Knotorious Omega

1. Oceanic Flight

Oceanic Flight

Kelya

Just before the plane’s wheels touch the tarmac, the stomach churning feeling of zero gravity overcomes me. I grit my teeth as my blood turns hot in my guts and my hands go cold.

The wheels make contact with the earth; the plane jolts, and the engine's roar builds around me. My shaking hands grip the armrests, stealing both from my neighbors on either side. Every scary and important thought moves to the forefront of my mind. I see the Livingston Pack, my empty bank account, the handful of fake passports in my bag, and the overwhelming feeling that someone is following me. I haven’t eaten anything more than a few hundred calories in days.

My nails are ripped and torn. I lost my red lipstick.

And worst of all, the number one thing on my mind is the fact that I took my last pheromone suppressant in Casablanca, Morocco thirty-six hours ago.

It’s also the last time I took my heat suppressants, though that dosage lasts weeks.

If I go any longer without the pheromone suppressant, also known as a scent blocker or descenter, people will be able to smell my unique omega scent.

They’ll be able to identify me not only as Kelya but also as an unclaimed omega.

I couldn’t stay and find more drugs. I had to get out of there fast.

In the last two years I’ve been on the run, I’d never once felt someone behind me like that. In my hotel room, things had been moved. A scent was in the air that I didn’t recognize. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention.

I’ve had people stare. Follow me to a bar to get my attention. It’s peculiar to see a foreign, unaccompanied female omega, so I get it. I’m used to the attention. But what I felt and saw was not curiosity. It was pursuit. It was a hunt. And in one horrifying moment, I knew I was the prey.

It should be a relief to land at the Luis Munoz Marin International Airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico, as far away from Casablanca as I could get. However, my stomach is still an array of knots. My heart is beating so fast I can hear its thump in my ears.

Omegas don’t travel.

I’ve heard it my whole life: Omegas find happiness in the home.

They find alphas. Soon. They drop their panties and drool after cocks with knots, and then everything in the world is right.

Alphas will tear apart this world unless you do your duty and fill their home with your sweet pheromones.

It’s guaranteed to work out. Alphas will scent you.

You will blindly fall in line. The scent knows.

The alphas are to be trusted. Stay home.

Stay with them. Wait to be picked. Wait patiently upon your toadstool to go fulfill your duty and find happiness.

And yes, I was chosen.

Spoiler alert: It did not turn out to be a dreamscape of adoration and joy.

It was bullshit.

It’s all bullshit.

When I was nineteen, I enrolled at the Alpha-Omega Placement Institute, just days after I perfumed.

It’s where alphas and omegas find temporary placement to see if scents align, primal sides get along, and a future can be seen.

Alphas and omegas bond for life, and these temporary placements are a way to make sure you’re making a good decision.

There are long-drawn-out contracts, including severance payments.

They do this to prevent bad bonds with ill-matched pack members.

I met three packs and accepted an offer of temporary placement after a short courting period. They were exactly who I was told to like. Three bonded alphas. Professionals. Owned their own home. Our star charts were aligned. They came from a good clan.

The Livingstons. Widely known as good men.

The misery started early.

Shut in. Shut up. Shut down.

I didn’t like their gifts and didn’t pretend to.

I didn’t kiss them in public at just the right times.

I didn’t dress well enough. I showed my sharp omega teeth too much.

I laughed too loud. I played my music “at the wrong times.” I questioned them and pestered them for answers they were unwilling to give me.

I demanded to be seen and heard.

What a fucking bad omega I turned out to be.

Instead of re-enrolling in the Institute, instead of going back to my parents' pack, instead of going to omega housing—I took my severance and booked a one-way ticket to Mexico.

I stayed in hostels for six months, traveling down Central America.

After that I hopped over to Hawaii then Japan.

I spent a week in Thailand. I tried to go to China, but got the opportunity to go to Casablanca.

I’ve made so many friends and met so many kind people. I danced under the warm rains in Africa naked. I’ve swam with giant sea turtles and dove down to see sharks swarm in an underground breeding pit. I stood at the edge of a volcano and screamed into the wind of the great canyon.

Now, granted, I keep my designation to myself.

I wear scent blockers and take drugs to dampen my pheromones.

Generic heat-killers have worked great for the last two years I’ve been traveling.

I think it’s because I never settle. I also don’t eat well, and I walk, climb, run, and stay awake all night so often it doesn’t leave my body much time to go through its normal cycles.

When you’re hiking ten hours a day and eating only what you pack…

your body doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do.

It’s a gift, really.

The flight attendants open the door, and everyone stands to deboard. I watch them all carefully. There’s no way he followed me here. But how can I be sure?

I only caught a scent.

First, I smelled it at the front desk of my hotel. The man behind the desk asked, “Did you have a nice night with your boyfriend? He was looking for you earlier. Were you able to meet up?”

I hadn’t brought a man to that hotel.

Things were moved in my room. The trash wasn’t in the order I discarded it.

The labels on my medications were turned outwards.

I didn’t even think I could memorize these kinds of things, or that I’d logged them.

But I’ve been living on my own for two years.

I know where things are as I leave them.

I might have concluded someone from the hotel staff was in my room, but I always decline housekeeping.

And there was a scent.

Like a warm breeze through the leaves of an ancient tree. Loamy and earthy, warmed with sunshine, but casting cool shadows.

I didn’t have a name for the scent yet, but I knew it was an alpha. By the time I got done throwing up, hotel shifts had changed, and I wasn’t able to ask the man at the front desk more about this alpha. My second guess was that he might be the cops. Or maybe the FBI.

But my first guess was ridiculous. Not after all this time. It couldn’t be one of the Livingston alphas coming to get me.

It’s June in Puerto Rico. I’ve never been here.

I don’t know a soul here. I’m too paranoid to make another decision, so I just go.

I leave the plane with my one bag, get in a cab, use my rudimentary Spanish speaking skills to ask the driver places to stay, and end up going past Santurce to Viejo San Juan—Old San Juan.

It makes my body feel safe being tucked into the end of a peninsula.

Like how omegas feel shut into their nests.

Fucking nests.

There’s a yellow and pink boutique hotel with an eclectic bar, rooms that have patios overlooking the beach, and I hear English speakers. My ears are still buzzing, and my hands haven’t stopped shaking, even as I hand over one of my fake IDs with an accompanied stolen credit card to check in.

Marquette. Only Marquette. Omegas don’t need last names.

Not until they’re bonded.

“How many nights, senorita?”

The hotel clerk stops typing on her computer. I worry about the available credit left on the card. Not fucking much.

“Five,” I answer.

The payment goes through, thank god, and I get the key. Before I leave, I say, “Please let me know if you see my boyfriend.” My voice cracks on the word. “Por favor.”

She nods, and I leave.

I sit in my room with the curtains closed. No lights on. I’m safe now. Far away from Casablanca. Far away from whoever was on my tail. Now, I need to focus on the next thing. Sleep. Eat. Medicine. Money.

In that order.