Chapter 2
Knox
The guy in my chair won't shut the fuck up about his ex. Which is fine—I don't need him to be quiet, I just need him to hold his goddamn shoulder still every time he gets to the part where she keyed his car.
"And then she had the NERVE to—"
"Hey." I press the machine a little firmer. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him there's a needle in his skin. "Need this shoulder still for about ten more minutes."
He goes rigid. Not ideal, but at least the canvas isn't bouncing around anymore.
I finish the last line of the tribal piece he picked off the wall—his choice, not mine.
I stopped trying to talk walk-ins out of tribal years ago.
I lean back to check the work. Clean lines, good shading.
It's always clean. That's not ego, it's just the thing I'm best at—putting something permanent on skin and making it look like it was always supposed to be there.
Mars trained that into me with the patience of a man who'd rather die than give a compliment, and it stuck.
"All done." I wipe the area down, wrap it, and run through the aftercare on autopilot. Fragrance-free soap, don't scratch, keep it out of the sun. He's already composing the next chapter of the ex-girlfriend saga, so I hand him the printed sheet and wish him luck.
The shop's winding down. Last client out the door.
Mars is at the counter going through the supply order with the kind of quiet focus that means something's pissing him off.
Probably needle prices again. I strip my gloves, toss them, and start breaking down my station.
Spray, wipe, bag the tubes, run the ultrasonic.
It's Friday night, I have no plans, and I'm thinking about getting laid the same way I think about what to eat for dinner. It’s just the next logical step.
I wipe down the chair, and my brain throws up a memory I didn't ask for. An omega. Months ago. Dark hair, freckles across his nose, a mouth that could strip the finish off a bar. The sex was... yeah. I left before he woke up. I had my reasons, they’re still good reasons, and it’s done.
I wipe the vinyl again and move on. That's all the thought gets.
"Last one?" Mars asks without looking up.
"Last one." I toss the paper towel. "He'll be back in a month wanting me to cover that up."
Mars grunts.
My sketchbook is sitting on the counter where I left it between clients.
It's open to the page I was doodling on during my break.
Flash designs mostly—a couple of traditional roses, a dagger, some geometric filler.
But in the margins, there's a face. The same one I keep coming back to.
Sharp jaw, scattered freckles, a ring in the nostril, an expression that says fuck you.
I've drawn it from a few different angles over the past couple of weeks. It’s a good face to draw.
Interesting angles. Artistic interest, that's all.
I flip past it to a geometric piece and leave the book open.
I wash my hands at the back sink, scrub the ink off my knuckles, and check my phone. A text from Jake about a party. The gym group chat going off. And a KnotMe notification. A match.
I open the app. The omega has no face pic, just an angled shot—sharp collarbones, the edge of a jaw, a nose ring. The bio is empty except for his designation and “Don’t waste my time.” I like him already.
I tap the thread. He messaged first.
Him: You look like the kind of alpha who thinks he's god's gift. Are you?
I grin at my phone.
Me: Depends who's asking.
Him: Someone who's been disappointed by every alpha on this app. Convince me you won't be a waste of my night.
Not hey. Not what are you looking for. He came out swinging, and my cock gives an interested twitch. The polite ones who swipe right on my tattoos and ask if they hurt don't do it for me anymore. This one's got his fists up. I want to see what happens when I swing back.
Me: I don't convince. I show up and let my hands do the work.
Him: Bold. Last guy who talked like that came in two minutes and asked if it was good for me.
I laugh out loud. Mars glances over and goes right back to his paperwork.
Me: Sounds like you need someone who knows what he's doing with his mouth.
Him: Sounds like you need to stop running yours and prove it.
Me: Tell me where you want it and I'll show you exactly how it works.
Him: Big talk. I've heard big talk before. Usually from alphas who finish before I've even started enjoying myself.
Me: Then you've been fucking the wrong alphas.
Him: Obviously. That's why I'm on this app talking to you instead of doing something useful with my night.
The messages keep coming, each one meaner and more explicit than the last. He tells me what he wants, and he's not polite about it.
What he'd do if I got him on his knees. What I'd better be ready to do if I show up.
How long it's been since anyone made him come hard enough to shut his brain off, and how he doubts I'm the one who can do it.
I tell him exactly how I'd handle every single thing on that list, and my jeans are getting uncomfortable in a way that's going to be a problem if I don't get off this stool soon.
He doesn't soften. No emoji, no backing off to signal he's just playing around. He wants to be fucked like he's angry about something, and I want to be the one who fucks the anger out of him.
Him: I want to know if your mouth works as well as your ego.
Me: Come find out.
Him: You come to me. I don't chase.
There's a flash—half a second—where something about the way he writes pings a circuit in the back of my head.
The rhythm, the meanness wrapped in humor, the absolute refusal to give me an inch.
It reminds me of—but the thought doesn't finish forming.
Whoever this omega is, he's here and he's tonight, and the one from a few months back is a ghost.
Me: Give me an address.
A pause. Longer than his other replies. Then just:
Him: [address]
No preamble. Just the address dropped like a dare. I check the map. Fifteen minutes on foot, campus-adjacent. The anticipation settles into my body, easy and warm and certain.
I grab my jacket off the hook. Close the sketchbook and shove it in my bag.
"Heading out," I tell Mars.
He looks up, looks at my face, and makes a sound that roughly translates to something I'm not going to repeat.
"Don't start."
"Don't be late tomorrow," he says, which is Mars for goodbye.
Halfway out the door, my actual phone buzzes.
Mom. Her name on the screen, the photo from last Christmas.
My thumb hovers over the green button. It's been a week since I called.
Last time she called on a weeknight, it was about Dad.
The new facility, the insurance, all the weight in her voice I couldn't do anything about from two hundred miles away.
If I pick up now, it's an hour of things I can't fix, and I've got somewhere to be.
I pocket the phone and let it ring. I'll call her tomorrow. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm always fine.
The walk takes fourteen minutes. Campus-adjacent streets, student apartments stacked on top of each other, music playing too loud out a window.
The cool air feels good on my neck. I'm running through openers in my head.
Something easy. Something that shows I'm not trying too hard.
I'm betting his attitude holds up in person.
Something about the way he texts tells me he'd be just as mean with his mouth, and the thought sends a rush of heat straight to my groin.
I find the building. Third floor. I take the elevator because showing up winded isn't the look I'm going for.
Door 3C. I stop for a second, fix my beanie, run my tongue across my teeth.
Do I look like I rolled out of bed looking this good, or does it look like I tried?
The answer should always be the first one.
I knock twice.
Light footsteps inside. A lock turning.
The door starts to open, and the scent hits me before I even see a face.
It hits me like a physical blow. My knees go soft.
My cock goes painfully hard against my zipper.
The air spilling out of the apartment is thick with something warm and sweet, underscored by a sharp, familiar edge.
My brain flatlines. Every smooth line I rehearsed evaporates.
I'm leaning forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hand still raised to knock on a door that's already opening.
I'm standing on the threshold with absolutely nothing.