Page 4 of Knot Alone

But I don’t… I don’t want an Omega.

My stomach heaves at the thought.

But ‘urgent’ means something serious for Omegas and I can’t just… I have Omega friends. I’ve seen them sick and aching after enduring week-long heats without an Alpha. I hate everyone’s scent but Graham’s, but I still have a dozen Omega friends who trust me to guard the door, bring them snacks, and clean off toys while they’re hurting. If things get rough, I let them ride my fingers when their heat-addled bodies can’t control a dildo anymore.

They trust me. They know it’s not about sex for me. It’s about kindness. (Until Graham, my friends thought I was asexual. They were always protective of their weird, asexual, Alpha friend. And now I’m protective of them.)

I can’t leave an Omega to hurt for a week and still call myself an Alpha. But I don’t want an Omega either.

“How urgent?” I make myself ask.

“It doesn’t say.”

I gulp again.

“Please wait here, Mr. Lockridge. I’ll have a word with the Omega’s caseworker and find out what the situation is.”

“I don’t—” I can’t make myself finish the thought and say, ‘want to do it.’

But Iris nods like she heard. “I understand, sir.” She leans in and murmurs like it’s a secret. “I understand. I’ll go get you the information.”

The door shuts behind her and it’s all I can do not to pace.

This isn’t the plan. I’m not supposed to match with someone. I’m supposed to come in, turn over my persnickety information, walk right back out the door, and never be contacted by the Center again. And if the worst happens and I end up matching with someone, I’m supposed to have time to wriggle out of it.

I force my eyes closed to cut off the panic and suck in a slow breath. The one Graham taught me to calm down before tests.

This is fine.

It’s all going to be fine.

Even if there is an Omega in distress, I’m not going to like their scent, or they aren’t to like that I’m married. (In my imagined worst worst-case scenario, the one where I had to touch an Omega, Graham was supposed to be here. But the very thought of someone else touching Graham fills me with possessive rage. I want to suck hickeys up and down his throat so everyone knows who he belongs to. I want to bury my teeth in his bonding gland so the permanent marks will stand fresh and red.)

I planned on a dozen loopholes to avoid all potential contact with an Omega.

But I didn’t plan on an Omega in distress. I don’t think I have it in me to just say no and walk away from an Omega in need.

I lurch up from the desk and thump my forehead against the window’s cool glass. It’s uncouth, but I hope the temperature change will help.

But like the door was waiting, it bursts open the moment my back turns. I’m hit by a tide of raspberries and almonds as I whip around.

Frozen there like a deer, with wide brown eyes to match, is an Omega.

The Omega.

She’s quietly beautiful, with chestnut hair tied up and back, a gray button-up, and a black skirt, like she came here fresh from the office. The long line of her throat pulses with a gulp and she presses back against the door. “I’m sorry. I must’ve gotten the wrong room.”

Closing the door behind her is a mistake. She’s radiating pre-heat.

And she smells delicious. Like my old nanny’s Bakewell tart just walked into the room. She smells like home.

My cock twitches. The strange sensation of arousal cuts me off.

What? This isn’t possible.

My brain turns back on just enough that I can scent the nutmeg of my desire mixing with her sugar-sweet raspberry. We smell like spiced jam.

But it’s not supposed to.

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