The Knotty Omega

CHAPTER ONE

Dear Knotty Omega,

The pack that I’m courting just told me they want me to drop out of school and focus on starting our family. I’m a year from graduating with my master's degree, and they just dropped this bomb on me like it was inevitable, even though we talked about me finishing school. We’re scent-sympathetic. What if I tell them no and they drop me and then I never find a pack that smells as good as they do? What if I listen to them and always regret it after?

Signed,

Uncertain Grad-Student

T hose fucking knot-heads. You can’t just change your mind because you think your omega should start popping out babies. My fingers start typing a furious reply, the keys clacking aggressively in the now nearly empty bull pen of the office floor where I work.

Dear Uncertain Grad-Student,

Tell those knot-heads that under no uncertain circumstances will you be giving up YEARS of work, just because they decided

“Hey CJ, how’s it going?” Archie’s upbeat voice jolts me out of my rage, his ocean breeze scent almost immediately calming me. I don't know what it is about him that does it. It's not like all beta scents have this calming effect, it just seems to be him.

“Hey Arch,” I swallow, quickly exiting out of my email even though he can’t possibly see past the privacy screen on my computer. “Good day?” I ask, looking up at him where he’s poked his head over my cubicle wall.

Talking with Archie has always been so easy. Like talking to “one of the girls”...that I want to strip down and ride like cowgirl.

He’s been flirty with me since my first day nearly a year ago . I had been over the moon smitten until I saw the bite mark on his neck. A bite mark means one alpha at best, and a pack at worst.

I wish things were different. He’s funny, witty, and snarky as hell.

He could have been perfect.

The beta smiles broadly at me, a dazzling grin that makes my heart skip a beat, despite knowing nothing can ever happen between us. Looking at him makes me feel like a teen again, flipping through my copy of Omega-Bop magazine and swooning over the heartthrobs within the pages.

His mop of wavy black hair reaches his ears, and his amber eyes glint in that way they do when he’s about to make a snarky comment.

“If by good, you mean having to listen to Laura preen about the new alpha she’s supposedly dating for my entire lunch break, then yes, I had a fantastic day.” He rolls his eyes.

“God,” I snort, “is it an obscure Hungarian actor again? Or maybe she’s going after another Turkish prince.” It’s like she thinks that just because she’s the Editor in Chief's personal assistant, we’re not going to question anything she says. Like, okay, maybe one Czech model is believable. But does she honestly expect us to believe that she’s been whisked off to Europe every other weekend for the last six months by different guys?

“Apparently he’s a tech tycoon from Yemen.” Archie wrinkles his nose, and we both laugh. “Speaking of Alphas, how’s Reggie doing? Still annoyed by you working?”

I sigh.

Reggie.

“He…demands attention when I get home, but nothing that will make me quit my job. Normally a night in on the couch is enough to get him in a better mood.” Best to not lie in this situation.

“Good.” He nods. “We should get everyone together sometime, we could barbecue, hang out by the pool…”

I shake my head. “No, Reggie hates water. - er, pools. And most people. It’s better if we just hang out just the two of us.”

“I hear you.” Archie chuckles. “There’s no reasoning with them once they make their mind up. Mattie still won’t step foot in a mini golf course.”

I want to hear the story. I really do. But hearing more about his alpha will just remind me that he’ll never be mine.

At my silence, his face turns somber and he rubs the back of his neck. “I hope I’m not overstepping, here, Cady…” Oh. He never calls me by my first name. It’s been “CJ” since I shook his hand and introduced myself as Cady Jackman. “And I don’t mean to insinuate anything, but if you’re not happy, or if he’s not treating you right…you can’t break bonds, but I can get my Alphas to talk to him.”

A laugh escapes me. “He’s an asshole, but he’s my asshole. I’m good, Arch. I promise.” I quickly smother the warmth taking over my heart at the fact that he's risking an uncomfortable conversation to make sure I'm okay.

“All I mean is any pack would be lucky to have you, Cady. Beautiful, smart, funny…what’s not to love?” With that, he shoots me a wink and walks out of the office, and I try to pretend that his words didn’t rip my heart out of my chest.

Sighing, I turn back to my computer and open my email back up, Archie’s calming beta scent still lingering in my nose as I delete what I had typed out previously.

Dear Uncertain Grad Student,

Scent sympathy is not the be all and end all. At the end of the day, biology is pulling the strings to our hearts and our noses. If you’re worried about options, it’s possible to be scent sympathetic with multiple packs, or if you’re like me, you believe in the true scent match .

If this pack expects you to give up your hopes and dreams to cater to their whims, are they really worth giving your heart to? Where does it end? I can tell you one thing, if you give them this inch, they will continue to ask you to give up bits and pieces of yourself until you don’t recognize what’s left.

They don’t deserve you if they do that.

My advice? Tell them to accept you as you are, hopes and dreams included, and if they don’t like it, they can find another omega to baby-trap.

If it were me, I’d be glad I found out their true colors before I bonded, and pack my bags now.

Your chance for happiness does not begin or end with them.

Signed,

The Knotty Omega

After submitting my email to Grady, the Editor in Chief, I pack up my bag and head to my car. I may personally believe in the mythical, true, scent match, but that doesn’t mean life will automatically be smooth sailing from there. And sure, the advice is a little more extreme than what I usually give, but that’s why the articles are so popular. Every once in a while a submission will come in that hits a little too close to home, and the readers eat my aggressive omega energy up.

Not that they know it’s me, of course. The identity of the Knotty Omega remains a secret to everyone, including the employees of ABO Magazine. Well, everyone except Grady, and by extension, his assistant, Laura. It was my one stipulation when I took on the column. I don’t need angry alphas tracking me down because I’m responsible for their omega realizing their worth and packing their bags.I was hired as a staff writer a year ago, and six months ago Grady came to me with the opportunity to be the writer for a new advice article.

Ever since the Omega Rights Act was passed by congress ten years ago, all sorts of bills and laws have come into play, protecting the Omega’s right to work and go to school. Before then, omegas couldn’t even attend school if they were unbonded, and if they were, they would need their alpha’s permission.

Thank god that’s no longer the case.

The sky is dark as I pull out of the parking garage, and old Betty, my purple sedan chugs along gracelessly as the lights of Starling City, California, illuminate the way home. By the time I’ve stopped to grab Chinese food and am walking up the stairs to my apartment, I’m ready to flop into bed for the rest of the night.

“Reggie, I’m home!” I call out, kicking my door shut behind me.

“Meow!” Reggie’s little paws pat the floor as he runs up to me, rubbing his head against my legs.

“Hey, boy! Did you have a good day?” I ask, in that high-pitched baby voice reserved for my very handsome, dapper tuxedo cat.

I swear, I never told anyone that Reggie’s my alpha. But, when I realized what everyone thought when I mentioned that Reggie and spent the night on the couch, watching movies, or how he hates when I go to work, they all just assumed.

And I didn’t correct them.

Then I read about an experimental drug called TruBond, and things just kind of…escalated from there. I used to use scent blockers but about two months ago started having an adverse reaction to them. Hives are horrible.

So, I stopped with the scent blockers and started TruBond.That was around the same time people started picking up that I live with someone named Reggie.

I’ve never technically lied about him. Even my entire conversation with Archie just now. Reggie hates pools, people, is an asshole, and requires copious amounts of attention when I get home from work.

All true facts.

My point is proven when Reggie nearly trips me on my way to the couch, weaving between my legs like he’s trying to assassinate me for leaving him at home all day.

Then he changes his tune when he snuggles up next to me as I wrap my favorite lavender chenille blanket around my shoulders and settle on the couch with my food.

Two episodes of "Nest Makeover," one full carton of honey glazed chicken and two spring rolls later, my phone rings.

Shit.

My brother is calling me. Why is he calling me?

“...Hello?” I answer cautiously, unsure of what to expect on the other line.

“Hey Cady-Kat, how's it going?”

Oh good. Our semi-annual obligatory sibling check-in.

“Hey, Marcus.” I keep my voice light despite the anxiety twisting in my gut. “I’m good, I just got home from work. How is everyone?”

“What? Cady, it’s almost nine, you just got home?” His voice is sharp, and other voices respond in the background, no doubt adding their own thoughts to the mix.

“Not… just . I watched a whole episode of Nest Makeover while I ate dinner.” Reggie meows loudly in my ear as if to add, and she left me home alone all day too!

“Don’t talk to them!” I hiss, “I’m the one who feeds you, you little monster.”

“Who are you talking to?” Marcus asks, surprise in his voice.

“Just Reggie. He’s being a dick.” Shit. Is that a normal thing for people to say?

I can practically hear my brother roll his eyes. “The cat?”

“Yes.” I deadpan, ready for this conversation to be over already.

“You know, Cady, if you found yourself a pack, you wouldn’t have to work at all. Sarah is as happy as can be taking care of little Roman and Julia and she doesn’t have to work a day in her life.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me more about how much you value the work your omega puts into raising your children. “I like my job, Marcus. I worked really hard to get it, and I’m proud of what I do.”

Marcus sighs. “I know, Cady. Listen, that isn’t why I called. The parents are wondering when you’re coming home. They miss you, and say that you’ve punished them for long enough.”

Fucking hell. “This is not some hissy-fit tantrum I’m throwing to punish Mom, Pops, Dad, or even Papi, okay? This is my life, and this is how I’m going to live it. They aren’t going to pair me off with whatever pack they’ve deemed firm enough to handle me.”

“Come on, Cady—”

“No! I’m sick of everyone treating me like I’m some child trying to get my way. News flash, big brother. I don’t have to try . I did it. I took control of my own life, I don’t have to answer to any of you. If you give me a call like this again, I’m blocking everyone's number. Spread the word.”

With that, my finger jams the end call button so hard I’m surprised I don’t break the phone.

My chest is heaving with my heavy breathing, like it does every time I’m forced into a confrontation about my life decisions.

Fuck them.

They think they can try to guilt me into coming home when all they’ve done is try to limit me because of my designation? Just like they did to Mom.

I’ll die before I let them try to pair me off again.

Still seething, I stomp to the bathroom, taking one pill from each bottle in my medicine cabinet. One small round blue one to suppress my heats, and a long pink one. The TruBond. Tipping my head under the faucet, I fill my mouth with water before popping the pills into my mouth and swallowing. Hands bracing the sink, my head hangs as I replay the conversation with my brother through my head.

Six years of school, four internships, and a full time position at my dream job later and they still believe I’m punishing them? Tears sting my eyes and I let them flow, needing to purge this unwelcome feeling of hurt inside. Doesn’t every kid want their parents to be proud of them? To put their needs before their own? It’s like they don’t even realize the Omega Rights Act exists.

My head hangs like that until I get my breathing under control, tears dripping into the sink, then I look at myself in the mirror to assess the damage. My long, white-blonde hair is rumpled in the back from leaning against the couch, and my blue-green eyes are rimmed red from my tears. My cheeks are blotchy, like how they always get when I cry, and I silently curse myself for being so weak.

They don’t deserve my tears. Not after what they did.

Washing my face only takes a few minutes, and by the time my head hits the pillow, it only takes me seconds before I drift off to sleep.