Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

⚠️ Savannah, Saturday, March 29th Fun fact: our floorboards have perfect pitch. Right now, they're playing Tyler's Greatest Hits, featuring his signature "I'm About to Ruin Your Morning" stomp-stomp-thud combo. The footsteps get closer, each one perfectly timed like a horror movie sound effect. Tyler's got this special walk he does when he's mad—like a T-rex trying to tiptoe, except there's nothing subtle about it. I huddle under my blanket, which has about as much structural integrity as a wet paper towel. The faint glow of early morning barely seeps into my tiny room, darkness gathering in the edges where the deteriorating wallpaper separates from the moisture-stained surfaces. Despite everything, I find myself thinking that my decorator clearly missed the memo on modern interior design—nothing says "charming fixer-upper" quite like mold patterns that resemble Rorschach tests. I wonder what a therapist would make of these particular inkblots. Your living situation displays signs of severe water damage and childhood trauma. How does that make you feel? Probably not the most professional diagnosis, but hey, at least the mold's keeping me company. The footsteps stop right outside my door. The silence is somehow worse than the stomping. Then the doorknob turns so slow it makes me want to scream. Just get it over with, I want to say, but my throat's locked up tight. Then—BANG. The door hits the wall so hard bits of paint rain down like confetti at the world's worst party. And there's Tyler, taking up the whole doorframe like some nightmare come to life. His alpha scent hits me like a slap—all metal and lightning—and it's all I can do not to throw up. "On your feet." His tone is unnervingly quiet, almost tender, but I'm not fooled. This stillness merely precedes the tempest. I hurry to an upright position, pressing my back against the cold wall. "Tyler, what's wrong—" "I TOLD YOU TO GET UP!" The phrase bursts from him, destroying the pre-dawn stillness. I scramble out of bed like it's on fire, wincing as my feet connect with the freezing floorboards. My sleepwear—a baggy, hand-me-down tee—extends beyond my knees, making me appear even smaller than I already am. A high-pitched noise begins forming in my throat, my omega's automatic reaction to such an enraged alpha, but I force it back down. Typical—every time my body decides to sing, it chooses a tune from Tyler's banned playlist. Tyler absolutely loathes that sound. I suppose my omega side never got the memo about his musical preferences. Maybe I should start a band: Savannah and the Survival Instincts, featuring hits like "Please Don't Kill Me" and "This Is Fine (It's Really Knot)." "You think I'm stupid?" he asks, stepping into the room. Each footfall makes the flimsy floorboards beneath us groan. "You think I don't hear things?" "I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper, though I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. The Omega Gala. The annual event is still two weeks away, but rumors always circulate this time of year, especially at the tavern where desperate omegas dream of finding their packs. Tyler's hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward. I stumble, nearly falling, as he drags me from the relative safety of my bedroom and into our cramped living room. "The guys at the bar can't stop talking about that f*****g Gala." He spits the word like it's poison. "And I hear you've been asking questions." My heart plummets. I had been careful—so careful—only whispering to one of the kinder regulars when Tyler was in the back office. But in a place like The Rusty Tavern, walls have ears, and loyalty is always for sale. "I just wanted to know—" His hand connects with my cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet dawn hours. Pain blooms across my face, hot and immediate. My head snaps to the side with the force of it. "You wanted to know what?" Tyler grabs my chin, fingers digging into my skin as he forces me to look at him. His gray eyes are cold, the pupils dilated with anger. "How to escape? How to make me look like I can't control my own omega?" "I'm not yours," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. Tyler's face twists with rage. He shoves me backward, and I stumble over the coffee table, sending empty beer bottles crashing to the floor. My hip catches the edge of the table, pain shooting up my side as I fall among the scattered bottles and yesterday's newspaper. "Not mine?" Tyler laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Who took you in when our parents died? Who feeds you? Clothes you? Puts a roof over your ungrateful head?" He towers over me now, and I curl inward, making myself as small as possible. My eyes dart to the door leading to the stairs, to the back of the tavern, but Tyler sees where I'm looking and smirks. "Go ahead. Try to run. See how far you get." I don't move. I've tried running before. The bruises lasted for weeks. "You listen to me." Tyler crouches down, his face inches from mine. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the veins standing out in his neck. "You are never going to that Gala. You will never leave this place. You belong to me—not by blood, not by bond, but by f*****g circumstance." I say nothing, which only seems to infuriate him more. He stands abruptly and kicks me in the side. Pain explodes along my ribs, stealing my breath. I gasp, clutching my midsection as he kicks me again, this time catching my thigh. "You're pathetic." Tyler's voice drips with disgust. "You think anyone would want you? A scrawny, useless omega who can't even defend herself?" Each word lands like a physical blow. I've heard these insults so many times they've become a part of me, woven into the fabric of my self-image. Who would want me? A nineteen-year-old omega with no money, no education, no prospects. Just the stepbrother who treats me like property. I try to crawl away, my palm slipping in something wet—beer from a broken bottle or my own blood, I'm not sure. Tyler's boot comes down on my hand, grinding my knuckles against the rough wooden floor. "Where do you think you're going?" He leans down, putting more weight on my trapped hand until I whimper. "No one wants damaged goods, Savannah." I look up at him through the curtain of my tangled hair. "Please, Tyler. I won't ask about the Gala again." "Damn right you won't." He releases my hand only to grab a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. "But I don't think you've learned your lesson yet." His fist connects with my stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, but he doesn't let go of my hair. Instead, he drags me across the floor toward the dark corner of the living room. "You want to know about the Gala so badly?" Tyler's voice is a low growl now. "Let me tell you what happens to omegas who go there without a pack's protection. They get passed around like party favors. Is that what you want? To be used by every alpha who decides you smell good?" "No," I gasp, struggling to breathe through the pain. "No, what?" Tyler demands, shaking me by the hair. "No, alpha," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. He throws me into the corner, my shoulder hitting the wall with a dull thud. "That's right. And don't you forget it." I curl into the corner, drawing my knees to my chest as Tyler paces the small living room. His heavy footsteps send tremors through the floorboards as he kicks aside broken bottles and yesterday's newspapers. "You're worthless," he spits, stopping to loom over me again. "Nothing but a burden. I should have left you to rot when our parents died." His lips curl into a cruel smile as he studies me. "Speaking of burdens... your twentieth birthday's coming up soon, isn't it? When those heats of yours start?" He lets out a harsh laugh. "You worried about that, Savy? You should be. No alpha would want to service a pathetic thing like you anyway." He kicks a broken bottle aside, the glass skittering across the floor. "Don't worry though—I've got plans for that. That cell in the basement will keep you nice and contained when the time comes. Can't have you stinking up my tavern with omega pheromones, driving away my customers." The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Twenty. Just a number, but it might as well be a death sentence. I've been losing sleep over it for weeks, tossing and turning, knowing what's coming. We all do—every unmated omega. Soon my body won't be my own anymore. Every six to eight weeks, it'll turn against me, leave me raw and wanting and helpless. Most omegas have their packs by then, safe havens of chosen family to protect them during those days of vulnerability. But me? I'll be trapped in that dank basement cell, alone with the madness of my heat, probably chained to prevent any chance of escape. I've been in the cell before, and the thought of spending my heat cycles in that damp, cramped space fills me with terror. What's worse is what I overheard him saying to James last week in the tavern's back office—thinking I couldn't hear through the thin walls as I stocked the shelves. "Once her heats kick in, her value increases tenfold," he'd said, his voice thick with cruel anticipation. "Plenty of alphas'll pay good money to spend an hour with an omega in heat. Especially one that's been... properly broken in." The memory of their laughter makes me sick now. Tyler doesn't just plan to lock me away—he plans to sell me, to turn my heats into profit. The basement cell isn't just for containment; it's going to be my prison when he starts renting me out to strange alphas, using my biology against me in the worst possible way. I press myself deeper into the corner, as if I could somehow disappear into the peeling wallpaper. My body throbs with pain—my cheek, my ribs, my knuckles, my scalp—each injury singing its own distinctive note in a symphony of agony. Tyler grabs the front of my nightshirt, yanking me forward until our faces are inches apart. "You ever ask about that Gala again, and I'll give you something to really cry about. Understand?" I nod, not trusting my voice. "Say it," he demands, giving me a shake. "I understand," I whisper. Tyler shoves me back against the wall and straightens, adjusting his clothes as if our encounter has ruffled his appearance. "Clean this mess up," he orders, gesturing to the broken bottles and scattered papers. "And be ready for your shift at noon." I remain silent, watching as he storms toward the door that leads to the outside stairs. He pauses with his hand on the knob, throwing one last venomous look over his shoulder. "One more thing," he says, his voice eerily calm again. "You think about defying me again, remember how this felt. Because next time, I'll make sure you can't work for a week. Got it?" "Got it," I whisper. The door slams behind him, the sound reverberating through the small apartment like a gunshot. His heavy footsteps fade as he descends the stairs to the alley below, leaving me alone in the growing dawn light. I stay huddled in the corner, taking inventory of my injuries like some macabre shopping list. Bruised cheek? Check. Throbbing ribs? Got those in bulk. Hair that feels like it's been through a lawn mower? Got it. At this rate, I should start a punch card system—ten beatings and the next one's free. The dark humor helps, even if it's just in my head. It's either laugh or cry, and I ran out of tears somewhere between yesterday's bruises and today's. I crawl across the room, picking up broken glass with trembling fingers, wiping spilled beer with the hem of my nightshirt. The irony isn't lost on me—here I am, cleaning up the mess he made, like some twisted Cinderella story. Except instead of a fairy godmother, I've got a psychotic stepbrother, and my glass slipper is just... well, broken glass. Prince Charming better have some damn good health insurance. Outside, the sky is lightening from black to deep blue. In a few hours, I'll have to go downstairs to work my shift at The Rusty Tavern, smiling through split lips and serving drinks with shaking hands, pretending that nothing is wrong. I don't know how long I spend trying to erase the evidence of Tyler's rage. Time seems to stretch and warp, minutes bleeding into hours. The sun creeps higher in the sky, casting harsh light on the scene of devastation. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes me. My body gives out, and I crumple to the floor. I'm so tired. Not just normal tired—bone tired. Soul tired. The kind of tired that sleep can't fix. The carpet's rough against my cheek as I lay here, but moving feels like too much work. Even crying seems like more effort than it's worth. Those whispers about the Gala keep floating around in my head though, even as everything goes fuzzy. Stories about omegas finding real packs, actual families. Having somewhere to belong. It sounds like a fairy tale, but right now… even a fairy tale is better than this nightmare.