Page 57 of Break Me Knot

I leave the office, my enhanced hearing picking up the way she shifts restlessly in the chair, like she can't quite believe she's allowed to stay there. In the kitchen, I pull out the ingredients for proper hot chocolate… none of that powdered stuff. Real chocolate, whole milk, a touch of vanilla. She needs the calories, and I need the soothing ritual of making something with my hands and providing for my omega in this small way.

As I heat the milk, I can't help but strain my hearing toward the office, making sure she's still there, still safe. The familiar motion of stirring helps calm my racing thoughts, but I can't shake the worry about that lingering heat-scent. One step at a time, I remind myself. First, we build trust. Then, hopefully, she'll let us help her heal.

I've just finished pouring the rich chocolate into two mugs, adding a touch of whipped cream to hers, when my phone buzzes against the counter. Setting the drinks aside, I swipe open the message from Dr. Maverick, and my whole body goes rigid.

MAVERICK: Toxicology results in. Suppressant levels critical. Multiple types, long-term use. Explains mega heat. Expect severe withdrawal symptoms over next 2-3 weeks. Temperature fluctuations, cramping, possible fever spikes. Natural bonding will stabilize her system.

The phone creaks in my grip as I recall an obscure lesson in omega biology. I force my fingers to relax. The clinical words blur together as rage and fear war in my chest. No wonder her heat-scent hasn't fully faded. Her entire system is fighting years of chemical abuse.

Withdrawal symptoms will be extremely painful without pack bond support.

Her full pack.

Even during her heat, when biological imperatives should have been strongest, she didn't choose us. And Cole didn’t even join in during her heat to help her.

A rejected omega will be a very sick omega.

Especially one rejected by her scent-matched mate.

I close my eyes, inhaling. The sweet scent of hot chocolate mingles with her sweet lilac drifting from the office, reminding me of what's at stake. I want her to choose us freely, not because withdrawal symptoms force her hand.

I type back a quick response to Maverick.

ADRIAN: I’ll keep monitoring her. Will update on symptoms. No forced bonding.

Not until she chooses us for the right reasons.

Picking up the mugs, I try to school my features into something less murderous. She's too observant. She'll notice if I'm upset. And right now, she needs to feel safe more than I need answers, but as I head back to the office, I wonder how much more damage we haven't discovered yet. How many more bombs are waiting to explode in her system?

I step into my office, mugs in hand, and immediately freeze. Her heat scent has spiked sharply, filling the room with distressed omega. She's curled tighter in the armchair, impossibly small.

The oversized sweater she's wearing—more hole than fabric—drowns her frame. I think of the designer clothes Zane ordered, still in their boxes in her room, next to a bed she hasn’t touched other than the night I spent with her in it, while she builds her nest in thecloset. Like she’s taking up as little space as she can. Like she can’t accept what we’ve given. Lessening her impact in our space.

Like she's preparing for a quick escape.

A subtle tremor runs through her body, but she keeps her face blank, pretending to read. Only the white-knuckled grip on her book and the sour note of pain in her scent betray her. My hands tighten around the mugs, ceramic hot against my palms.

“Little One,” I keep my voice soft, gentle. “You're in pain.”

“I'm fi—”

“Don't.” The word comes out sharper than intended, and I hate how she flinches. I moderate my tone, letting calming pheromones fill the space between us. “Please don't lie about your pain.”

She looks up then, and the raw vulnerability in her eyes freezes me in place. There's confusion there too, like she can't understand why I care. She shudders, and this time she can't suppress her whimper.

I move slowly, setting the hot chocolates on the side table. “May I come near you?” Every fiber of my being screams to gather her close.

She stares at me, uncomprehending, like the concept of asking permission is foreign to her. The book slides from her trembling fingers as another wave of pain hits, and I catch the tome before it can fall.

“I don't...” she starts, stops, swallows hard. “I don't understand why you're being so nice to me.” The words are barely a whisper, heavy with confusion and fear and something that might be hope.

My heart cracks wider.Because you're ours. Because you deserve kindness. Because whoever taught you that you don't deserve basic human decency was a monster.

I kneel beside the chair, making myself smaller, less threatening. “Because you're in pain. Because you need to know what it’s like to be taken care of,” I say. “Because I can help you, if you'll let me. May I come closer?”

She stares at me, her jaw locked tight as she grinds her teeth. I stay still, letting her take her time while she works out whatever she has to work out. Then, thank fuck, she nods. It’s nothing more than a dip of her chin, but I’ll take it.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, but she remains still, trembling. I bring my nose to her scent gland and she shivers, a small sound catching in her throat. The moment I inhale, my cock hardens instantly, my knot swelling against my zipper. I maintain my careful composure, even as her scent floods my senses with pure need.

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