Page 72 of Knot for Sale

THIRTY-THREE

Onyx

IF EMMA HOPE WAS an alluring mystery wrapped inside a conundrum, then Elijah Bardot was possibly the cutest and most wholesome damn omega on the planet. Together, the pair was doing my head in. My head... and various other parts of my anatomy.

I’d spent a good chunk of my life taking things as they came, going along to get along. As the child of a father from Shandong Province in eastern China and a mother from Sierra Leone, I’d been something of an oddity, even in an immigration center like Brisbane. Throw an extra helping of gender non-conformity on top of that, and let’s just say my childhood had beeninteresting.

My father, a beta, hadn’t known what to do with an alpha offspring to begin with. My omega mother had been more supportive, but she hadn’t really understood me either. I’d left Australia for London when I was eighteen. Did odd jobs, made a bit of a name for myself in the fighting ring, and parlayed that into a job teaching martial arts to at-risk youth.

When I eventually became a citizen, I was able to get on the waitlist for counseling, and I finally received the top surgery I’d been wanting since I hit puberty. It’s hard to describe to someone who doesn’t already know how big a deal it is to lookin the mirror and have your reflection match the ‘you’that lives inside your head.

Not that I was totally miserable before. I wasn’t. But I credit that newfound confidence with landing the gig as Gabriel Rosencranz’s second bodyguard after the previous bloke retired—happilynota euphemism. He packed up and moved to Brighton for the sea air.

Anyway, I’d known Curran from my work with the at-risk teens, and when I overheard him talking about the job opening, I jumped at it. I knew how to fight; I knew how to keep my mouth shut...mostly. I also knew how to stand around with a glower plastered on my face, looking intimidating as fuck.

He’d vouched for me, and three years later, here I was. The job paid insanely well, considering I’d only been in two knife fights and maybe a dozen fistfights during that time. I hadn’t expected to gain this crazy dog’s breakfast of an alpha pack—made crazier by the fact that the bloke signing my paycheck was noticeably less dominant than the bloke who made sure his suits were pressed and opened car doors for him.

Andthathad been before you threw two omega scent matches into the mix.

I’d never seen Gabriel so on-edge, which was saying something for a man whose sole reason for living appeared to be taking down a dangerous London crime syndicate. Between him and Emma, De Nile was more than a river in Egypt. Curran seemed to be waiting for a metaphorical train derailment, and Elijah mostly just looked like he needed a hug.

Meanwhile, I was in the makeshift workout room schooling two perfuming omegas in basic self-defense, waiting to see if we were doing anything beyond light flirting. At this rate, it wouldn’t matter that Emma had pulled her groin-punch before it connected. My clit was going to be aching and throbbing like a fresh bruise regardless.

“I told you I wasn’t a fighter,” Elijah wheezed, after the fifteenth time he failed to break my hold and ended up pinned beneath me on the mat. If he didn’t sound so downtrodden about it, I might have wondered if he wanted to be there.

Omegas had two advantages over alphas and betas—speed and flexibility. Some were more athletic than others, of course, but I’d seen Elijah run when he went for help at the dock. He was no slouch when it came to physical fitness.

I rose to my feet and gave him a hand up. “You’ve never been in a fight in your life, have you, Rosebud?” I asked.

His answering laugh had an edge of bitterness. “Does running away very fast from fights count?”

“If running away is what keeps you safe,” Emma said from her vantage point by the wall, “then running is what you should do.”

By contrast, someone had taught Emma dirty fighting. Given her family background, I could guess why.

“Listen to the lady,” I agreed. “She knows of what she speaks. You can do this, though. You’re worrying about hurting me, when you need to be worrying about getting away.”

“Your arm, though,” Elijah said weakly, gesturing at the bandages.

A few spots of blood had seeped through around the stitches. I snorted. “My arm will be good as new in a few days, whether you break this hold successfully or not.”

“But if Onyx was a real attacker,” Emma put in, “you’d want to punch those stitches as hard as you c-could.”

That unexpected vicious streak of hers should not have been as attractive as it was.

“What she said.” I gestured him close again and grabbed his wrist. “Now, nice and slow. Show me what you’re going to do.”

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