Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 3: Savannah

Savannah, Saturday, March 29th

Time slips through my fingers like water down the drain. Each small task—brushing my teeth, combing my hair, finding clean clothes that won't press too hard against my bruises—takes three times longer than it should. My body moves like a rusty machine, each motion requiring conscious effort and negotiation with pain.

By the time I'm somewhat presentable, the clock's steady march has eaten away most of my remaining time, leaving me with precious few minutes to steel myself for what lies ahead. One final glance in the mirror confirms what I already know—the concealer is a joke, a thin veneer that fools no one.

But it doesn't matter. The patrons of The Rusty Tavern aren't known for their concern.

The stairs leading down to the bar creak and groan under my weight, each step sending jolts of pain through my battered body. The air grows heavier as I descend, thick with the familiar stench of desperation and decay. I grip the splintered handrail, my knuckles white as I navigate the treacherous descent.

At the bottom, I pause, taking in the familiar scene. The Rusty Tavern looks even more depressing in daylight, when thin streams of sunlight cut through the grimy windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The place reeks of stale beer, cigarettes, and sweat—a cocktail of misery that's become as familiar to me as my own scent.

"You're late," Tyler barks from behind the bar, not bothering to look up from the register he's counting.

I check the clock above the bar. 11:58. Two minutes early, actually, but I know better than to correct him.

"Sorry," I murmur, grabbing a rag from beneath the counter. It's damp and smells of mildew, but it's all we've got.

I start with the tables, wiping down sticky surfaces and arranging mismatched chairs. Each movement is a negotiation with pain, a careful dance to avoid aggravating my injuries. The tables are scarred with cigarette burns and carved initials, years of abuse etched into their surfaces. Not unlike my own skin.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air and the day's first customers—a group of construction workers coming off the night shift, their clothes dusty and their eyes tired. They settle at a table in the corner, already loud despite the early hour.

"Savannah! Beers all around," one calls, his eyes lingering on my face a beat too long. I see the moment he notices the bruise, the slight narrowing of his eyes before he looks away, pretending he hasn't seen.

Nobody ever says anything. Not here.

I bring their beers, setting the bottles down with practiced efficiency despite my trembling hands. One of them—Mike, I think his name is—reaches out and brushes his fingers against my wrist.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low enough that the others can't hear. His concern washes over me, his alpha scent shifting to something warmer—like fresh-baked bread and wood smoke, his protective instincts kicking in.

I pull my hand away, forcing a smile that pulls painfully at my split lip. "Just clumsy. Fell down the stairs." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, as familiar as the copper tang of blood. I've fallen down so many imaginary stairs, I should be living in the basement by now.

Mike's scent shifts to frustration tinged with guilt, the usual cocktail I get from alphas who know better but choose to do nothing. It's almost worse than indifference—this knowledge that they see my pain and still walk away.

Mike doesn't believe me—I can see it in his eyes—but he nods anyway, turning back to his friends. Another person choosing the comfort of ignorance over the discomfort of intervention.

The bar fills gradually as the day wears on. I move between tables, taking orders, delivering drinks, wiping spills. My body operates on autopilot while my mind drifts, detached from the pain and exhaustion.

"Did you hear about the Omega Gala?"

The words snap me back to awareness. Two men at a nearby table lean close, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

"Yeah, it's next weekend, right? Heard they're expecting record numbers this year. Even Pack Steele is supposed to attend."

"No s**t? The Steeles?" The second man whistles low. "Richest pack in three states. Heard they're worth billions."

I slow my movements, pretending to wipe a nearby table as I strain to hear more. Pack Steele—I've heard whispers of the name here and there, always spoken with a mix of awe and envy, but that's about all I know. Just another wealthy pack that wouldn't look twice at a battered tavern omega. Still, something flutters in my chest at the mention of their name.

"Makes sense. Economy's in the shitter. More omegas desperate for security."

A laugh, harsh and grating. "More like desperate for a knot."

I flinch, nearly dropping the glass I'm clearing. The comment hangs in the air, a reminder of what I am and what I'm worth to some of these people. Pack Steele, galas, security—they belong to a different world, one that exists behind velvet ropes and marble walls, not in places where omegas wipe tables with mildewy rags and dodge wandering hands.

"Hey, sweetheart." One of the men notices me hovering. "Another round when you get a chance."

I nod, turning to head back to the bar, but his hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Pain flares up my arm as his fingers press against this morning's bruises.

"You ever been to one of those galas?" he asks, his breath hot against my face as he pulls me closer. "Pretty little thing like you would clean up nice."

I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. My pulse thunders against his fingers, my omega instincts screaming danger. "I don't—I haven't—"

"Leave her be, Carl." The other man at the table sighs. "Can't you see she's had enough trouble?"

My wrist throbs where Carl grips me, his fingerprints overlapping with Tyler's from this morning. Layer upon layer of bruises—my body's twisted timeline, marking the passage of hours in shades of purple and blue.

Carl's eyes flick to my face, taking in the poorly concealed bruise, and his grip loosens. "Just making conversation," he mutters, releasing me.

I retreat to the bar, heart hammering in my chest. Tyler watches from his position by the register, eyes narrowed. He saw. Of course he saw.

"What was that about?" he demands when I reach for the beer tap.

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just taking an order."

Tyler's jaw tightens, but he says nothing more, turning his attention to a new customer at the far end of the bar.

I fill two mugs with beer, the amber liquid foaming at the top. As I turn to deliver them, I nearly collide with a man I don't recognize—tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that seem to look straight through my carefully constructed facade. His scent hits me first: old books and rain, nothing like the stale beer and desperation that usually permeates The Rusty Tavern. No aggressive alpha posturing, no hint of the predatory interest I've learned to fear.

"Excuse me," I murmur, stepping around him, fighting the omega instinct to pause, to seek out more of that calming scent.

"It's the only escape for someone like you," he says quietly as I pass, his words barely audible over the din of the bar. "Check your mail, little omega. Your chance is coming."

I freeze, nearly dropping the beers, his words striking something deep within me—hope, maybe, or fear. Or both. "What?" I whisper, my heart racing as I turn back to face him.

But he's gone, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of old books and rain, as if he was never there at all.

The stranger's words about checking my mail echo in my head. What next—is my fairy godmother going to pop out of the jukebox? Transform this serving tray into a magical carriage? I almost snort at the thought. Though honestly, even if she turned me into a pumpkin at midnight, it'd still be an upgrade from my current situation. At least pumpkins don't have to serve beer to handsy alphas.

Tyler's voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone a low growl. "Stop daydreaming, Savannah. You've got work to do."

I nod, my gaze drifting back to where the stranger disappeared before continuing with my task.

The hours slip away, marked only by the steady stream of customers and the growing ache in my bones. Outside, the sun sets, casting long shadows through the grimy windows, and the day crowd slowly gives way to the night regulars.

The night winds down like a clock running out of time. Each passing minute brings me closer to being alone with Tyler again, and the thought makes my hands shake as I collect empty bottles. The stranger's words about checking my mail feel like a fever dream now, a moment of madness born from desperation.

The rest of my shift passes in a haze of orders, spilled drinks, and wandering hands I have to dodge. By closing time, my body is a symphony of pain, each movement a new note in an endless composition of agony.

The last customer staggers out just after 2 AM, leaving behind a mess of bottles and cigarette butts. Tyler locks the door behind them, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the sudden quiet.

"Clean up," he orders, not looking at me as he heads for the office. "I've got paperwork." The threat in his voice is clear—everything better be perfect when he comes back out.

I nod, though he's already gone, and begin the nightly ritual of wiping tables and sweeping floors. My movements are mechanical, driven by muscle memory rather than conscious thought.

I hear shuffling from the office, the scratch of pen on paper punctuated by the occasional clink of a bottle. Each sound makes me work faster, knowing his patience won't last forever.

When the main area is as clean as it's going to get, I retreat to the darkest corner of the bar, collapsing onto a threadbare couch that smells of cigarettes and spilled whiskey. My body slumps against the worn cushions, every muscle screaming in protest.

I stare at nothing, eyes unfocused, as tears I've worked so hard to keep at bay begin to slip silently down my cheeks. They sting as they track over cuts and bruises, little rivers of saltwater carving paths through the makeup I'd so carefully applied. Each drop feels like an admission of weakness, a betrayal of the strength I pretend to have.

The Omega Gala. An escape. The words echo in my mind, a dangerous whisper of hope I can't afford to entertain.

I curl into myself, making my body as small as possible, and try to quiet my treacherous thoughts. My omega instincts war between submission and survival, between the urge to appease the alpha in the other room and the desperate need to flee.

The tears fall faster now, but I make no sound. In this, at least, I've learned my lesson well. My scent, already soured by fear, takes on the burnt sugar notes of despair, but in the cigarette-stained corner of the bar, no one is close enough to notice.