Page 74 of Knot Only His

Parker’s eyes dart to Harlow, who’s gone rigid beside me. Her face drains of color as the implications sink in.

“We understand,” I say smoothly, feeling Harlow’s subtle attempt to pull away. “We’ll be ready for your next visit.”

The social worker nods, marking off another box. “Excellent. Now, about the sleeping arrangements...”

I follow behind as Jagger tugs Harlow down the hallway, practically skipping with excitement.

“This is my room!” He flings open his door. “Look at all my toys and space stuff!”

Harlow’s face softens as she smiles at Jagger, who so animatedly shows Mrs. Jenkins his entire room.

“And this...” Jagger pulls her toward the next door. “This is where Mom sleeps!”

Jagger has remembered everything we taught him, but the little boy is like a sponge for taking things in.

“I do.” Harlow’s hand naturally finds its way to his hair, stroking it gently.

The moment he opens it, Harlow’s demeanor shifts. Her spine straightens as she steps forward, her hand trailing over the carefully arranged nest like she is seeing it for the time.

“I apologize, Mrs. Jenkins, but as an omega, I’m very particular about who enters my private space.” Her voice carries a quiet authority I’ve never heard before.

Mrs. Jenkins nods, jotting something down. “Of course. Though I must ask - when did you present as an omega? Your previous employment records list you as an alpha.”

My muscles tense, but Harlow doesn’t miss a beat.

“Recently. The transition has been...enlightening.”

Mrs. Jenkins squints at her. “You look so familiar. Have we met before?”

“Probably seen her at the games,” Oliver cuts in smoothly. “She’s always with the team.”

Harlow sways slightly, her hand going to her temple. “I’m sorry, but would anyone mind if I rest for a bit? The scents are...” She trails off.

“Of course.”

I step forward. “I should stay with her.”

Mrs. Jenkins beams. “Oh yes, that’s very appropriate. We can continue our tour downstairs.”

As the others file away, I guide Harlow into the nest, watching her collapse against the pillows with a shaky exhale.

I kneel on the floor beside her as she grimaces.

Her hand presses against her temple. “My head is killing me,” she mumbles. “And my muscles feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Would you like a massage? It might help with the tension.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “I couldn’t. It’s not appropriate here.”

“I’m a professional, Harlow.”

She hesitates, and bites her lip before saying, “Okay.”

“Let me get some oil. Take off your top.”

She squeaks, and I chuckle as I leave her room.

With her face stuffed in the pillow, I work my fingers into her shoulders, feeling the thick knots of tension. But her skin feels clammy and far too hot.

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