Page 61 of Knot Their Soldier: Part One
What must Knox think? I was masturbating with him right outside.
Idiot.
He was so firm with his instructions. Don’t indulge in my sexual urges. Don’t put the squad at risk with my wanton behavior.
I press my hands to my face and groan. He’s definitely going to punish my horny ass.
I can’t even bring myself to make any sort of excuse. I know how this must look. I know it’s against the rules. I’ve messed up.
My body is a constant traitor. Working against me.
I moodily start preparing for the day, which no doubt involves physical and mental torture.
Knox is not going to let this slide.
I’m pleasantly surprised to see another bowl of oatmeal placed beside my bed. My mouth waters as I watch a curl of steam rise steadily from a large mug of coffee. I don’t know who gifted me with the brown elixir of life, but I’m in their debt.
Between mouthfuls and sips, I prepare for the grueling day ahead. I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday, and cringe at their state. They’re filthy and still sweat damp from yesterday’s trials. My nest is filthy too, streaks of dirt in the sheets. Defeat washes over me as I do my best to apply scent-canceling deodorant, brush the snarls out of my long brown hair and twist it up into a neat regulation bun.
When I reach for a fresh pair of socks, I pause.
Sitting on top of my pack is a crisp new uniform. It’s fresh, clean, and the same style of uniform I was supposed to be wearing from day one. It matches the uniform the team wears, camouflage and olive colors.
There’s a patch stitched into the shirt’s breast pocket. It’s a crest, simple but to the point. Two rifles crossed over each other, engulfed in a swirl of flames. Lettering swoops beneath the image. ‘Scorch Squad.’
And there, right above it in neat block letters, is my name, ‘Omega H. Sparks.’
It’s hand-stitched, the letters slightly wonky but carefully crafted.
My mouth parts in shock, and a little thrill goes through me. It’s not only adorned with the team’s crest, it’s personalized for me.
I lift the trousers, press them against my waist, and chuff in delight. The hem skims the floor, shortened to fit my diminutive height.
I slip on the shirt and am delighted to find it’s tailored to my Omega form perfectly. I run my hands over the fabric and pause.
There’s a small amount of pilling fabric under the arms. And the fabric feels soft, as if someone has worn it over time. I inspect the hem and note the same neat but wonky hand stitching. A machine did not create it. Someone on the squad took their own uniform and altered it to fit me. The hand stitching must have taken hours upon hours to complete. It was done with care and precision.
My chest squeezes and a lump forms in my throat.
It feels like the first step towards acceptance. As if, despite the constant consternation from Prime Alpha Knox yesterday, I proved myself worthy of this uniform.
My eyes swim as my fingers trail over the crest, tracing each line with reverence. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth.
I look at the entrance of my tent. I can see Knox through the crack in the doorway. He basks in the morning sun, his face lifted to the sun with his hands on his hips.
Buoyed by the team’s faith in me, I swallow and grit my teeth. I’ll show them I’m worthy of wearing their crest.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Halley
With a grunt, I lift my bulky pack onto my shoulders, feeling the weight pressing down, and fasten the belt band snugly around my waist to keep it in place.
I reach up to fix my bun, gently tucking the rebellious piece of hair back into place, and grunt in frustration as it instantly falls back into my eyes. I can’t see myself in a mirror, but I know my appearance reflects how I feel: like warmed shit.
At least the uniform looks and feels good. It hugs my curves just right, not pinching in my wider parts or gaping when my waist cinches in.
Stumbling out into the open camp, I breathe in the fresh mountain air – crisp woody notes. I hadn’t realized how stale the air in the bunkhouse was. The scent of Alphas was thick and strong.
