Page 5 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

I…I can’t remember. It’s been so long.

The warmth is like a balm, seeping into my bones, making me want to whimper with how good it feels.

Hands grip my arms, propelling me forward. The blindfold keeps me disoriented, stumbling over uneven ground. Gravel crunches beneath my bare feet—another sensation that feels foreign after so long on smooth metal.

Then I’m being lifted, pushed into what must be a vehicle. The loss of that brief warmth, that teasing taste of sunlight, almost makes me cry out. But I bite my tongue, remembering the rules. No sounds. No resistance.

The interior smells of metal and diesel, but there's something else underneath. A scent that takes me far too long to identify through my fear-addled mind. Sweet, but layered. Different notes, different flavors, all mingling together.

A sound reaches my ears then—so quiet I almost miss it. A whimper, quickly stifled.

And suddenly, I understand what that layered sweetness is.

Other omegas.

That thing in my chest—the constant knot of fear that’s lived there since they first brought me to the Academy—tightens painfully. Because now I know I’m not alone in this vehicle. There are others. Other omegas being transported. Other lives being sold.

Other bodies to be bred.

My hands are promptly guided behind my back, and something coarse is tightened around my wrists. Rope.

“Sit.” The beta shoves me down onto what feels like a bench. “Head down.”

I comply, tucking my chin to my chest, trying to steady my breathing as the overwhelming scent of distressed omegas floodsmy senses. Through the chaos of mingled fear-scents, I’m acutely aware of the omega beside me—smaller than I am, skinnier. Another prisoner bound for wherever we’re heading.

The door bangs shut with a finality that makes me jump. When the engine rumbles to life beneath us, my stomach lurches again as we begin moving. Each sway of the vehicle combines with the heavy perfume of omega distress until my head spins, but I don’t dare move. Don’t dare lift my head.

“You know we’re fucked, right?” The voice beside me is barely a whisper, so soft I might have imagined it. “Wherever we’re going, we’re fucked.”

Yes. I know. But my tongue is a ball of tension stuck in my throat, the words refusing to come.

The journey stretches endlessly, reality narrowing to the steady hum of tires on pavement and fragments of conversation drifting from the front—voices too low to make out words, but their tone setting my teeth on edge. The truck—because it must be a truck, from the way we sway with each turn and the sound of the engine—carries us deeper into uncertainty with every mile.

My fists clench and unclench where they’re tied at my back, and my thighs stick to the bench in the heat, the thin dress offering no protection. Sweat trickles down my spine, but I don’t try to wipe it away. I focus instead on breathing, on staying still, on being good.

Because maybe, just maybe, if I’m good enough, Master Cee won’t send me back.

Even if he only wants me for my flaws—the very things that make other alphas turn away in disgust. Even if being “wanted” means being used. Being bred.

Something lurches within me at that thought. But it has to be better than going back there.

It has to be.

I release a slow, measured breath, repeating the words in myhead over and over and over again. Because even with each repetition, that feeling settled on my spine won’t go away.

The feeling that I’m wrong. That I’m lying to myself.

It won’t go away because maybe it’s the truth.

“Hey,” the omega that spoke before whispers again. “What’s your name?”

I swallow hard, not sure she’s talking to me. When I don’t hear anyone else say a word, I hazard a whisper. “H-Hailey.”

“Hi, Hailey. I’m Vi.” Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it—something that doesn’t quite belong, like she’s borrowed the tone from someone else and hasn’t yet decided if it fits her. Even blindfolded, I can sense her—the faintest trace of honeysuckle and rain reaching my nose. It’s subtle, not like the other stronger scents in the transport, but distinctly omega. A few moments go by where we sway as the truck carries on. “How old are you?”

I swallow hard before whispering, shame filling me so swiftly it feels like second nature. “Twenty-one.”

Vi doesn’t respond. Not immediately. But her silence speaks volumes. If I could see her face, I’m sure I’d see the scorn. The look in her eyes as she wonders what’s wrong with me.

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