Page 2 of The Knotty Omega
Dear Uncertain Grad Student,
Scent sympathy is not the be all and end all. At the end of the day, biology is pulling the strings to our hearts and our noses. If you’re worried about options, it’s possible to be scent sympathetic with multiple packs, or if you’re like me, you believe in the true scentmatch.
If this pack expects you to give up your hopes and dreams to cater to their whims, are they really worth giving your heart to? Where does it end? I can tell you one thing, if you give them this inch, they will continue to ask you to give up bits and pieces of yourself until you don’t recognize what’s left.
They don’t deserve you if they do that.
My advice? Tell them to accept you as you are, hopes and dreams included, and if they don’t like it, they can find another omega to baby-trap.
If it were me, I’d be glad I found out their true colors before I bonded, and pack my bags now.
Your chance for happiness does not begin or end with them.
Signed,
The Knotty Omega
After submitting my email to Grady, the Editor in Chief, I pack up my bag and head to my car. I may personally believe in the mythical, true, scent match, but that doesn’t mean life will automatically be smooth sailing from there. And sure, the advice is a little more extreme than what I usually give, but that’s why the articles are so popular. Every once in a while a submission will come in that hits a little too close to home, and the readers eat my aggressive omega energy up.
Not that they know it’s me, of course. The identity of the Knotty Omega remains a secret to everyone, including the employees of ABO Magazine. Well, everyone except Grady, and by extension, his assistant, Laura. It was my one stipulation when I took on the column. I don’t need angry alphas tracking me down because I’m responsible for their omega realizing their worth and packing their bags. I was hired as a staff writer a year ago, and six months ago Grady came to me with the opportunity to be the writer for a new advice article.
Ever since the Omega Rights Act was passed by congress ten years ago, all sorts of bills and laws have come into play, protecting the Omega’s right to work and go to school. Before then, omegas couldn’t even attend school if they were unbonded, and if they were, they would need their alpha’s permission.
Thank god that’s no longer the case.
The sky is dark as I pull out of the parking garage, and old Betty, my purple sedan chugs along gracelessly as the lights of Starling City, California, illuminate the way home. By the time I’ve stopped to grab Chinese food and am walking up the stairs to my apartment, I’m ready to flop into bed for the rest of the night.
“Reggie, I’m home!” I call out, kicking my door shut behind me.
“Meow!” Reggie’s little paws pat the floor as he runs up to me, rubbing his head against my legs.
“Hey, boy! Did you have a good day?” I ask, in that high-pitched baby voice reserved for my very handsome, dapper tuxedo cat.
I swear, I nevertoldanyone that Reggie’s my alpha. But, when I realized what everyone thought when I mentioned that Reggie and I spent the night on the couch, watching movies, or how he hates when I go to work, they all just assumed.
And I didn’t correct them.
Then I read about an experimental drug called TruBond, and things just kind of…escalated from there. I used to use scent blockers but about two months ago started having an adverse reaction to them. Hives are horrible.
So, I stopped with the scent blockers and started TruBond. That was around the same time people started picking up that I live with someone named Reggie.
I’ve never technically lied about him. Even my entire conversation with Archie just now. Reggie hates pools, people, is an asshole, and requires copious amounts of attention when I get home from work.
All true facts.
My point is proven when Reggie nearly trips me on my way to the couch, weaving between my legs like he’s trying to assassinate me for leaving him at home all day.
Then he changes his tune when he snuggles up next to me as I wrap my favorite lavender chenille blanket around my shoulders and settle on the couch with my food.
Two episodes of "Nest Makeover," one full carton of honey glazed chicken and two spring rolls later, my phone rings.
Shit.
My brother is calling me. Why is he calling me?
“...Hello?” I answer cautiously, unsure of what to expect on the other line.
“Hey Cady-Kat, how's it going?”
