Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 6: Savannah

Savannah, Monday, April 7th

I wake to sunlight streaming through my cracked window, my body already tensing, waiting for Tyler to burst through the door, only to be greeted by silence.

Then the realization hits me like a cool wave: I'm alone. Truly alone. No Tyler-shaped thundercloud looming over my morning. I almost laugh at my own pathetic gratitude—imagine being this excited about eating breakfast without a side serving of bruises. The sheets smell fresh from last night's bath, and I linger in their softness for a moment longer.

Rising feels different today—no rush, no fear-fueled adrenaline pushing me to prepare Tyler's breakfast before he wakes in a rage. Just the gentle morning light and the distant sounds of the city coming alive.

My bare feet touch the worn floorboards as I pad to the window. The glass is grimy, but the sunlight filters through anyway, casting dappled patterns across my faded rug. I trace a finger along the windowsill, collecting dust.

"Six more days," I whisper to myself. Six days until Tyler and James return. Six days of freedom.

In the kitchen, I open cupboards that are usually off-limits to me. Tyler keeps the good food for himself—the fresh bread, the jam, the coffee that doesn't taste like dirt. Today, they're mine. I pull down a jar of raspberry jam, the expensive kind with chunks of real fruit suspended in ruby-red sweetness.

The toaster clicks and hums as bread browns inside it. I lean against the counter, savoring the mundane miracle of not looking over my shoulder every few seconds. The apartment feels larger somehow, as if Tyler's absence has created space where before there was only suffocation.

When the toast pops up, I spread a thick layer of jam across each slice, watching the red seep into the bread's porous surface. No need to be sparing, no need to hide the evidence of my indulgence. I pour myself a cup of coffee, adding cream until it turns a perfect caramel color. The good coffee—not the dirt-flavored kind. Though honestly, maybe I should've developed a taste for dirt by now; it would've made the last three years more palatable.

At the table—the same table where Tyler taunted me yesterday—I sit and eat slowly. Crumbs scatter across the surface. I don't immediately brush them away. The jam is sweet on my tongue, the toast crunchy between my teeth. I can't remember the last time food tasted this good.

The clock on the wall reads 9:17 AM. My shift doesn't start until 5:00 PM. Hours stretch before me, unscheduled and unsupervised.

"What should I do first?" I ask the empty apartment, my voice sounding strange in the quiet.

The silence that fills the room isn't oppressive or scary. It's calm, hopeful, brimming with potential instead of fear. My shoulders, usually tensed up waiting for Tyler's next attack, slowly start to relax.

I take another bite of toast, licking jam from my fingers. A small smile forms on my lips. For the next few days, this apartment isn't a prison—it's mine. The air seems cleaner without Tyler's cigarette smoke and angry pheromones polluting it. Sunlight falls across the worn linoleum in golden rectangles. Even the constant drip from the leaky faucet sounds less irritating today.

I finish my toast, brushing away the crumbs that have scattered across the table. The unusual freedom makes me restless, like a bird discovering its cage door left open. My eyes drift to the side door—the one that leads to the alley and the mailboxes.

The mail. When was the last time I checked it? Tyler never lets me near it, claiming there's nothing there for me anyway. "Bills and more bills," he always says, snatching the stack before I can glimpse a single envelope.

I pat my pocket, feeling for the small key I keep hidden in the tiny pocket of my jeans. My one secret from Tyler, my tiny act of rebellion. I almost snort at how ridiculous it is—other omegas probably hide love letters or contraband chocolate, but here I am, heart racing over a mailbox key. Living dangerously, Savannah. Really pushing the boundaries here.

"Just a quick trip," I whisper to myself, suddenly nervous despite Tyler's absence. Old habits die hard. My body instinctively hunches as I approach the door, as if expecting a blow for my audacity.

I check the key again, then double-check it, anxiety climbing up my throat. What if the lock's been changed? What if James is lurking outside? What if—

I shake my head. "Stop it," I mutter. "He's gone. They're both gone."

My hand trembles as I unlock the door. It turns with a rusty grind that makes me wince. The door creaks open, and I step onto the narrow landing at the top of the stairs.

The contrast hits me immediately. Inside: stale air, the lingering smell of Tyler's cigarettes, and perpetual dimness. Outside: a rush of morning breeze carrying the scent of recent rain and distant cooking. The alley below isn't pretty—dumpsters line one wall, and graffiti covers most surfaces—but the sky above is gloriously, brilliantly blue.

It's sad how little it takes to make my omega happy these days. Fresh air and no immediate threats of violence—we're living the dream here. I wonder if there's a Yelp review section for "Most Pathetically Grateful Moments."

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air that doesn't taste of fear. A soft whine of pleasure escapes my throat before I can stop it—my omega responding to this small taste of freedom. My fingers grip the rusted railing as I descend the metal stairs, each step clanging softly beneath my weight.

At the bottom, puddles from last night's rain reflect fragments of sky. I sidestep them, making my way to the bank of mailboxes bolted to the building's exterior wall. Our box—number 7—is dented on one corner, the number faded almost to invisibility.

I slide my key in, holding my breath. The small door swings open, revealing a stuffed compartment. I grab everything, clutching the bundle to my chest. Standing in the alley, mail pressed against my heart, I look up at the slice of sky visible between the buildings. A sense of possibility unfurls within me—dangerous, intoxicating.

Taking a deep breath, I begin sorting through the mail.

Bills with their threatening red "PAST DUE" stamps. Flyers for takeout places that closed months ago. A political pamphlet that's already outdated. Nothing interesting, nothing—

My fingers freeze mid-sort.

There, nestled between a water bill and a pizza coupon: thick, cream-colored paper with weight and texture that screams expensive.

I pull it from the stack with trembling fingers, glancing nervously over my shoulder at the empty alley. No one's there, but the sensation of being watched prickles across my skin anyway.

The envelope feels substantial, important. A raised embossed seal decorates one corner—intricate and official-looking. I trace it with my fingertip, feeling the ridges and valleys of the design. But what stops my breath entirely is what's written across the center in flowing, elegant calligraphy:

Savannah Grace Everleigh

My full name. Not "Current Resident." Not "Tyler Bennet." But my name—all three of them written out in rich black ink that catches the morning light.

A whine builds in my throat as I stare at those three words. No one calls me by my full name. Tyler barely acknowledges my first name, let alone my middle or last. To see all three parts of my identity recognized, honored even, makes something flutter inside my chest.

"What are you?" I whisper to the envelope, as if it might answer.

Flipping the envelope over, my fingers trace the raised emblem on it—the Omega Council seal gleams up at me, unmistakable with its intricate circular design of intertwined branches. A soft whine escapes my throat, high and thin, before I can stop it. The sound echoes against the alley's brick walls, making me flinch and glance over my shoulder.

"Oh my god," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the distant street noise. "Oh my god."

Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity—here I am, in a dirty alley next to overflowing dumpsters, holding what might be the fanciest piece of mail I've ever seen. If this is my Cinderella moment, I really need to talk to someone about the setting.

The weight of the envelope seems to increase in my hands, growing heavier with possibility. I press my back against the cold brick wall, legs suddenly weak beneath me. My heart hammers so violently I fear it might crack my healing ribs.

The Omega Council doesn't send mail to just anyone. They're the governing body that oversees omega welfare, rights, and—most importantly—the Gala. The very event Tyler nearly killed me for asking about.

I slide down the wall until I'm crouching, the rough brick catching at my shirt. Cold water from a puddle seeps into my worn sneakers, but I barely notice. All my attention is fixed on those three elegant words written across the cream-colored paper: Savannah Grace Everleigh.

My full name. Someone knows my full name.

Tyler has spent years erasing me—bit by bit, blow by blow—until sometimes I wonder if Savannah Grace Everleigh exists at all. But here's proof in my hands that someone, somewhere, knows I exist.

The smart thing would be to destroy it. The Tyler-approved thing would be to never acknowledge its existence. But for once, I want to do the Savannah thing—whatever that is. Funny how after three years, that's the biggest mystery of all: who am I when I'm not being who Tyler demands?

"What do I do?" I mumble, clutching the envelope to my chest.

The answer is obvious and terrifying: I hide it. If Tyler finds this, the beating from over a week ago will seem like love taps in comparison. My fingers tighten around the envelope, creasing its perfect edges. I should destroy it now—tear it to pieces, flush it down the toilet, burn it in the kitchen sink.

But I can't. My fingers refuse to damage this tangible proof that I am more than Tyler's punching bag. More than his servant. More than his property.

A car horn blares in the distance, jarring me back to awareness of my surroundings. I'm crouched in an alley, vulnerable and exposed. Anyone could walk by—a neighbor, a tavern regular, or worse, Tyler returning unexpectedly.

Clutching the envelope to my chest, I stuff the rest of the mail hastily back into the box. Let Tyler think no one checked it while he was gone.