Page 25 of Knot Like Other Girls

I close my eyes, trying to push away the image of Bella Emerson that's been haunting me since Roman showed us her photo. She's beautiful, there's no denying that. The kind of beauty that makes people stop and stare. The kind that makes someone like me want to retreat further into the shadows.

A soft cough pulls me from my thoughts. I open my eyes to find a flight attendant standing in the aisle, her professional smile faltering as she takes in the scarred mess of my face. I'mused to this reaction by now, but it still stings. Still makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

"Can I... can I get you anything, sir?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She's trying not to stare, but her eyes keep darting to the right side of my face, to the twisted landscape of scar tissue that used to be smooth skin.

"No," I growl, harsher than I intend. She flinches, and I immediately regret my tone. It's not her fault. None of this is her fault. "I'm fine. Thank you."

She nods quickly and hurries away, relief evident in every line of her body. I watch her go, a familiar mix of anger and shame churning in my gut. This is why I prefer to stay in the background, to let the others handle the social niceties. People don't know how to react to me, to this face that looks like it's been through a meat grinder. It doesn't help that I'm already not the sunniest person and the scars pull at my upper lip, freezing that side of my face into a permanent snarl.

And now we're headed to Los Angeles, to the land of beautiful people. To protect a man who probably spends more on skincare in a month than I make in a year, and an omega who looks like she stepped out of a fairy tale.

It's going to be a fucking nightmare.

I lean my head back against the seat, trying to ignore the way the scars on my neck and shoulder ache with the movement. The doctors said the sensitivity would fade with time, but it's been years and I still feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

Across the aisle, Troy and Liam are already deep in conversation, probably placing bets on how long it'll take before one of us punches Braxley Worthington in his perfectly chiseled jaw. Savva's tapping away on his tablet, no doubt digging up more dirt on our new clients.

And Roman is watching me. I can feel the weight of his gaze even with my eyes closed.

"You good?" he asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that the others can't hear.

I crack open my eye, the good one, and meet his steady gaze. "Peachy," I mutter.

He doesn't buy it for a second, but he doesn't push. That's one of the things I appreciate about Roman. He knows when to back off, when to let us deal with our own shit.

"This job," I start, then stop, not sure how to put my unease into words. "It's not... it's not what we do."

Roman nods, understanding in his eyes. "I know. But it's what we need right now. A chance to lay low, to let the heat die down."

"Lay low?" I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice. "With a client who broadcasts his every move to millions of followers? Who's just survived an assassination attempt? That's your idea of laying low?"

He sighs, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "It's not ideal, I know. But it's better than the alternative. We need this, Cole. All of us. And… it's a little late to argue, isn't it?"

I want to tell him he's wrong. That we'd be better off disappearing into the wind, going our separate ways. But I know it's not true. As fucked up as we all are, we need each other. We're the only ones who understand, who've seen the things we've seen, done the things we've done.

We're a pack. For better or worse.

I turn my face to look out the window. The clouds below us are tinged pink and orange with the setting sun. It's beautiful, in a distant sort of way.

The flight stretches on, hours blurring together in a haze of restless dozing and half-formed nightmares. I drift in and out of consciousness, never fully asleep but never quite awake either.It's a state I'm all too familiar with, this limbo between reality and the horrors my mind conjures up when I let my guard down.

I jerk awake from another fucked up flashback with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the unfamiliar surroundings sending a spike of panic through me. Then reality comes crashing back.

The jet.

The new job.

Los Angeles.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand over my face, wincing as my fingers catch on the rough texture of my scars. The cabin is quiet, the others either asleep or pretending to be. Even Troy's usual chatter has been silenced by exhaustion or the realization of what we're heading into.

I check my watch. We should be landing soon. A new wave of anxiety washes over me at the thought. In a few short hours, we'll be face to face with our new clients. With Braxley Worthington and his omega fiancée.

With Bella.

My stomach churns at the thought. I've never been good with omegas, even before... this. Before the explosion that left me looking like something out of a horror movie. Now? Now I'm a goddamn nightmare come to life. The kind of thing that makes omegas cross the street to avoid, that sends children running to their mothers.

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