Taboo Caresses (Knot Unexpected #3)

Chapter 1 Mattaniah

Mattaniah

The parking lot of Romano's is nearly empty when Mom's car pulls up to the curb.

I'm exhausted, my feet aching from a double shift, the smell of garlic and marinara clinging to my clothes and hair.

The apron tied around my waist is spotted with grease and sauce, and all I want is to go home, shower, and collapse into my nest in the corner of my closet where nobody can bother me.

Instead, Mom gets out of the car and walks into the restaurant without a word to me.

It's not the first strange thing she's ever done, but Mom hates Italian food and hates my job even more. Watching her go inside sets off alarm bells I'm too tired to properly heed. I'll figure out whatever she's broken tomorrow. I always do.

I lean against the brick wall and watch her through the window as she approaches my manager.

They talk for maybe thirty seconds before she turns and heads back out.

There's something different about her tonight.

She's wearing a dress I've never seen before, something expensive and tailored, her hair done and her makeup perfect and she's smiling in that particular way that makes my stomach drop.

That smile means she's found a new mark. A new Alpha to sink her claws into.

I fish the small bottle of blockers out of my pocket and shake it, gauging what's left.

Half full. I took my dose this morning, and if there's a new Alpha involved I should double up.

Mom's drilled that into me thoroughly enough over the years that it's reflex now.

Keep my scent muted, keep my responses locked down, be appealing enough to catch interest without ever actually responding.

Alphas can smell desperation, and desperate Omegas are worthless for the long game she likes to play.

"Get in," she says, not looking at me as she slides back into the driver's seat.

I pocket the blockers and push off the wall.

My hand finds the door handle and then I stop, because the backseat is wrong.

Everything I own is packed into boxes and garbage bags, stuffed haphazardly into every available space.

My clothes, my books, the few personal items I've managed to accumulate over the years are crammed into the back of her sedan like we're leaving in the middle of a crisis.

The one thing I don't see is any part of my nest. Not one pillow, not one blanket, not even the overstuffed carnival dolphin I've had for two years.

My heart drops. I yank open the door and drop into the passenger seat, turning to stare at her. "Who did you piss off this time?" The last time we fled without warning, her latest mark had been short nearly twenty-five thousand dollars. He never caught up to us, but that's not the point.

She laughs, which is not the response I'm expecting. "Nothing like that, baby." She reaches over and pats my knee, a gesture that's clearly meant to be comforting and lands somewhere closer to condescending. "I found an Alpha for us. A good one. He's going to take care of us."

The dread doesn't ease. It gets worse.

There have always been men coming through our apartment. Alphas who stayed a week, maybe two, before disappearing when Mom got bored or they figured out she was more trouble than she was worth.

I learned early to keep my head down, stay out of their way, and never get attached.

More importantly, I learned to stay locked down.

The blockers handle the chemical side of things, but the real work is mental.

Training myself not to respond when an Alpha's scent hits me.

Training myself to swallow every whimper and whine that tries to climb my throat.

Training myself to be useful bait without ever actually getting caught.

It's the same principle behind how I've always managed my heats. Clinical. Transactional. I'm on a schedule with a rent-an-alpha service, every three months like clockwork, an arrangement as impersonal as a doctor's appointment.

There are no names beyond what's on the intake form, no scent-bonding, no staying the night.

Everything is back to normal by morning.

Mom approved of that system because it kept me useful without making me vulnerable.

An Omega who's had a proper heat is easier to control than one who's desperate, and desperation makes people sloppy.

I've never been sloppy. She's made sure of that.

This feels different, though. The dress, the packed car, the way she's talking about this Alpha like the outcome is already decided. This isn't a two-week mark. This is something else entirely.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"To his house." She pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. "Our house now. You're going to love it, Mattaniah. It's beautiful, nothing like that cramped apartment."

I twist my hands in my lap, picking at the edge of my apron.

The city lights blur past the window as we drive, moving from the familiar streets of our neighborhood into areas I don't recognize.

Buildings get taller and newer and more polished.

Streets get cleaner and wider, and my anxiety climbs with every mile between me and everything I know.

"When did you meet him?" I ask, not because I care but because the silence is making it worse.

"A few weeks ago, at a charity function." She glances at me, smile still in place. "He's important, Mattaniah. The Alpha is successful with real money, not the kind men pretend to have. He wants to take care of us."

A few weeks? She's known this man for a few weeks and she's already packed up our lives and moved us into his house, which means he's wealthy enough to be worth a full relocation and she's decided skipping the usual courtship is worth the risk.

But men with real money don't take on an Omega wife and her grown Omega son without a reason, and I've never once been anyone's reason for anything.

"Why haven't I met him?" I don't bother hiding the edge in my voice. Her jaw tightens in response, her scent sharpening from its usual soft rose into something that makes the back of my neck prickle.

"Don't start," she says flatly. "You'll meet him soon enough, and you'll be respectful when you do. No whining, no whimpering, no embarrassing displays. You know how to behave."

I swallow and turn back to the window. My hand finds the blocker bottle in my pocket again, the familiar shape grounding me.

I'll need another dose before we go inside.

A double, probably. New Alphas always hit harder when I haven't had time to prepare, and the last thing I need is my body doing something stupid before I even learn this man's name.

The buildings continue changing as we drive, each one more expensive than the last, until we're moving through a part of the city I've only ever seen in photographs.

Mansions stand behind iron gates and manicured lawns, the kind of wealth that doesn't look real from the outside.

When Mom turns down a private drive my breath catches in my throat, and the beat-up sedan suddenly feels deeply, embarrassingly small.

The house at the end of the driveway is massive.

Three stories of cold modern architecture, floor-to-ceiling windows and sharp angles make it look more like a museum than anything anyone is supposed to live in.

There’s no warmth to it, no personality, just sleek lines and expensive materials and an overwhelming sense of otherness that my instincts recoil from immediately.

I want my closet. I want my nest. I want the specific smell of my own worn blankets and the way the darkness in that corner felt like something that belonged only to me.

Mom parks and gets out, smoothing down her dress, already moving toward the entrance with the confidence of someone who's decided this is hers.

It occurs to me that she spent time preparing for this moment and didn't extend me the same consideration.

I'm still in my dirty apron, smelling like a kitchen, exactly the wrong version of myself for whatever performance is about to be required.

I dry swallow two more blockers before she can see, grimacing at the bitterness coating my tongue. Then I force myself out of the car.

Except the moment we reach the steps, I understand that it won't matter.

The air here is different. Underneath the polish and the manicured grounds and the cool night smell of expensive landscaping, there is something else entirely, and my freshly doubled dose doesn't stand a chance against it.

Alphas.

Not just one. At least two, maybe three, each one distinct and layered over the others, making my head swim before I've even crossed the threshold. Something deep in my chest starts to purr and I clamp down on it viciously, nails biting into my palms.

No. Absolutely not.

Mom doesn't bother knocking. She swings the door open and I follow a few steps behind, hands clenched at my sides, every ounce of my concentration dedicated to staying controlled.

The inside of the house is even more intimidating than the outside. The entryway alone is enormous, a chandelier overhead that probably costs more than I'll make in my lifetime. Everything is white and grey and chrome, spotless and sterile and utterly without warmth.

It feels like a very expensive hotel, the kind of place designed to impress rather than comfort, and nothing about it settles the alarm bells going off steadily in the back of my mind.

But that's not the worst of it.

The Alpha scents are even stronger in here.

They layer over every surface, saturating the air until I can barely take a breath without tasting them.

Leather and smoke, pine and cedar, and underneath both of those something darker, something that makes my skin prickle with unease even as my body strains toward it.

My Omega instincts go fully haywire. Every piece of training I have is suddenly fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of compatible Alpha presence in this building, the air thick with it, my body responding before I've had time to build a single wall.

The urge to bare my throat, to drop to my knees, to find the source of that leather-and-smoke and press myself against it and beg to be touched and held and kept is so overwhelming that my vision actually swims.

I shove it down so hard my teeth ache with the effort.

This is what the blockers are for. This is what the training is for.

I am not going to fall apart in the foyer of a stranger's house because his home smells like everything my instincts have ever wanted.

My heats are managed and scheduled and handled without any of this messy instinctive nonsense, and this is no different.

This is just chemistry. Just biology. It means nothing.

But the leather and smoke starts to curl around me like a hand at my throat, and the pine and cedar settles over my shoulders like something I was supposed to find years ago, and despite everything I have ever taught myself, a small, wretched whimper tears from the back of my throat.

Mom's hand cracks against the back of my head, sharp enough to make my eyes water. "Behave," she hisses. "What did I just tell you? Do you want to ruin this before it even starts?"

I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself still. My eyes sting but I blink back the tears, fix my gaze on the floor, and breathe through my nose in slow careful increments. The urge to whimper again starts to build regardless of my efforts.

I know better. I have always known better.

Omegas who submit get used. Omegas who show their need get exploited.

I've watched Mom prove it over and over again, on every mark she's ever run, on every Alpha who thought he'd found something real and ended up with nothing.

My need is a tool in her hands and a liability in mine, and the moment I forget that distinction is the moment everything falls apart.

I dig my nails deeper into my palms and anchor myself to the pain instead of the scents wrapping around me. I'm not going to fall apart or give in.

But as another wave of those two scents moves through the air and my body responds to it, something tells me I've never been in a situation quite like this one before.

And I'm not entirely sure my training is going to be enough.