Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 9: Sebastian

Sebastian, Monday, April 7th

I stand in the mansion's study with my arms crossed, staring at the mahogany desk cluttered with maps and tactical plans. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the room, highlighting the tension in the air. Maddox's firm, measured tone fills the space as he points to various locations on a worn map.

"We'll enter from the east side. Security's lightest there," he says, his finger tracing a path. "Axel will take point."

Axel nods, that wild gleam in his eyes growing brighter at the prospect of action. "About f*****g time. I've been itching for something to do."

Jace leans against the bookshelf, his relaxed posture at odds with the seriousness of the conversation. "The intel suggests minimal resistance, but we should prepare for complications."

I step forward, my voice cutting through their planning. "I should come with you. I can—"

Maddox's head snaps up, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. "No."

"But I—"

"I said no, Sebastian." His tone leaves no room for argument. "It's too dangerous. We can't risk you getting hurt or worse."

"I can help," I say, but even as the words form, the weight of their expectations crushes me. Always the omega to be protected. Never the fighter, despite all my training.

"You'll stay here where it's safe," Maddox continues, already turning back to the map. "End of discussion."

My pulse races, heat flooding my face. Something snaps inside me—years of being sidelined, of being treated like I'm made of glass despite proving myself time and again.

I slam my fist onto the desk. Papers fly across the hardwood in a chaotic flurry, scattering their precious plans. "I'm not some f*cking china doll!" My voice cracks with frustration, my hands trembling at my sides. Years of suppressed resentment bubble up like acid in my throat. The irony isn't lost on me—here I am, throwing what amounts to an omega tantrum, probably proving their point. But I'm too far gone to care.

Maddox straightens, surprise flashing across his features before his expression hardens. Jace pushes away from the bookshelf, his usual calm demeanor slipping.

"Sebastian," he starts, his tone placating.

"Don't." The word comes out as a growl. "Just don't."

With a surge of anger and desperation, I shove past them, intentionally slamming my shoulder into Axel's unmovable frame. "f**k this."

Axel catches my arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Where do you think you're going?"

I wrench away from him. "Anywhere but here."

In the dim corridor, as I storm out, I collide with Warrick. His solid frame barely budges, his hands instinctively reaching to steady me.

"What's wrong?" he asks, concern etched into his usually stoic features.

I can only muster a curt, dismissive "Piss off."

I push past him too, ignoring the hurt that flashes briefly across his face. The grand staircase creaks under my angry footsteps as I descend, the familiar scents of home—sandalwood, leather, pine—suddenly suffocating.

The front door slams behind me with satisfying force. My heavy footsteps pound on the gravel outside as I leave the opulent mansion behind and stride down a winding path into the forest. The steady cadence of my breathing matches the rustle of dry leaves beneath my feet. With each step, my omega fights against the anger, seeking peace in the familiar scents of earth and pine.

Drawn by the soft murmur of a nearby stream, I wander deeper into the woods. Its gentle rhythm offers a soothing balm to the turmoil inside me. I follow its course, looking for a moment of peace away from the mansion, away from their well-intentioned but suffocating protection.

A low whine escapes my throat, but I clamp down on it, refusing to let my designation define me. Not today. Not when I've worked so hard to prove I'm more than just the pack's omega.

The stream comes into view, sunlight dancing off its surface. I pick up a stone and hurl it into the water, watching it disappear with a satisfying splash. Then another. And another. Each one carrying away a fragment of my frustration.

I'm not sure how much time has passed as I hurl yet another stone into the stream, watching it disappear beneath the rippling surface with a satisfying plunk. The repetitive motion helps calm the storm of emotions raging inside me. I'm about to throw another when something stops me dead in my tracks.

A scent.

It hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath and making my head spin. Vanilla and cinnamon swirl together, sweet and warm, with an underlying note that speaks of omega. But not just any omega—this scent calls to something deep within me, awakening instincts I didn't even know I had. My hands shake as I inhale again, trying to memorize every note of her essence. It's like finding a piece of myself I never knew was missing.

Taking another deep breath, I let the aroma fill my lungs. A warmth spreads through my chest, settling low in my belly. It's intoxicating, drawing me in like a siren's call.

I follow it upstream, moving quietly through the underbrush, each step deliberate and silent from years of Warrick's training. My heart pounds against my ribcage, but my feet make no sound on the forest floor.

That's when I see her. The world seems to still, even the stream's gentle babble fading to background noise. Across the water, partially hidden by the trees, sits a young woman. She's hunched over a sketchpad, her platinum blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across her delicate features. My omega, usually so controlled, so contained, surges forward with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

I'm completely captivated. I can't look away.

She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. But it's more than just her appearance. There's something about her—a vulnerability, a quiet strength—that resonates with me on a level I can't explain.

I watch as her hand moves across the paper, creating lines and shapes I can't quite make out from this distance. Her focus is intense, her brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, I feel like a sentinel on duty, awed by her presence and compelled to protect her from any threat.

Time seems to stand still as I observe her. I don't know how long I've been standing here, drinking in every detail of her appearance, when she suddenly glances at her watch. The small, startled gesture snaps me out of my trance.

She begins to pack up her things, and as she moves, I catch sight of something that makes my blood run cold. A fading bruise mars the delicate skin beneath her eye, its sickly yellow-green a stark contrast to her pale complexion.

My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Who dared to lay a hand on her? The urge to hunt down whoever hurt her surges through me, a primal need to protect and avenge.

But then she winces, grabbing her side as she stands, and my heart shatters. It's not just the bruise on her face—someone has hurt her badly, leaving marks that go far deeper than what I can see.

I want to rush to her, to gather her in my arms and promise that no one will ever hurt her again. But I force myself to stay rooted to the spot. I don't know her. She doesn't know me. And right now, I'd probably look like just another threat.

So instead, I watch as she gathers her belongings and starts to make her way through the trees. Her movements are careful, deliberate, as if she's trying not to aggravate hidden injuries. I hold my breath as she stumbles, catching herself against a tree. Each step she takes feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

Before she disappears completely from view, I make a decision. I can't just let her go without knowing she's safe. Silently, I follow her path, keeping a safe distance and making sure to stay hidden among the trees.

She moves with purpose, clearly familiar with these woods. I trail behind her, my training allowing me to move quietly through the underbrush. Every so often, she pauses, looking around as if she senses she's being watched. In those moments, I freeze, barely daring to breathe.

As we near the edge of the forest, I catch snippets of distant noise—car horns, voices, the general bustle of civilization. She's heading back to town, I realize. Back to wherever—or whoever—hurt her.

The thought makes me sick.

She steps out of the forest's embrace, and just like that, she's gone. I stand at the tree line, hidden in the shadows, watching as she disappears down a street lined with run-down buildings and flickering neon signs.

Part of me wants to follow her further, to make sure she gets wherever she's going safely. But I know I can't. I've already overstepped by trailing her this far.

With a heavy heart, I turn back towards the depths of the forest. Back towards the mansion and the pack that, despite their overprotectiveness, I know would do anything for me.

As I walk, my mind races. Who is she? Why was she hurt? How can I help her?

I don't have answers to any of these questions, but I know one thing for certain: I will see her again. I have to. That scent, that connection I felt—it means something. And I won't rest until I figure out what.

The mansion comes into view, its imposing structure a stark contrast to the wild beauty of the forest. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the confrontation I know is coming. But as I climb the steps to the front door, I realize something has changed.

I'm no longer angry about being left behind. Now, I have a purpose—a mission of my own. And nothing, not even my overprotective pack, will stop me from seeing it through.