suppressants by then, I’ll definitely scope out some empty warehouses where I can ride it out alone. I don’t want that happening, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m definitely begging these days.

My stomach cramps again with hunger. I can’t sit here all day. I wipe my face, hope it’s not too splodgy from crying, and step hesitantly out of the bedroom, conspicuous in my worn clothes against the luxury surrounding me. If I don’t head out, one of the alphas might come for me and I don’t want to give them any reason to come and find me. I should be the one cooking for them, by rights. A good omega always serves her alphas. Now my heat is finished, they’ll expect duties from me, other than the one on my back. They might not want to see me at all, now that my heat is over.

Adrian told me we’re mates, but that might be something that he just said to confuse me. Make me think things that aren’t real. To maybe hope they are so they can lead me on but... Adrian held me through my nightmare, his arms strong and sure around me, his scent wrapping me in safety when the terror threatened to overwhelm me. Zane drew that bath, added those oils, cared for me with gentle patience. Even Cole, who can't bear to be near me, cooked for me during my heat. Patches of memory break through the haze of him bringing cut fruit and cheese so that Zane and Adrian could feed me. He walked away when I begged him to stay. I do remember that. But he still provided nourishment, and that is far more than many alphas would do.

They didn’t have to do any of that. None of it aligns with what I learned at Haven about alphas and their nature. Everything I was taught, everything beaten into me about alpha behavior and omega submission, crumbles in the face of their careful consideration.

I can't allow myself to get comfortable, though. Can't let my guard down. Can't trust that this gentleness will last. History has taught me better than that.

Following my nose, I make my way toward the kitchen, but stop short in the doorframe, arrested by the scene before me.

All three alphas are there, existing in comfortable domesticity. Cole stands at the stove, his movements precise as he tends to whatever is cooking. His shoulders tense when he no doubt scents me. Zane has set up a laptop on the kitchen island, absorbed in whatever is on his screen. Adrian leans against the counter, scrollingthrough his phone, and taking a sip of coffee. I don't remain unnoticed for long. Zane looks up from his laptop, his blue eyes finding me straight away.

Chapter Nineteen

Mira

Zane extends his hand. “Come sit with me?” It's phrased as a question, not a command, but I know better than to refuse an alpha. Years of conditioning make my feet move before my mind can process the choice.

I move carefully to the stool beside him, perching on the edge. My worn clothes are shabby next to his casual but obviously expensive attire. The cotton of my threadbare shirt broadcasts poverty without me having to say a word.

Adrian's eyes meet mine across the kitchen island, and heat floods my cheeks as I remember how he held me after my nightmare; how I broke down in his arms. How I sobbed against his chest, and he stroked my back and whispered comfort until I could breathe again. I want to apologize for my weakness,for burdening him with my tears, for revealing too much in my distress, but I don't want to draw attention to it.

Cole tenses at the stove, though he doesn't turn. The silence stretches, thick with things unsaid, with questions unasked, with boundaries undefined, until I can't bear it anymore.

---