Page 15 of Love Me Knot, Part One (Knotty Omegas #1)

NATE

I’m neck deep in an engine rebuild, bear paw hands trying to fit the tiniest bolt known to man into an equally small hole I can’t fucking see when someone slams a door.

The bolt wobbles and frustration simmers below the surface, unfamiliar yet not.

My instincts have been better since I started therapy, but they’re still unstable and hard to regulate on a good day.

Meaning, I’m two seconds away from snapping like a twig if I can’t get this to work.

Dad’s voice echoes gently in my mind. Nice and easy, bud. Take your time.

He was a plumber by trade, but his passion was cars.

Even too exhausted to function, he’d coach me through each repair like he had all the time in the world.

Attempting to channel his energy, I hold my breath and try again, but another loud clang and the bolt slips out of my grasp, disappearing to whatever hellscape holds lost tools, missing socks, and my fucking patience.

“What the hell, Con?”

Snatching a shop rag to wipe my hands, I storm across the garage to my pack lead. Messy hair falls around his eyes and sunken cheeks. Dark shadows and tattoos standing out against too pale skin. His lean body lists like he hasn’t slept.

Connor looks like me years ago and I don’t appreciate the mirror moment.

The insane air filtration system we put in the shop is a godsend. Without it, I’d be choking on icicles with the stress wafting off him, instead of getting the faintest hint of frost.

“Which project?” I ask, knowing he’s in full creative block. There’s no other explanation.

“The Cheveau.”

Ahhhh. Moore Jr gives us creative control but refuses to back the fuck off and let us work. Plus, the theme’s still up in the air and we’ve only got two more projects to go.

“Let me see what you have.”

“It’s not right.”

“Got that already.” I wave at the destruction on the floor, an uncommon occurrence that my friend seems ashamed of, and hold my hand out for the sketchbook Connor’s guarding. “Let me look while you sort out the mess.”

He reluctantly hands it over and gets to work. Meanwhile, I’m in awe. The design is beautiful. Dark and moody with oil slick colors that fit our brand well. Yet, he’s right. Something’s off, even if I can’t put my finger on what it is.

“The vibe’s all wrong,” I finally say, hating that I can’t help. Connor groans, tossing his head onto the desk so fast I barely catch him in time. The last thing we need is our pack lead lobotomizing himself over AJ fucking Moore. “Have you shown Dez?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it either.

” Our packmate stands in the doorway, coveralls rolled down to his hips.

The paint studio’s hot, so he’s in a tank, splashes of electric blue stark against the deep brown skin of his muscled arms and chest. I’m huge, but Dez works out for fun.

Pretty sure he can bench a car if he wants.

He glances at Connor reluctantly. “Deep water chopper’s done.”

Which means our schedule just got tighter.

Connor’s scent spikes. With a glare at the clock, he marches out of the shop. “Get changed. We’re going to Diamond’s and we’re not leaving until I figure this shit out.”

On the outskirts of Seaport, Diamond’s Fabric Emporium has it all. Lace from generational artisans, luxury fabrics that cost more than some cars and a warehouse you can get lost in. It’s the perfect reboot to Connor’s brain.

Already he’s calmed, quietly discussing new themes with Dez. Meanwhile, I’m crawling out of my skin.

There’s an itch beneath it, this thing that’s been there since my family died. Shouting that stopping is death.

It could be the shit from earlier, but this feels like more than my typical anxiety. Maybe it’s my fucked up instincts or maybe it’s something else clawing my chest apart, but I can’t just stand here. I need to move before I lose my damn mind.

Fuck it. “I’m going for a walk.”

Connor doesn’t even look up from the fabric he’s considering. “Keep your phone on you.”

Sometimes, I think he forgets I’m nearly thirty and built like a brick shit house, but I placate him anyway, heading for the walkway and the rest of the store. “Yes, Dad.”

Observing is my strong suit, if only because I don’t know how to interact with the world anymore. My therapist says it’s expected when you lose nearly everyone you love in one awful day. Things change, you change, and the person you are now is your new normal.

But the person I am doesn’t have a clue what this thrum in my gut is, so I keep quiet and wander the aisles, searching for something I can’t explain. Enjoying the random snippets of life that circle but never touch.

Drag queens in full glam argue about the right type of buttons for a tearaway garment. Grandmas discuss tie options for their grandson’s wedding. A mother coos onesie options with her toothless toddler as they head out the door.

They look so happy together. What would it be like to have that bond with a child of my own? Not that I think that’ll happen. I’d have to find someone I’m interested in dating to have a kid, but the dream’s still there. Waiting in the wings for me to fulfill or let it go.

I’m deep in the maze of fabrics when something slides across my tongue, slipping down my throat.

Sweet and decadent. Something instinct says is mine.

Diamond’s has state-of-the-art scent filters running nonstop so people can shop without getting overstimulated by other scents, but sugar is so deep in my lungs I’m never getting it out.

What the fuck is happening?

Urgency pushing me on, I let my nose lead. Through the stacks of fabric and findings, past the sewing machines and embroidery thread, only to find my answer surrounded by silk and lace.

She’s wild strawberry blonde curls and matching furrowed brows.

Her body stretches as she reaches for another bolt of fabric to add to the teetering stack in her arms. The move pulls the back of her tank top high, giving me an eyeful of itty-bitty freckles scattered along curves, and a view of her half-sleeve, a beautiful snake with flowers wound through the tail.

It also pulls her cotton shorts straight up her round ass and I have to look at her neck before I embarrass myself.

Fuck, don’t look there. It’s smooth and biteable and perfect.

No biting strangers, Nate. You learned this in pre-K.

Every time she tries for the bolt, the shelving unit it’s on shifts, and my heart climbs into my throat.

What if it tips and she gets hurt? Completely unaware of my meltdown, lithe fingers stroke the edge of the fabric, moving so lovingly I feel it along my cock.

An unwanted and very unexpected sensation.

Orgasms are a necessity I take care of in the shower, yet here I am, sporting a boner at a woman I’ve never met.

“Fucking ridiculous,” she mutters.

Agreed.

When she still can’t reach, she drops to her sneakered feet with an annoyed grunt. Round, yet delicately muscled arms shove her hair back and a wave of that sugary sweetness comes straight for me.

Yeah, those air filters are doing jack shit.

My mouth waters, pants tighter than ever. This woman is the best thing I’ve ever smelled.

Help her. Take her. Keep her.

What the actual fuck? The urges rippling through my brain are so foreign, I don’t even feel like myself anymore.

There’s a flash of memory, a moment right after I lost everything.

Dez and Connor holding me back as we stare at the hospital waiting room’s destruction.

Chairs broken like matchsticks; paintings pulled off the walls.

An alpha on the cusp of presentation drowning in grief is a dangerous thing, and while I’m not that boy anymore, I have almost no experience controlling that side of me.

What if I can’t stop myself? What if I hurt her?

My therapist’s words permeate the fear.

Acknowledge your feelings. No judgement, just acceptance. I’m unsettled. Confused. Turned on. Worried.

Good. Now, dig deeper. When I poke at the feeling in my chest, it’s similar to the one from that day, but instead of pain, this is…comfort. Need.

Safety.

This woman feels safer than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe more than my pack.

Nurture that. I don’t know why I’m so invested in her, but I’m not going to freak out about it. I know a good thing when I see one.

She’s on her toes trying to reach the fabric again, and I can’t stop myself from moving.

It’s when I’m close enough to get a fresh hit of that scent that I recognize the mistake.

I’m 6’2 and with my work boots on, she’s probably a foot shorter.

I don’t want to scare her, but she’s about to bring the whole damn row down on her head.

Hunching so I look smaller, I clear my throat. “Need some help?”

“No, thanks. I’m—oh, sit!” A glimpse of dark blue eyes and plump pink lips is all I get before the fabric tower slips.

I feel superhuman as I pull her into my grasp and away from the shit tumbling around us.

“Are you okay?” My hands slip on her skin, checking for injuries as she regains her balance.

“Fine.” When she tips her head back to look at me, another cloud of that perfect cotton candy sets my chest rumbling.

She tries to scuttle out of reach, but I can’t relinquish my grip on her waist when she’s so close and yet so far. “Stay.”

Forever. With me. Right here.

We can live in a fabric store, right?

“Sorry. Forgot to put on descenter before I came in,” she confesses, not looking at me.

I want her to. Need her eyes on my body like I need to breathe. “You smell incredible.”

“So do you.” Her lips twitch and the slightly nervous look fades into the sweetest smile.

It hits me, then. This woman is an omega.

My omega.

Holy shit.

I’ve never dealt with scent-sympathy before. It’s a total mindfuck. I can kind of understand why my brothers lost their fucking minds with the demon spawn. My thoughts feel like sand slipping through my fingers, and it’s impossible to think beyond alpha brain.