Page 2 of Knot Shattered
Maybe it was a stereotype to assume all omegas were gentle, or in some cases, straight up bitches. Outside of Fallon and Violet, I’d rarely encountered anyone who broke that mold. The very idea of those gentle souls suffering at the hands of ruthless alphas, exploited purely for entertainment, made anger burn deep beneath my fear.
I wrapped the quilt tighter around my trembling frame, swallowing back the bitterness of helplessness. The infomercial droned on, cheerful and ignorant of the horrors just beyond its artificial glow. And as much as I wanted to look away, something inside me whispered fiercely that hiding wouldn’t make the darkness vanish.
I wanted to meet a pack like my friends. Fierce alphas who take pride in having me for a mate. Who love and protect me like omegas should be. I won't condemn an entire sub-race for the actions of a few. I just worry they may be gentle souls that would have loved the old me. Not this woman I’ve become.
I’m grateful that my form of PTSD mostly comes with flashbacks and panic attacks. That might be odd, but it could be worse. I’m not triggered by men, or alphas, or anything like that. It’s mostly smells and certain phrases. The jingling of chains is especially hard to move past.
I have to remind myself.
I survived their worst.
Now they get to survive mine.
Salem
August 20th
9:20 A.M
Morning sunlight poured in through the high windows, casting sharp lines across the long obsidian table, fractured by the shadows of moving blinds stirred by the air vents above. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin, my storm-grey eyes lost in thought. Blackthorne Investigations was built on my pack's back through a lot of blood, sweat, and, unfortunately, tears.
Across from me, Micha sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, scrolling through a report on his tablet with that particular furrow between his brows. His golden colored eyes flinting back and forth as he read, as his auburn hair fell into his eyes. His black T-shirt stretched tight across his muscles. We’ve taken to teasing him about wearing kids' sized clothes. He’s one flex away from hulking out, ripping the seams with one flex. His black cargo pants are also a little cliché for our business.
Ravik stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, looming like a carved statue while he scanned the wall of names and faces pinned in neat rows, eyes narrowing every so often. I didn’t need to look to know he was memorizing details. He always did. His fitted black button-up shirt molds to his big frame.
I never figured out how they made shirts to fit his bulk of muscles. The jeans he wears are practically the same. I’m surprised his jeans can withstand his tree trunk-sized thighs. His jet black is cropped short on the sides, longer and styled neatly on top. I swear the color is almost the same as his dark obsidian eyes.
Haze, predictably, wasn’t in his chair. Glancing around, I find him lying on the floor with his legs propped up on the wall. He’s playing with a butterfly knife, making stabbing noises. His ash blond hair, loose from the bun he usually has it in, is splayed on the floor like some weird halo. I’m 80% sure he did it on purpose. His mismatched colored eyes are filled with humor. I can still see the shadows that hide behind them, but I know to look for them.
His left eye is deep green, and his right eye is distinctly different, ice blue, so pale there's almost no color. His jeans are torn at the knees, and a chain is clipped to his belt loop and connected to his wallet. He’s wearing one of his usual funny T-shirts. This one says, “Would Stab for Snacks.”If that isn’t his personality to a tee. I almost snort at the pun I unintentionally made.
“We need to close out the Armitage case by the end of the week,” Micha said, dragging a hand down his face. “If we’re getting pulled into the Rosetti job, I want this babysitting gig wrapped. No more chasing drunk starlets through hotel kitchens.”
Haze didn’t miss a beat. “You mean no more watching Ravik get tackled by a five-foot-two Oscar winner in a champagne-stained robe?” He grinned, leaning back in his chair like he was settling in for a rerun. “Honestly, I think she proposed. Twice.”
Ravik didn’t look up from his folder. “She bit me. That’s not a proposal. I’m just lucky you can’t force bond someone.” He shudders as if terrified of that idea.
“Depends on the teeth-to-tongue ratio,” Haze said, deadpan.
“Enough,” Micha sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.
I looked up from my tablet, finally catching Ravik’s eye across the table. His glare could’ve melted through brick. Haze looked entirely too proud of himself.
I set the tablet down and took a sip of coffee before offering my contribution to the disaster.
“Maybe next time, I don’t agree with a protection detail that involves an NDA and a hot tub.”
Haze choked on a laugh. Micha snorted. Ravik muttered something dark in another language and made a mental note to kill us all in our sleep.
I went back to my notes. The meeting is officially back on track.
He just shifted his attention to me with that subtle command only he could pull off.
“Mm.” His voice was low, clipped. “You good with the Valenko stuff?”
I set my tablet down, stretching out my fingers for a second before replying. “Just tying up the reporting. Our client ghosted as soon as his brother got extradited. Probably halfway to Belize with a fake mustache and a burner phone by now.”
Micha nodded once. That was all he needed.
