Page 7 of Love Me Knot, Part One (Knotty Omegas #1)

My friends think I’ve given them the truth, but they know the tip of my personal iceberg.

They don’t know about the weeks spent alone with no company, alphas abandoning me in the middle of my heat to deal with one work fire or another, months without a single touch other than my friends or my own.

Pleading to start a family, only to hear excuse after excuse.

Doctors. So many doctors quietly telling me what I already know. What I can’t change.

Really, the only thing I’ve gained from packing up is learning to be an excellent liar.

Knowing I have to stay in or risk Mellie’s wrath, I head into my sewing room and curl into my favorite reading chair, pulling a sketchbook into my lap. If I’m not getting laid and I can’t leave, the least I can do is work.

With everything my pack’s done—or rather, all the things they refuse to do—I needed a space that could be just mine.

A place to breathe and enjoy and be creative.

To their credit, the sewing room is incredible.

Split into sections, I have a cutting space that takes one entire wall, multiple custom mannequins and a slew of fabric options.

The sewing machine is one I bought myself, a pre-bonding gift I didn’t know I’d use this much and certainly not to design lingerie.

After a particularly nasty fight with Jacob and Corey a few months ago, I spent the evening locked in my studio, fingers aching as I drew and sewed and cried. When dawn broke, the light brought with it a sense of clarity. Of purpose.

An inclusive lingerie brand custom designed and sewed by me.

Slow fashion made as sustainable as possible while taking into consideration a plethora of needs from alternative closures to sensory friendly fabrics.

As Nymph grew in my head, so did my happiness, joy blossoming at the chance to put my all into something I care about.

I’ve always loved wearing it, but didn’t know designing my own would be so cathartic. A way to work out my feelings so they make sense. I always come out of this room feeling like everything’s under control. For a little while, at least.

I’m halfway through a new test design when the phone rings. My heart leaps, hoping it’s one of my alphas deciding to come back for dinner. Instead, it’s my mother. Every part of me knows there’s no comfort to be had here. No warmth. Yet I move to my bedroom and answer anyway.

Maybe it’s the masochistic streak in me, the desire to have someone tell me to my face how terrible I’m doing instead of the offhand comments that sting and grate.

“Why did it take you so long to answer? Are you with your alphas?”

Mother’s obsession with Pack Parker has only grown.

If she’s not texting them to check in, she’s sending gifts and offering to fly out from my hometown three states away.

It’s embarrassing how far she bends over to make them like her, but I’ve given up trying to tell her how much they hate it. She never listens anyway.

“The pack has an event today. They left me at home.” The moment it comes out, I know I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Mother’s tone hardens, her frustration as evident as always. “It’s not their job to cater to you, Daphne. It’s your job to entice them enough to come home or, god forbid, be invited along. A perfect omega would be at their sides all the time.”

There’s that word again. Perfect. As if it’s even possible for a human to be as flawless as they want me to be.

The barb lands regardless, stinging across my skin like a whip.

I’ve tried so hard. Learned what my alphas like and what they hate.

How to speak and eat and breathe so they’re happy.

I wear my hair straight to please them and I follow a strict fifteen step skincare regime, so I don’t get wrinkles.

I learned to cook and clean and manage this house of cards until my fingers bled, but it never mattered. Not to my alphas and not to Mother.

Maybe it’s because she’s a beta. She doesn’t have the intrinsic knowledge of how I fight my instincts every day to give my men exactly what they want, even when my needs are never met.

The casual touches an omega requires are nonexistent and the scent marks from the early days faded without reapplication.

Hell, I barely ever get a kiss anymore and sex…

Well, sex is a topic I can’t think about without wanting to scream.

“I understand your desire to make this work, Mother, but you don’t know what it’s like to be an omega.”

She scoffs. “Maybe not, but my husband is home with me right now while all three of your alphas are gone. You know, maybe that’s why you haven’t gotten pregnant yet. They aren’t interested in procreating because they’re still looking for something better.”

I’ve never smelled anyone else on them, never seen even a hint of deceit like that, so it’s unlikely she’s right, but the fear is my dirty little secret. The thing that keeps me awake in my empty nest longer than it should.

Steeling myself for what I know will be a fight, I finally let myself say it. “We need to revisit the contract, Mother. They’re neglecting me.”

The silence is deafening. Eventually, she comes back, tone quiet and concerned. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Despite my reservations, I lay out absolutely everything.

All the ways they ignore me, the things they’ve said, the way they treat me like a doll to dress up and fuck and pat on the head.

I wish I could say I feel better when I’m done, but the icy hand of dread makes that impossible.

It’s the feeling you get when you know you’ve walked directly into a trap but have no fucking clue where it is or how to get out.

“Daphne, darling,” Mother coos. “I hate to tell you, but this is marriage. It’s not some fairytale like in the novels. It’s hard. I’m sorry that you’ve felt neglected and that you wish for more fulfillment, but this is how things go in the real world.”

“They’ve walked out of my heat, Mother. More than once.” The phantom aches in my stomach come back with a vengeance and I curl up tighter on the bed.

“They’re busy men,” she counters. “Besides, it’s a little ridiculous to keep them for that long. Needy, don’t you think?”

Is it? Jacob does say I’m greedy with their time, but heat isn’t something I can control without suppressants, which they won’t allow in case it messes with my fertility. “What about the way they’ve treated me?”

“I’ll be honest, it doesn’t sound that bad. They haven’t hit you, have they?”

“No,” I say reluctantly.

“So, are they actually abusing you or are they just hurting your feelings? Omegas are sensitive, you know.”

Of course, I do. I am one.

“They called me fat.” I’m almost whining, desperate for her to validate what I’m saying. Acknowledge that I could be right.

Mother clicks her tongue. “Did they actually say that, or is that what you heard?”

Fuck, is that what this is? Am I reading between the lines and seeing something that isn’t there? Maybe I’m just too tender-hearted about things. Too busy tallying up the ways I think they’ve wronged me, that I’ve stopped noticing what’s actually going on.

Biting my lip, I say, “I guess.”

“Darling, I’m sorry that you’re struggling, but there’s nothing I can do. These things take time. Stick it out. It’ll get better if you want it to. Just try harder.”

How much harder is there to try, though? “They haven’t bonded me, Mother. It’s been four years, and they haven’t bonded me. The doctors said?—”

“That’s your fault,” she interrupts, the softness leeching out of her tone with every word.

“Maybe they aren’t interested in bonding a woman who cries over everything.

I can’t imagine they want an omega who can’t stand on her own two feet.

I mean, seriously, Daphne. Calling your Mother to whine about your husbands is ridiculous. ”

“But I didn’t call you!”

“Yet here we are.”

How do we always end with me as the problem and why is it so fucking easy to believe her?

Every time Mother calls, she chips away at what little self-esteem I have until I’m nothing but bone dust on the floor, yet I can’t stop answering.

Can’t push her out of my life. She’s my mom.

That’s supposed to mean something, right?

My heart hurts and I curl up tighter, wishing I could pull it out of my chest. “What if I want to leave?”

The words are so quiet, yet so dangerous. An atom bomb lobbed into the space between us.

“Then you’ll do it alone. Your father and I won’t pay to have you ruin those men’s lives because you’re weak. You walk away from Pack Parker, you better be ready to walk away from us, too.”

My head spins as Mother berates me until I’m in tears. It takes a faked headache and a promise to do better to end the call and by then I’m too exhausted to do much else but drag a scratchy blanket over me.

Nothing truly prepares you for the reality that your family won’t take your side. That they won’t help you be happy because they don’t think you deserve it.

Who knows, maybe I don’t.

When I finally haul myself downstairs to grab a pre-approved protein bar from the kitchen, it’s dark and I’ve had enough wallowing.

Flipping the lock in my sewing room is the only thing that helps.

If my alphas come back, they can entertain themselves for the night.

My soul’s too sore to do it for them and my body is out of service.

A storm of something pushes me to the cabinets and I dig through the fasteners until I find the laptop I bought months ago. Before I can overthink it, I pull up the website I’ve spent weeks teaching myself to build and hit publish.

I’ve never been self-sufficient, but it’s time I learn. The call with Mother was a warning. Nymph may not make a lot, but every dollar will count if I need to plan for a future that doesn’t involve my parents or my pack’s support.

As I look at my brand-new company, I can’t help but wonder if one day it’ll be my salvation.