Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 5: Savannah

Savannah, Sunday, April 6th

As the lingering echo of threats fades, my hands relax ever so slightly as I survey the empty kitchen with a fragile smile. The constant hum of the refrigerator fills the silence, a comforting white noise compared to Tyler's thunderous presence. His untouched plate of eggs and toast still sits on the table, growing cold.

"A whole week," I whisper to myself, the words hanging like a prayer.

I reach for his abandoned plate with trembling fingers. For once, I can eat without fear. I'm lucky if he ever leaves me anything to eat, and if he does, I can only eat when he gives me permission—and sometimes he never does. The mere act of lifting the fork to my mouth without waiting for approval feels like a forbidden luxury.

The eggs are cold and rubbery, yet they taste like freedom. It's strange how freedom tastes exactly like undercooked eggs and lukewarm toast. Gordon Ramsay would have a fit, but to me, it's a five-star meal—the "Tyler's Not Here to Throw It Against the Wall" special. I savor every bite, chewing slowly, letting the taste linger. I can't even remember the last time I ate without hunching my shoulders, waiting for Tyler to explode.

After I finish, I carefully wash the plate, scrubbing away any trace of my tiny act of defiance. The apartment feels transformed without Tyler's heavy presence—lighter, freer, like it can finally exhale. Even the water stain on the ceiling seems less bleak. I swear it's morphing into a giant middle finger pointed right at him. The thought makes me giggle, and for a fleeting second, I feel a glimmer of... happiness.

I hurry back to my room, my steps a little quicker now, a sense of purpose settling in. I kneel by my bed, reaching under the thin mattress to pull out my worn-out novel. The pages are soft and curled at the edges from being read so many times in secret. It smells like dust and hidden moments, its spine cracked in all the places I know by heart.

"Hello, old friend," I murmur, running my fingers over the faded cover.

Reading is another small rebellion, a stolen pleasure Tyler begrudges me. "Waste of time," he sneers, his voice laced with contempt, often ripping pages from my precious books when he discovers them. This one, though—a worn paperback romance about an omega finding her pack, her family, her home—has become adept at playing hide-and-seek. It's a tattered escape hatch to a world where omegas are cherished, not controlled, a world I long for with every fiber of my being.

I curl up on my bed, the springs creaking beneath my weight. A soft whine escapes my throat—not from pain this time, but from the simple pleasure of being alone with my thoughts. The sound startles me; I've trained myself to swallow those omega sounds around Tyler.

The afternoon unfolds, a blank canvas of time just for me. I nibble on a handful of stale crackers—a secret stash I'd squirreled away—as the soft light from the bedroom window illuminates these small, stolen moments of self-care. With every turn of the page, I feel a flicker of defiance.

Later, I find myself back in the bathroom, digging through the cabinet under the sink. My fingers brush against a cool glass bottle—an old nail polish, the purple inside separated and thick. A quick shake brings it back to life, and I settle cross-legged on the floor, carefully painting my toenails. The sharp chemical smell stings my nose, but there's a strange comfort in it too.

"Pretty," I whisper, wiggling my toes as the polish dries.

Tyler would hate this. He says colored nails make me look "cheap," but the truth is, he hates anything that makes me feel good about myself. The purple gleams under the harsh bathroom light, a tiny splash of color in my gray existence.

Once my nails are dry, I quietly make my way back to the living room and turn on the ancient TV set, keeping the volume low. I settle on a sitcom, the recorded laughter a pale imitation of happiness, but a welcome sound nonetheless. The characters' problems seem ridiculous—oh no, your date ordered the wrong wine, how tragic. Try having an alpha who thinks dinner plates make great frisbees. I don't remember the last time I laughed—really laughed—but this feels close enough.

As evening approaches, my stomach growls, reminding me it's time to eat. I head to the kitchen, a small smile playing on my lips. Tonight, I can prepare a meal without the usual knot of anxiety in my stomach. I assemble a simple sandwich, but it's my sandwich. Extra mustard, a generous layer of carefully arranged lettuce—small details I normally wouldn't dare to indulge in. I take my time, savoring the quiet normalcy of the task, the absence of Tyler's looming presence a stark contrast to the usual hurried, fearful meals I'm accustomed to.

I sit at the table, a rare moment of peace settling over me as I enjoy my meal without the fear of Tyler's critical gaze, sharp words, or fist. The fading light of day filters through the grime-streaked kitchen window, a muted tapestry of rain stains and dust, offering a bittersweet backdrop to this stolen moment of normalcy. It's a fragile peace, I know, but I savor it nonetheless, letting the quiet of the evening wash over me as I steal back a few precious hours of simply being me.

The growing shadows stretch across the kitchen floor, a stark reminder that my precious time alone is slipping away. But in this moment—this stolen, quiet moment—I am alone. And safe. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and for once, I don't wipe them away. I let them fall.

"One week," I say again, the words both a promise and a prayer.

I clear my plate and wash it carefully, then return to the living room. The couch cushions still bear the imprint of Tyler's body, but I sit anyway, tucking my legs beneath me, admiring my purple toenails in the dim light of the television.

I allow myself to imagine a different life—one where fear doesn't cling to me like a second skin, where I don't jump at every little noise, where simple pleasures like eating, reading, and painting my nails aren't punishable offenses.

A life where I might find a pack of my own.

The TV flickers, casting blue shadows across the living room as I glance at the clock—9:27 p.m. I switch off the television, plunging the apartment into darkness broken only by the dim glow of streetlights filtering through thin curtains. The silence wraps around me like a blanket, comforting rather than threatening.

My gaze drifts to the bathroom door. A bath. When was the last time I had a proper bath? Tyler usually limits me to three-minute showers, standing outside the door counting down the seconds, claiming I'm "wasting hot water."

I hesitate for a moment, biting my lip, before quietly crossing the floor. The bathroom light buzzes to life, casting a dim glow on the chipped tiles and rust-stained tub. It's not luxurious, but tonight, it's my sanctuary.

I turn the faucet, and water rushes out, hot and steaming. The old pipes complain with a groan and a shudder, but the water runs clear. Under the sink, tucked away in the back, I find an old bottle of bubble bath—a gift last Christmas from a kind regular at the bar who'd noticed my split lip. I've never felt safe enough to use it before now.

The scent of artificial lavender fills the small bathroom as I pour a generous amount under the running water. Bubbles form, iridescent in the harsh light, transforming the grimy tub into something almost magical.

I peel off my clothes slowly, wincing as fabric rubs against healing bruises. My reflection in the cloudy mirror shows a body mapped with fading injuries—yellowing bruises on my ribs, healing cuts on my arms, the ghost of Tyler's handprints still visible on my wrists.

The water is almost too hot as I lower myself into it, but the heat soothes my aching muscles. I slide down until the water reaches my chin, bubbles tickling my nose. A soft whine of pleasure escapes my throat, and for once, I don't try to suppress it.

"This is heaven," I whisper to the empty bathroom, my voice echoing slightly against the tiles. The label promised "luxurious relaxation" and "spa-like tranquility." Sure, if your idea of a spa includes mysterious rust stains and a dripping faucet that sounds like it's counting down to doomsday. But right now? It's the Four Seasons as far as I'm concerned.

I soak until my fingers prune and the water begins to cool, washing my hair with deliberate care, massaging my scalp where Tyler had yanked it. The simple act of caring for myself feels revolutionary.

When I finally step out, wrapping myself in a threadbare towel, my skin is flushed pink. I feel lighter somehow, as if I've washed away more than just the day's grime.

In my bedroom, I find my softest nightshirt—one Tyler hasn't torn or stained—and pull it over my head. The fabric settles against my clean skin like a caress. I brush my damp hair, working through the tangles with patient fingers, before climbing into bed.

The sheets feel cool against my warm skin as I nestle into my pillow. Outside, a car passes, its headlights briefly illuminating my ceiling before fading away. In the distance, the city hums its nighttime song.

My thoughts drift to the Omega Gala. Six days away. What would it be like to attend? To walk into that grand ballroom wearing something beautiful instead of my stained work clothes? To have alphas look at me with interest rather than the leering contempt I'm used to at the tavern?

I close my eyes, imagining myself in a flowing dress, my hair styled elegantly instead of hastily tied back to keep it out of customers' drinks. In my mind, the ballroom glitters with chandeliers, the air perfumed with expensive scents rather than stale beer. Though knowing my luck, I'd probably trip on my way in, face-plant into the punch bowl, and become the next viral omega fail video. Still... maybe it would be worth it, just to see Tyler's face when the video hits a million views.

I can't help but wonder if there would be music. Dancing. Would someone—an alpha, perhaps, or even a beta—ask me to dance? Would they hold me gently, respectfully, their hands careful not to bruise?

I imagine meeting a pack there—alphas with kind eyes and gentle hands, a beta with a soothing voice who doesn't shout or threaten. I imagine belonging somewhere, to someone who values me.

The fantasy is so vivid I can almost hear the music, feel the gentle pressure of a respectful hand at the small of my back. In this dream, I'm not afraid. I'm cherished.

Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, pulling me deeper into the fantasy. As I drift off, I hold tight to the image of that glittering ballroom, of kind eyes and gentle hands, of a future where I'm more than just Tyler's punching bag.

For tonight, at least, I can dream.