Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 4: Savannah

Savannah, Sunday, April 6th

I wake, still exhausted but knowing I have to get up or face the consequences. The mattress creaks as I sit up, each movement sending small waves of pain through my still-healing body. Tyler's assault from over a week ago has left its mark—yellowing bruises that should have faded by now still mottle my skin like a macabre watercolor.

I press gentle fingers against my ribs, wincing at the tenderness. An omega's body usually heals faster (not as fast as an alpha or even a beta), but not when it's starved of proper nutrition and rest. Not when it's constantly under stress, waiting for the next blow to fall.

"Just get through today," I whisper to myself, the sound barely disturbing the stale air of my cramped bedroom.

The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet as I shuffle to the tiny mirror propped against the wall. Morning light hasn't yet penetrated the grimy window, so I flick on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its harsh glow is unforgiving, highlighting every mark on my body.

A fading bruise circles my left eye. My split lip has healed into a thin line of scar tissue. Finger-shaped marks still wrap around my wrists like macabre bracelets. I turn, examining the larger bruises on my back and sides, their edges morphing from deep purple to sickly yellow-green.

The mirror reflects a room as battered as I am—peeling wallpaper, water stains creeping across the ceiling, a wardrobe with one door hanging askew. The whole place reeks of stale beer that wafts up from the tavern below, mingling with the lingering scent of my fear and pain.

I open the creaking wardrobe and pull out my clothes for the day—faded jeans with worn knees, a long-sleeved shirt to hide the worst of the bruises. The fabric's worn thin from a million washes, but at least it's clean. Small victories.

I move like an old lady as I get dressed, trying not to aggravate my injuries any more than they already are. A whine builds in my throat as I raise my arms to pull on the shirt, the omega in me responding to pain with an instinctive sound of distress. I swallow it down. Tyler hates those sounds.

Since that morning over a week ago, he's been relatively restrained—just the occasional slap when I'm too slow with an order, or fingers digging into my arm when he thinks I'm paying too much attention to a customer. The memory of his rage seems to have satisfied him for now, but I know better than to think it will last.

I check the time on my battered alarm clock—8:33 AM. Tyler won't be up for another hour at least, especially after closing the bar late last night. Time enough to prepare his breakfast, to show my usefulness, to avoid giving him a reason to lash out again.

I slip out of my room, carefully closing the door behind me. The apartment's dead quiet except for distant traffic and the building settling with its usual morning groans. Spring has brought warmer temperatures, but mornings still hold a chill that seeps through the poorly insulated walls.

I make my way down the hallway, the floorboards creaking a familiar pattern under my feet—I've learned which ones to avoid, creating a silent path through our personal minefield. Through the thin walls, I can hear the first stirrings of life from the tavern below. Metal kegs rolling across concrete, the clash of bottles being sorted, the morning delivery guy cursing at the stubborn back door. The sounds are almost comforting in their predictability.

The kitchen is small but functional—a gas stove with one burner that doesn't work, a refrigerator that hums too loudly, countertops stained with years of use. I move through the space with practiced efficiency, pulling out eggs and bread.

As I crack eggs into the pan, I allow myself a moment of hope. The Omega Gala is this coming weekend. The mysterious man's words echo in my mind: "It's the only escape for someone like you."

His words have planted a seed I can't ignore. A chance. An escape. Hope is dangerous though. Hope makes you take risks. And risks, in my world, lead to pain.

The eggs sizzle in the pan, each pop of grease making me flinch—everything's a potential threat these days. My hands move on autopilot through the familiar routine: two eggs, over easy, toast barely browned, coffee strong enough to strip paint. It's amazing how survival can come down to something as simple as remembering how someone likes their breakfast.

I carefully arrange breakfast on our beat-up kitchen table. Welcome to Casa de Tyler, where every surface tells a story—cigarette burns chronicle his drunk poetry sessions, knife marks tally his temper tantrums, and endless beer rings create our own twisted version of Olympic logos. Martha Stewart would have a stroke if she saw this place. Then again, so would any sane person.

The toast is a shade too dark, the eggs a tad runny, but even if he allowed me to eat, my stomach's too twisted with anxiety. Between double shifts at the tavern and Tyler's "rules" about grocery shopping, our pantry's about as empty as my hopes of getting out. The fridge takes the opportunity to make its usual dying-whale sound—honestly, at this point, I think it's trying to communicate in morse code. S.O.S., probably. Or maybe it's plotting its own escape. Lucky appliance.

Mornings are supposed to be safer. At least that's what I keep telling myself as I jump at every little noise—the toaster popping, the fridge's death rattle, even my own breathing seems too loud. But "safe" in this house? Yeah, right. That's like believing in fairy tales.

I'm in the middle of pouring a cup of coffee when the front door flies open so hard I swear the hinges are gonna give up and die right there. Tyler bursts in like a storm front, James drifting in behind him like that creepy shadow that follows you in nightmares. The blast of cold air they bring carries their scents—Tyler's bitter smoke and James's dark spices—and my stomach does this weird flip-flop thing it always does when there are angry alphas around. My grip tightens on the coffee pot, knuckles white against the handle, as that metallic edge to Tyler's scent makes me want to puke.

"Savannah!" Tyler's voice hits me like a slap. There's that vein popping in his forehead—never a good sign.

I nearly drop the damn coffee pot, my hands betraying me like they always do when I'm scared. Coffee sloshes around, and I have this crazy moment where I'm more worried about spilling it than what Tyler might do. Funny how the brain works when you're terrified. That little omega whine builds in my throat—the one that always gets me in trouble—but I choke it back down. My body's got a real talent for picking the absolute worst moments to remind me of my designation. Thanks, biology. Really appreciate it.

Tyler shoves a coffee mug at me, the chipped ceramic scraping against my palm. "Fill it," he demands, drumming his fingers impatiently on the countertop.

I pour with trembling hands, spilling a few drops onto the table. Tyler doesn't notice, or doesn't care enough to comment. The dark liquid pools on the wood, joining countless other stains.

"James and I are off on business for at least a week, maybe longer," he says, gulping down half the scalding coffee in one go. His eyes narrow as he watches me over the rim of his mug. "But don't think you can slack off, you hear me? Jack will be watching."

The news should bring relief—a week without Tyler's fists, without his rage—but the mention of Jack sends ice through my veins. The assistant manager at the Rusty Tavern has never raised a hand to me, but his calculating eyes miss nothing. He reports everything back to Tyler with clinical precision. Every misstep, every second of tardiness, every customer I've smiled at too warmly.

"I understand," I whisper, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, counting the scuff marks on the linoleum.

James is doing his statue impression by the door again. You'd think the guy was made of marble or something, except his boots make this tap-tap-tap on the floor that's like Chinese water torture. He's different from Tyler—Tyler's all volcano and lava, but James? He's that quiet kid from school who definitely has a manifesto hidden under his bed. His green eyes don't just look at you; they dissect you, like he's taking notes for his future serial killer memoir.

The worst part isn't even what he does—it's what he doesn't do. Tyler you can read like a book, but James? He's written in some language I don't understand, and that terrifies me more than any punch Tyler's ever thrown. My omega instincts go completely haywire around him, like they know something I don't.

"And don't even think about that f*****g Gala," Tyler growls, slamming his mug down hard enough to make me flinch. Coffee splashes everywhere, and I know I'll be the one cleaning it up later. The Omega Gala—my one shot at something better, dangling just out of reach like everything else in my life.

"I won't," I say quickly, wanting to head off whatever creative threat he's cooking up. My heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice. Six days. The Gala's in six days, and I'm stuck here playing housemaid to a nightmare.

His hand shoots out, fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to look at him. Everything in me screams wrong wrong wrong. His scent intensifies—smoke and rage and something else that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. He holds me there for a long moment, making sure I understand the threat, before shoving me away with enough force that I stumble back against the counter.

"Let's go," Tyler says to James, who hasn't moved from his position by the door. "We're burning daylight."

James gives me one last appraising look, his lips curving into something that's not quite a smile before he turns to follow Tyler. That look chills me more than Tyler's outright violence—there's something calculating in it, as if he's solving a puzzle with pieces I can't see.

The door slams behind them with the finality of a coffin lid, their heavy footsteps retreating down the creaky stairs. Each step echoes like a heartbeat, counting down to what should be freedom but feels more like a suspended sentence. I count them silently, not daring to move, barely breathing, until the distant rumble of Tyler's car engine fades into the morning.

Only then do I allow myself to shake, to feel the full weight of fear and hope warring in my chest. A week without Tyler's fists. A week with just Jack's cold surveillance. A week closer to the Gala that whispers promises of escape.

I press my palms flat against the counter to still their trembling, watching morning light crawl across the stained linoleum. Six days. The number bounces around my head like a deranged pinball. Six days to either find my fairy godmother or accept that my pumpkin of a life isn't turning into a carriage anytime soon. Though knowing my luck, even if I did find a fairy godmother, she'd probably be working for Tyler.