The Knotheads Next Door (Vineyard Groves Omegaverse)

Chapter 1

Rowan

The crash of breaking glass jolts me from my social media-induced stupor. I freeze mid-scroll, thumb hovering over a meme about omega mood swings and soup. (So relatable. So tragic.) My ears straining to catch what's happening downstairs.

"It was decades ago!" Pops's voice, tighter than I've ever heard it.

I'm not trying to eavesdrop. I swear. But when your parents are yelling loud enough to rattle the light fixtures, and your childhood bedroom shares a vent system with the kitchen, it's less "snooping" and more "accidental trauma through air circulation."

I slide off my childhood bed silently, bare feet finding the worn carpet as I creep toward the source of the sound.

"That doesn't matter!" My mother's voice now, sharp with that dangerous kind of emotion that always makes my stomach clench. "He has no right to contact us now, not after all this time."

I sink to the floor beside the vent, knees pulled to my chest, making myself small as if they might somehow sense my eavesdropping from two floors below.

"You're overreacting." Dad now, his usually calm beta voice strained with tension. "We should at least hear what he has to say before—"

"I'm overreacting?" Something else shatters—the decorative vase from Aunt Judith, I think, the one Mom always hated but kept on display out of familial obligation.

"He abandoned us. Abandoned her. And now he wants back in our lives because what? He's curious? He's feeling nostalgic?"

I press my ear closer to the metal grate, heart hammering against my ribs. They're talking about me. They have to be. But who is "he"?

"Lower your voice," Pops warns, and I can picture his expression—jaw tight, alpha pheromones spiking with protective instinct. "She'll hear you."

"She deserves to know," Dad counters. "She's not a child anymore."

"She's our daughter," Mom insists, her voice breaking on the last word. "Ours. Not his. He gave up any right to her when he walked away. That was the agreement."

Another crash, followed by the sound of liquid splattering. A wine glass, maybe, knocked from the counter in my mother's agitation.

"James is back in town," she says, and something in her tone makes my blood run cold. "And if he thinks he can just walk back into her life after twenty-eight years like nothing happened—"

James. The name means nothing to me, and yet the way she says it—like the name is both a poison and prayer—makes something deep inside me uneasy.

"We never told her the truth," Dad says quietly. "Any of it."

The silence that follows is worse than the shouting, heavy with secrets I know are about to change everything.

And even though I know — I know— I should not creep out of my room and listen at the top of the stairs, I find myself doing just that.

Finally, Dad’s voice sounds again.

“I think we should be more concerned about Rowan. What if he seeks her out? What if he tells her? So much of it has to do with her. She should hear about the whole thing from us.”

My body tenses like it always does when Dad uses that tone—a Pavlovian response from twenty-eight years of emotional weather forecasting.

"He has no reason to reach out to her now," Pops says. His voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when he's trying not to growl, his alpha instincts kicking in despite the calming tea he drinks by the gallon. "It was decades ago."

"You never told her the truth," Dad chimes in. His gentler beta nature usually keeps things balanced in our little family pack, but tonight there's an edge to his voice I rarely hear. "We all agreed we wouldn't. But maybe we should have. Especially since—"

Silence. And it's the awful type of silence that screams louder than words. The kind that makes my skin crawl with unspoken revelations.

"…You don't think she ever suspected?" Mom says, softer now. "That maybe, just maybe—"

Oh no. No no no.

My heart's already thudding as I rush down the stairs.

I'm not even trying to be quiet. I burst into the kitchen.

The overhead light is harsh, illuminating my parents' shocked faces in all their guilty glory.

Mom's hands are frozen mid-gesture, her omega scent tinged with distress.

Pops stands by the sink, arms crossed, the picture of alpha tension.

Dad sits at the kitchen island, his normally gentle face tight with worry.

"What are you fighting about," I say, crossing my arms over my university t-shirt, "And what does it have to do with me?"

They all freeze like I've caught them mid-crime. Which, to be fair, emotionally? I think I have.

The kitchen clock ticks. Once. Twice. Three times. The dishwasher hums in the background, oblivious to the atomic bomb that is threatening to detonate my life.

Then Dad sighs. He rests his forehead in his hands, covering his eyes so he doesn't have to look at me.

"Ro, sweetheart, your Pops and I," He pauses, "Neither of us is your biological father."

Holy shit.

My hands start to shake.

"What the fuck does that mean? That I'm adopted or something?"

Pops hasn't turned away from the sink, but I hear his chilling words all the same.

"No. Your mother… stepped out on our bonding. Shortly before she got pregnant with you. You're not adopted. But your biological father has reached out recently."

"Rowan," my mom starts, taking a step toward me, her hand outstretched. Her wedding ring—the one with three stones for their three-way bond—catches the light. "It was a confusing time—"

"Oh, no. Don't you dare 'confuse time' me.

" My voice wobbles, and I hate it, but it's happening.

I feel the telltale burn behind my eyes, the pressure in my throat.

"You've had my entire life to tell me something like this.

And you waited until the guy randomly shows up like some long-lost soap opera ex? !"

Pops pushes away from the sink, his alpha scent spiking with protective pheromones that would normally comfort me but now just make me feel suffocated. "Bunny, please—"

"Don't 'bunny' me either!" I snap, the childhood nickname landing like a barb.

"Is he the reason that I'm latent? Twenty-eight years.

Twenty-eight years of doctor appointments trying to figure out why I haven't presented yet.

Of genetic testing and hormone therapies and being the weird girl who's in between designations. And this whole time—"

"We thought it would never come up," Pops says, pleading. His eyes—the same hazel color as mine, I always thought—are bright with emotion. "We raised you. We love you. That's never changed."

Dad slides off his stool, approaching cautiously. "You're still our daughter, Rowan. Nothing can change that."

I believe them. I do. But I'm also suddenly floating just a few inches off the ground—untethered and spiraling. My life has been rewritten in a single sentence, history rearranged like furniture in a room I thought I knew.

"Cool," I say, because what else can you say when your origin story gets a surprise reboot?

"Great. I need to scream into a void. Be back never."

I grab my purse and phone and storm out the front door with all the flair of a drama queen on a tv show.

Which would be more effective if I hadn't forgotten my shoes.

But the shock of cold concrete on my bare feet is almost welcome—at least it's a distraction from the emotional earthquake rumbling through my chest.

I don't speak to them again.

Not when Pops texts hourly updates about their elderly corgi's bladder issues.

Not when Dad emails articles about late bloomers who presented after thirty with the subject line "Hope.

" Not when Mom leaves increasingly frantic voicemails that evolve from apologetic to worried to straight-up guilt-trippy.

Three Weeks Later

I stare at my laptop screen, waiting for the words to change. Maybe the pixels will glitch, the email will refresh, and the universe will correct itself.

But no. The email still reads:

Subject: Employment Termination Notification

Rowan,

Due to restructuring, your position has been eliminated, effective immediately.

Blah, blah, blah. "We appreciate your contributions," "this is not a reflection of your work," "good luck in your future endeavors."

They may as well have written, Sucks to be you! Bye! and signed it with a middle finger emoji.

I mean, at least have the decency to fire me in person. Or send me an edible arrangement with a note that says, Hey, sorry about your life imploding! Here, have some fruit shaped like flowers.

Instead, I get a cold, soulless message telling me my services are no longer needed.

I slump against the back of my tiny, lumpy couch, the springs groaning like they’re also over me and my mess.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it.

When it buzzes again, I groan and grab it off the coffee table, the caller ID says "Rhonda Peters - Finance Department." My now-former boss. Oh, fantastic. Do I answer? Do I let it go to voicemail? I feel like answering would give her too much power. But not answering means she wins by default.

With an overly dramatic sigh, I accept the call.

"Hey, Rowan," Rhonda, says in her usual clipped, professional tone. "I wanted to personally reach out about your termination."

"Wow, thanks," I say flatly. "That really makes this feel more personal."

Rhonda clears her throat. "We're restructuring," she says, her voice doing that

fake-sympathetic thing that HR people perfect in their evil laboratories. "It's not personal, Rowan."

I nod like she can see me, even though we both know it is personal. I may or may not have called the CEO a "greedy spreadsheet with teeth" during a staff meeting last week when he announced that our health insurance was getting "optimized." Whatever.

"We can offer you a strong reference—"

I let out an unhinged little laugh. "Oh, sure! That’s super helpful when I have to explain to future employers why I’m homeless because I was let go right before my rent is due."

Rhonda pauses. "Right. Well. Best of luck, Rowan."