Page 155 of Ruthless Knot

Dad's expression shifts.

Not to anger.

To amusement.

He's fighting a smile now, that crinkle at the corners of his eyes deepening as he watches me panic over my linguistic transgression.

A giggle escapes me.

Then another.

Because it's funny—the way he's trying not to laugh, the way I'm trying not to laugh, the shared conspiracy of a child and her father getting away with something they shouldn't.

He pats his lap.

"Come here, little bird."

I don't hesitate.

My small body launches itself off the ottoman and crosses the space between us in three bounding steps—one-two-three-fourwould be better, but I'm not that precise yet, not that controlled, not that broken—before I'm scrambling up into his lap, settling into the familiar warmth of arms that have always meant safety.

He smells like tobacco and old books and something sharper underneath—steel, maybe. The smell of weapons and violence, hidden beneath the civilized veneer.

I didn't understand that then.

I understand it now.

"Your mother thought that too," he says, adjusting me on his knee so I'm comfortable, so I can see his face while he speaks. "In the beginning."

"Thought what?"

"That being an Omega made her weak." His voice is gentle, measured, the tone of someone sharing something important. "She hated it. Hated what it meant, how people treated her, the way everyone assumed they knew who she was just because of her designation."

I listen with the rapt attention of a child being told a story.

Because that's what it sounds like—a story.

Once upon a time, before I existed, before any of this was real.

"Everyone around her belittled her worth," Dad continues. "Her strength. Her intelligence. They looked at her and saw an Omega, and they decided that meant she was less than them. Less capable. Less valuable. Lesshuman."

My small face scrunches with indignation on behalf of a mother I can't imagine being treated that way.

"Even you?" I demand, pulling back to look at him with accusation in my mismatched eyes. "Didyoubelittle her?"

He pauses.

Considers.

I watch him weigh honesty against comfort, truth against protection—and choose truth.

"In honesty... in the beginning, yes. I despised her."

"DESPISED?!"

The word comes out as a shriek of disbelief.

I can't fathom it.