Page 27 of Knot Alone

I step into my kitchen with thoughts of taking a long bath where I’ll have the privacy of remembering Graham and Linus in all kinds of detail, but instead, I walk into anarchy.

“Give that back!” My niece shouts at her little brother, streaking after him as he knocks over a stool and box of cereal as he cackles. My tiniest nephew is standing on the counter. He’s got an entire gallon of milk in his hands. His tongue is pinched between his lips as he tries to pour a plastic jug bigger than his chest.

I drop my bag to the counter and dart forward before I have to spend the next twenty minutes scrubbing sticky milk out of the floorboards. “Let me help you, baby.”

“Auntie Maggie!” He shouts, tumbling off the counter and into my arms. (One hand catches him and the other catches the milk.)

“Auntie Maggie?” Cuts off the shouts looping through every room of the house’s main floor. Pounding feet are my only warning before the other two children barrel into the kitchen. My niece shoves her brother out of the way and gloms onto me with a mix of hellos and complaints about her brother. Said brother shoves his arms between me and his siblings, trying to take all my hugs.

The only reason I don’t have three more children demanding my attention is because the others are old enough to recognize the value of sleep and won’t come down before 10:00 a.m. if they can help it. I dole out individual hugs and kisses, then mediate ownership of the toy at the center of their fight. I ask the oldest where my sister is. She tells me that their parents went out to breakfast and told them to wake up Auntie Maggie when they got hungry. “We went to your room, but you weren’t here.”

I breathe away the irritation that my sister and her husband didn’t even think to check I could watch their children. Irritation at their negligence is about as useful as irritation that the sky is blue. Their lack of care is why I’ve been looking at the Center in the first place.

Since the beginning, my parents have always politely scheduled someplace else to be when I have my heats. Everyone in the family knows that’s why I’m left alone, but no one talks about it. Conversation about heats and ruts makes my family full of Betas uncomfortable. But not uncomfortable enough that my sister and her husband didn’t turn up the day after my parents left town, leaving their children in my care.

I bite back the urge to call my sister and demand she come home. I blame my irritation on hormones and remind myself that scolding my sister will just make her stay out longer. Instead, I stroke my niece’s cheek and say, “That’s all right. I’m here now.”

Thus, my peaceful morning full of packing and hot baths goes to feeding the children something better than my parents’ fiber cereal. Then I clean the kitchen—there’s yogurt on the ceiling. Honestly, I’m more surprised that someone tried yogurt than I am that it’s on the ceiling. I finish tidying just in time to make a second breakfast for the older three.

By then, my lower back aches in a way that means pre-heat cramps are incoming. I don’t know if it’s the stress of six children, the abrupt change in my schedule, or the lingering burned scent of my Beta brother-in-law’s discontent. It smells like he stormed through the house just to make sure I could scent his displeasure. To make matters worse, my prior caseworker said I shouldn’t take any painkillers this close to a supervised heat in case the Center needs to give me something. But I don’t know if I can trust anything that man said. And I still don’t know because I could barely make myself text Iris that I was fine last night, let alone think to ask about practicalities.

With the stabbing pain of cramps in my belly, I release the children to screen time. Whether it be phones, TV, video games, or whatever, they have my permission to indulge. They give me a torrent of hugs and kisses then disperse to separate corners, just in time for the pain to cripple me.

I thank goodness that their little noses aren’t advanced enough to tell I’m in pain. I stumble over to the microwave with a hot pack. It beeps, and I melt to the kitchen floor for several long minutes, keeping the heat pressed to my belly. I wait for the pain to let up before I stumble upstairs to the safety of my room.

Only… it doesn’t seem as safe today.

I can’t help but think of the dark wood and storm-cloud blue of Linus and Graham’s room. Comparison is the thief of joy, and I’m not getting much joy from the pale, beige-pink of my walls or the white hand-me-down bedframe I got from my sister at 15.

My favorite part of the room is the picture window full of morning sunlight. The light reflecting off the trellis of red flowers outside my window makes the shade of beige on my walls look light pink. Not as nice as actual pink paint, but my mother wouldn’t go for that. Next to the window is a basket of things I use to distract the kids when they interrupt my work. I’ve made a workspace in the far corner, the window to my right, and facing the door so no one can pop up behind me and read my screen. Despite the big house, it never felt right to take one of the spare rooms for my office. (Every time I thought about it, one of my siblings’ families dropped by and filled every inch of the house, proving the point.)

Usually, I’m fine with my room, but today it seems… small.

Not the size itself, but something about it feels confining. Like I have a new room to compare it to and my space isn’t as satisfying as it was a day ago. I’m going to have to make some changes. But those are next week’s problems.

I pull my pre-packed bag onto the bed and sit next to it with the hot pack pressed to my belly and check my things. The Center is supposed to supply me with lube, toys, heating packs, and all the other necessities I put on my list. But the omega-only message boards recommend I bring my favorites from home, just in case it turns into a heat where I hate everything. I double-check that I packed my favorite bullet vibrator. But I change the floral lube for unscented because… well, because the thought of flowers with chocolate and bread sounds terrible.

I’ve packed layers, depending on how much the heat messes with my temperature, as well as several pairs of fluffy socks. Tucked at the bottom of the bag is my travel-sized weighted blanket. (Not as good as the one I have for home, but some weight is better than none.) I’ve got an electric hot pad and a pack of the least-terrible protein bars, just in case.

Now that Linus and Graham are going to be there, a lot of this seems unnecessary. Will I need a hot pack when I’m lying beside two furnaces? And the Alphas’ arms and legs are certainly heavier than the blanket I’m bringing. I giggle at the thought of Graham choking down a chalky protein bar. I tuck the protein bars back in my desk for my next late-night work binge. I’m certain Linus and Graham will handle feeding me during my heat, as any good Alpha should.

I blush at how they’ll handle a lot of things.

I pick up the toy and mull. I might not even need a toy. Though, I do like the thought of them using it on me.

I’m standing there with a bullet vibe in my hand and contemplating sex toy exhibitionism when my brother-in-law bursts through my bedroom door.

“Where have you been?” He snaps.

“Charlie!” My sister scolds from the doorway but doesn’t stop her husband from coming in or being an ass. I fumble the vibe and drop it with a thud, bright blue atop a black hoodie, so there’s no hiding.

Charlie goes apoplectic red. “Is this why you told my kids they could watch TV? So you could come up here and play with sex toys?” He hisses the last like they’re dirty words.

My mortification stalls for a moment to compassion for my poor sister, who’s stuck with nothing but this guy to get her off.

“Charlie.” Marie sighs. But again, doesn’t stop him.

“We brought the kids here for a vacation and you’re not even staying with them, so we gave you a chance and now you’re up here…” Charlie can’t get out the words.

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