Knot That It Matters (Omega Royals #3)

Chapter 1

Helena

If I didn’t know better, I’d think my parents had had the house staged simply to remind me I’m not yet bonded to a pack.

The entryway is an exhibition of taste and intimidation.

Tapestries hang so evenly, it’s unnerving.

Even the marble floors have been buffed to become so reflective, they threaten to expose every flaw in my stride.

To top it off, two hundred years of Starling ancestors hang pictured in portraits flanking the walls, each one offering a silent judgement.

Zane, my bodyguard of many years, keeps behind me at exactly the respectful distance, but his presence registers in my bones. Steady and calm.

The only thing that’s steady and calm with my return home after graduating Omega Finishing School at the delayed age of twenty-eight.

I should have a pack by now.

I should have a lot of things by now.

Going to Omega Finishing School was meant to cement most of those items, but all it’s done is make me question everything.

The familiar scent of beeswax and lavender polish nearly trips me into pure nostalgia of times past in my family home, but Zane’s flint scent is far stronger.

How my father got up in arms about my brother bonding with a commoner omega but is somehow fine with an alpha guarding me day in and day out is a mystery—even if Zane is also high society.

I don’t have time to consider why Zane’s suddenly hovering so close, or why the pit in my stomach is growing, before a blur of navy blazer and tousled blond hair barrels down the stairs.

“Helena!”

My brother Richard, recently out of boarding school and taller than I remember, vaults the last three steps. He launches himself at me and hugs me tightly. How is it possible that a nineteen-year-old can wrap around me like I were a child’s teddy bear?

Richard pulls back and grins at Zane with genuine admiration. “Good to see you, Hawke. Thank you for keeping my sister safe.”

Richard offers his hand for a shake, which Zane ignores in favor of a crisp nod. Zane has two overnight bags and my box of finishing school ribbons balanced on one arm, a feat I can only admire in theory.

Behind Richard, my sister, Dorothea appears. She’s doing a mix of sprinting and flailing in the way only an eleven-year-old could. She lands at my feet and stares up with huge, blue eyes.

“Is it true you had to wear dresses every day?” she asks, bypassing any greeting in favor of interrogation. Her eyes dart to Zane, then back to me. “And did you have to have a chaperone the whole time?”

“It’s true, and yes, I had a chaperone.” I gesture at Zane, who might as well be sculpted from stone, except for the muscle ticking in his jaw. Kids—and endless questions—aren’t really Zane’s thing, and Dorothea happens to know exactly how to push his buttons.

I offer him a reassuring smile.

Mother glides in with lips pursed so tightly, the lines are etched into her skin. She does not hug me. Instead, she turns immediately to Zane.

“I trust everything went smoothly, Mr. Hawke?”

Zane’s response is perfectly modulated. “The Lady Starling represented her family with distinction, ma’am. No incidents.” He never breaks eye contact, not even to blink.

I’m pretty sure the only person who even occasionally sees him break this stoic guardian act is me. It doesn’t happen often.

Mother nods, satisfied but not warm. “You may return to your usual quarters, unless Helena wishes you elsewhere.”

“I’m sure Zane would enjoy some rest,” I say. “It’s been a long trip back.”

Zane nods to me and to my mother. “Happy for whatever you think is best.”

“Go,” I offer. “I’ll be fine at home.”

Zane nods again in acknowledgement and then retreats from the foyer. As he passes, he brushes my arm with a touch so brief, I almost think I imagined it.

Almost.

When the hallway is empty but for family, Mother steers us toward the morning room. It’s ostentatious even by our standards, with thick carpets under too many vases, and a chandelier that could flatten a small child if provoked.

Father is waiting here amongst the finery. He rises when I enter. “Helena. You’ve done us proud.” He speaks without affect. “Omega Finishing School, with honors, as predicted.”

He has never predicted anything else, and thus his pride remains intact.

For now.

“Thank you, Father.” I fold my hands. If only I could turn my brain off and recite whatever script it is that most makes him happy. Then Zane and I could both be out of here without disappointing anyone.

Mother pours tea with the precision of a chemical engineer. “There’s to be a proper reception in your honor, but your father wanted something private first.”

She means controlled. Private, in this house, is a synonym for “no chance of witnesses.”

Richard fidgets with a sugar spoon, clearly already bored with family ritual. Dorothea kicks her legs and stares at me like she’s searching for evidence of something but is coming up empty.

Father waits for Mom to serve the tea, then sits with his back straight and his hands flat on the table.

“You understand,” he begins, “that as a Starling, your application for Omega Selection Day is a mere formality. But appearances must be maintained. Some of the family’s rivals would love to see a Starling omega choose career over pack.”

He eyes me, searching for a reaction.

I offer none. “Of course, Father.”

“Still set on marketing?” The word tastes foul on his tongue.

I almost laugh. “My degree contains a rather flexible skill set. Good for fundraising, social events, all sorts of things. I’m not sure why you look down on it.”

Mother makes a soft, approving sound. “I’ve already arranged interviews for you, should you choose to work before settling down. No pressure, of course. But many eligible alphas find ambition attractive these days. Don’t they, Richard?”

Richard nods and shrugs in a way that manages to be both enthusiastic and noncommittal. Fitting, because the only thing he’s committed to is the scone in his hands.

Dorothea is undeterred. “Do they really lock you in during heats?” How is this girl always aiming for scandal? She’s clearly spent too much time with Ranier’s packmates.

Mother sets her teacup down hard enough to make the China shiver. “Dorothea!”

“She should know,” Dorothea mutters, but she’s already moved on to picking at the lemon slices.

Father’s gaze lingers on me. “If you ever feel unsafe, the Hawke boy can be recalled. His contract is very flexible.”

‘The Hawke boy.’ As if Zane weren’t the reason I survived the last three months without gnawing my own arm off from anxiety. Or like he hadn’t been around for years, basically already a member of this family. As if he weren’t—

No, that’s not something to think about right now.

“I’ll let you know if I require his services again,” I say, hopefully without betraying any of my thoughts.

“Excellent,” Father concludes. He stands. “Then on to the celebration.”

My jaw slides open. “‘Celebration’?”

Father nods. “For your graduation. Did you think we’d let such a momentous occasion pass without us marking it?”

I’d really rather you had. “Fantastic, Father, thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

No one has followed me out here yet. The Starling House gardens are endless.

They were planted long ago to grow upward and outward, shielding our family’s legacy from the pedestrian bustle of the city outside.

High hedges box in winding flagstones dotted with shell-ivory benches.

I used to count the steps it took to reach the far corner, the “secret garden” I claimed as my own.

Now, post-graduation, I just want the space to breathe.

I settle onto a bench, careful to smooth my dress beneath me so I don’t stain the icy-blue silk.

The night is warm and the air sticky. I’m already regretting leaving my hair down as tendrils plaster themselves to my neck with a small glisten of sweat.

If I focus, I can still hear the faint laughter and music from the ballroom.

But here, it’s mostly the trilling of cicadas.

I let myself melt against the bench and finally drop the rigid posture finishing school drilled into me far harder than Mother ever did.

What would happen if I slouched forever? If I refused to go back inside and let them parade me around like a walking proof-of-concept. Like, see, even the difficult Starlings become compliant omegas in the end.

Someone crunches over the gravel behind me.

I nearly jump out of my skin. Did my father send one of his lieutenants out to corral me? Maybe even Zane? But the scents are all wrong.

I don’t turn until a second set of footfalls catches up, and then another and another. A whole pack. The smallest of the four individuals is already ahead, flitting over to the bench before the others have finished rounding the corner.

“Congratulations.” Emery launches her arms around me with, as usual, zero chill.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement.

Her hair is still dyed a cotton-candy blue and pink that made the Selection Council lose their minds a year ago.

Her dress is far less constricting than mine—bohemian floral and loose in the sleeves, perfectly suited to the garden and to her. “We’re so proud of you, Helena."”

I let myself smile. “Thank you. Finishing School was quite the ordeal.”

Emery makes a face. “Don’t I know it. I heard you gave Councilor Evans a run for his money.” She playfully elbows me. “Thank goodness someone finally did.”

I laugh and hug Emery back. “All I did was remind him that omega education shouldn’t stop at napkin-folding and heat-cycle management. I’m sure he’ll recover.”

Emery snorts a laugh.

It’s hard to imagine that the scared Emery I met a year ago is the same one in front of me now.

No longer humiliated and rejected by my idiot brother and his packmates, but cherished and adored by them.

Emery gave me hope that maybe this omega-forward path would work, but Emery never gave up her art career for a pack. She grabbed both and never let go.

So why can’t I?

Because my father is a Starling?

Behind her, my brother Ranier materializes with his usual confidence, wearing an evening jacket with none of the stuffiness it should entail.

The two men with him linger behind: Bastion, a roguish ex-gambler, and Wyatt, still looking like his withdrawal from social media addiction is hitting him hard.

They radiate alpha energy in a way that’s impossible to ignore, but neither tries to dominate the conversation.

Instead, they hover around Emery, orbiting her like she’s the actual center of the universe.

I suppose she is to them.

Emery fetches a small bottle from her purse and hands it to me. “Speaking of Wyatt, he made you this. They’ve been… experimenting.”

Emery sounds unsure, and my brother’s mischievous grin does nothing to settle my suspicions.

I take the glass bottle from Emery and inspect it. The label is hand-drawn and depicts a cartoon seagull wearing a graduation cap. The contents are suspiciously cloudy.

I pop the cork and sniff: lemonade, but with something stronger riding shotgun. “Is this legal?”

Wyatt offers a lazy grin. “Barely. I used the lemons from your mother’s garden. Count it as a family tradition.”

I take a sip. It burns, but not in a bad way. “How did you even get this past security?”

Wyatt and Bastion exchange a look, and then Bastion shrugs. “We bribed the chef.”

I look to Ranier, who crosses his arms.

“Of course you did,” I said.

Emery studies me for a few moments. “You doing okay?”

I pause with the bottle at my lips and look up through the tangle of branches overhead. “Fine, I guess. Overwhelmed. Is that obvious?”

“To me, yes. The rest of the room is still too busy speculating about your first pack matches to notice.”

I choke on the lemonade. Emery pats me on the back, grinning. “Sorry. You do get used to the attention.”

“Do you?” I ask her.

Emery has no answer I like. And yet… she’s not wrong.

Most of the ballroom talk tonight—after the initial congratulations—was about which local alpha house would try to stake their claim first, or whether the Starlings would keep to tradition and organize a match through Omega Selection Day, which is the plan.

I haven’t even been graduated for a full month and already, my body is public domain.

“I’m not ready,” I admit. Why is my voice so small? I hate it.

Emery leans in close. “No one is ever ready. That’s the secret. But don’t let them force you, Helena. You gave me nearly the same advice.”

I smile softly. “I did, didn’t I?” Although I’d given it to her while trying to make a case for my brother and his pack, that maybe they weren’t always as terrible as they’d been to her on Emery’s own Omega Selection Day.

I look past her to where Ranier is watching us, arms folded and jaw tight. I love my brother, but sometimes I think he’d prefer I were as simple as a family ledger: neat rows, predictable numbers, and no messy remainders. Which is ironic, coming from him.

I’m about to say something when the glass doors open and my mother’s voice carries out, brittle and urgent. “Helena, darling, they’re ready for the toast.”

Emery smirks. “Showtime. You want backup?”

I’m tempted, but I know it’ll be easier if I’m alone. I hand the bottle back to Wyatt, who salutes me with it. Bastion ruffles Emery’s hair, and she swats at his hand before grabbing me by the wrist.

“Go on, show them how it’s done,” she whispers, conspiratorial. “And if you need to hide again, you know where to find us.”

I take a breath and roll my shoulders back into the posture finishing school taught us. Chin up, eyes bright.

The ballroom is even louder than before. I find my mother instantly. She’s halfway up the dais, beaming like she just won a war. My father stands beside her, stiff as a board. He’s watching me and only me. Making sure I keep playing the part.

I will. For now.

Everyone else is noise and moving shapes, blurred by the buzz of expectation.

I slip back into my spot, letting the familiar scent of home anchor me.

I raise my glass as the crowd turns, waiting for the words they want from me.

I say them, smiling perfectly, the way I’ve practiced.

But under the practiced words, I wonder if I’ll ever be allowed to want something different, something that isn’t already written for me.

When the toasts are done and the applause rolls over me, I search for Emery in the crowd. She’s at the very back, waving with both hands, utterly unafraid to look ridiculous.

I wave back, maybe a little less afraid myself. At least for tonight.