Page 4 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the bundle.Master. The word echoes in my head. Foreign. Terrifying. I knew this was what I was being trained for, but the reality of it—of belonging to someone, of being property—makes the air feel too thick to breathe.

I didn’t think it would happen so soon…and yet, I knew I was out of time. I’m twenty-one. Old. Ancient in omega terms. If I wasn’t sold this year then…

Inhaling deeply, I steel myself, swallowing the lump in my throat as I shift the blindfold up to my forehead. In the dim light, I unfold what turns out to be a dress—if you could call it that. The material is so sheer it’s practically transparent, a mockery of clothing that will hide nothing from my…from my master’s gaze.

The word sticks in my throat. Something deep inside me tightens in pain.Master. Someone owns me. Someone who bought me to breed me. The thought makes me want to curl into a ball and disappear.

Beneath the dress is a pair of panties, equally sheer, equally revealing. My fingers trace the flimsy material, and I can already imagine how exposed I’ll be. The dress will cling to every curve, every roll, displaying all the parts of myself I’ve tried so hard to hide. My thickness, my softness—apparently the very things that made me desirable to this unknown master—will be on full display. The so-called clothing is a mockery of modesty that makes my cheeks burn with shame.

But I put it on. Because that’s what good omegas do.

They obey.

And this…this can’t be worse than having to walk around naked.

I’ve just finished pulling the dress over my head when the door cracks open again.

“Blindfold.” The beta barks, and I quickly pull the dark material back down over my eyes.

Hands grab my arms, two sets this time, and I’m marched forward. The floor changes beneath my bare feet—from smooth metal to something rougher. The texture scrapes against my bare feet as they guide me through what feels like an endless maze of corridors. Left, right, another right—I try to keep track but soon lose my bearings in the darkness behind the blindfold. And I can’t peek.

Did that once. Got caught. I was tied to my bed for a week. Hardly fed. Forced to hold my pee till they sent someone in to help me to the toilet, then back to the bed again. So I let them lead me, the only constants being the echoes of their boots and the occasional distant sound of crying or whimpering that makes my stomach clench.

We stop abruptly, and I hear the beeping of what must be a keypad, followed by the whoosh of automatic doors. The air feels different too, heavier somehow, thick with the scent of cleaning products and something else. Something metallic.

“In.” A rough shove sends me stumbling forward, and my shin connects with something hard—a table maybe. I bite back a yelp of pain.

No sound. Can’t make a sound. I’ll surely be punished.

“Stand here.”

New hands grip me, and I’m positioned like a doll, their hands arranging my limbs until I’m standing exactly as they want me to. The dress brushes against my thighs as someone circles me, their footsteps slow. Assessing.

“Hair.” A woman’s voice, not Widow’s, but similarly authoritative. “It needs to be done.” A discreet sniff tells me she’s a beta.

Fingers grab my hair roughly, yanking my head back. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as they begin working through the tangles. Each pull feels like they’re trying to tear my scalp off, but I remain silent. Good omegas don’t complain about pain.

“There.” The woman sounds satisfied. “Much better. Now for the finishing touches.”

Something cold touches my lips—lipstick, I realize. They’re painting me up like a present to be unwrapped. The thought makes my stomach turn, but I keep my mouth perfectly still as they work.

“Remember,” the woman says as she finishes, “your master likes his omegas silent and sweet. Don’t disappoint him, or you’ll be back here before you can blink. And trust me, second visits are much worse than first ones.” The woman pauses. “If this sale isn’t successful…well…”

A shudder runs through me at her words. I want to ask what she means, what happens to omegas who return, but I know better. Questions are forbidden. Curiosity is forbidden.

Fear, though—fear is encouraged.

The air seems to go dead after her warning, and I hear the shuffling of papers, the soft thump of boots, the distant hum of machines. My pulse is a dull roar in my ears, even as I fight to listen. To pick up any words, any conversation that can help me. But the female beta doesn’t elaborate on her threats; she doesn’t need to. The unknown terrifies me more than anything she could put into words.

A sharp tug on my arm drags me out of my thoughts—a beta male’s grip digging into my skin as he pulls me forward.

“Move.” His voice is laced with impatience, as if my mere existence is an inconvenience. I force my legs to cooperate as he tugs me along.

A door hisses open, and the air shifts again—warmer. For amoment, I stop walking, and the beta’s tug almost makes me stumble.

Warmth. It’ssunshine.

I haven’t felt sunshine in…

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