Page 2 of Knot All that Glitters: Part 1

It’s one of his rules for times like this: I can either look at him and pretend to beam with pride, or I can look at the ground.Neverat anyone else. He didn’t bother to use the command on me in the car, hasn’t for years. It’s so ingrained in me now that he doesn’t need to.

Only…

As my father begins his speech, going on and on about how this building will be good for the area for business, for the housing crisis, for lower-income families to visit the clinic, there’s an itching on my forehead. Right over where my third eye would be if I believed in that like my best friend, Florence, does.It’s not really an itch, more like a tickle of sensation, the feeling of eyes on me.

I pull my gaze from the back of my father’s head and focus on the crowd. Like me, everyone has their eyes on Frederick Bell as he proselytizes about the new clinic and the good it will do in helping alphas and omegas not be slaves to their instincts. The camera crews from local and national news stay pointed at him. Everyone is hanging on his every word.

It’s almost like he has some kind of power, some kind of magical sway over the people who attend these things. He’s an excellent public speaker, that’s for sure. Charismatic, engaging, charming. People love him. It’s a shame he uses all that charm to spew absolute garbage about the designations. Well, about two of the designations, not all three of them. Betas he has no quarrel with.

If he had his way, he’d rip out the alpha and omega designations all together and we’d all be left as mild betas, who aren’t driven by instincts. Funny, considering he’s an alpha and I am an omega, and these two things allow him to exert his iron fisted control over me.

My lips stay curled into the polite smile that my father seems to prefer as I scan the crowd, searching for where that feeling is coming from.

My heart skips a beat as my grey eyes collide with a pair of light brown eyes, the color of the fancy bourbon that my father likes to drink, warm and caramelly and inviting. Something deep inside me clenches under his regard, and I have the distinct urge to go to him, to stand in front of him and breathe him in… only my father’s commands keep me in place. If he hadn’t bothered to use an alpha bark on me, I have a feeling I would have wandered right off the stage.

The gold eyes that have me captured crinkle at the corners, and I blink, realizing I’ve been staring too hard at those honey pools, and I haven’t even noticed the rest of him.

My smile dims as my mouth parts and I have to blink again. He’s older than me by maybe ten years, late twenties to early thirties. Tan skin, black curly hair, clean shaven cheeks. There’s a scar in one of his straight brows that I can see from here, and a twinkle in those gold eyes. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, with a crisp white shirt and a tie.

The brow with a scar in it arches as he leans over and says something to the person standing next to him.

My gaze follows the movement to another man, around the same age, with bright emerald green eyes and sandy blond hair. There’s a sheen of golden stubble on his cheeks, intentionally I’m sure. His mouth is full and smiling, grinning, beaming as he makes eye contact with me. He’s wearing a soft looking deep purple sweater over a pair of dark jeans.

They both look as though they’d fit in exceedingly well with my father’s closest circle. And I can’t help the stab of disappointment that they’re here, at what amounts to a political rally for my father’s campaign, and not in a working capacity like a reporter or a photographer. No, they’re here because they choose to be.

Which likely means they share his views on the designations, that they treat omegas that same way he does. As a tool to be wielded, a pet to be kept under control.

It’s harder than I’d like to admit to pull my gaze away from them, to lower it to the stage in front of me, to pull that polite smile back to my face. I can still feel them staring at me, feel their confusion, when I disregard them. They’re so handsome I’m sure they’re used to girls falling all over themselves for just a glimpse of them. If they’re expecting that from me, they’ll be sorely disappointed.

I ignore it, push that tingle of awareness away and focus on breathing, on being the perfect omega daughter to my father, on putting on the show that everyone expects to see. It’s infuriating beyond belief that my life is only this. A prop to make my father look better, to help him reach his goals.

Sometimes I think of what it would be like if I wasn’t an omega, if I’d been born as a beta. Would he like me more? Treat me with more respect? As someone capable of making my own decisions and monitoring my own actions? Or would it be the same? Would he still bully me with his alpha bark, command me to follow his every whim?

On nights when I’m particularly despondent, I imagine what life would have been like had my mother taken me with her when she left. Maybe we’d be living in a small apartment in a city far from here. I wouldn’t have been able to attend the American Omega Academy, but that is a small price to pay for living a happy life.

There’s a small stab of guilt, as I have the thought. If I didn’t attend AOA, I wouldn’t have met Florence Karlin, also an omega, and my best friend in the entire world. Myonlyfriend in the entire world.

We were roommates, sharing what amounted to a small apartment with separate bedrooms but a shared living space. Where I was quiet and studious, Ren was a little bit wild, a little bit loud. You’d think we wouldn’t get along, but as soon as we met, we just clicked. I dragged her to the top of class with me, and she helped me embrace my wilder side… Not that there is much of a wild side in me, but what little there is, she brings out.

I blink back to myself as the crowd erupts into applause. My hands are already moving of their own accord before I realize my father has finished with his speech. My palms slap together as I beam at the crowd, knowing that to everyone out there it looks genuine, like I support his disturbing claims, his beliefs.

I keep clapping as my father smiles and waves at the crowd. His aide, Brian Coogan, strolls across the stage to his side and murmurs something in my father’s ear. He nods, waves again and then heads toward the stairs at the side of the stage, walking right past me as if I mean nothing. Brian comes to my side, and ushers me off the stage with a hand at the base of my spine, like a real gentleman, but he leans over and says through gritted teeth, “if you don’t smile, I will give you something to be upset about.”

Not the most creative threat, too open-ended, but he means it. Beyond that, Brian is an alpha who can, and has, bark at me to get my compliance. My father gave him permission to do so two years ago when I came home from the academy. Anything to keep me in the role of dutiful daughter.

I pull my lips into a beaming smile as he guides me down the stairs like I can’t possibly manage it myself, and then keeps his loathsome hand on me as we follow my father around the crowd. Glad handing and smiling, literally kissing babies, having his picture taken with people who worship the ground he walks on, who follow his beliefs of suppressing our instincts. No packs. No heats. No scents. No scent marking. Nothing that makes us closer to animals than humans.

My father is a one man, one woman kind of guy. He hates the idea of a pack. Hates the idea of omegas, of losing control because of instincts. He’s not shy about admitting it. He’s a firm believer that it’s not something that we need to do, and he props me up as an example.Look at my omega daughter who behaves like a beta. Look at how she stays quiet and in control when faced with alphas. Look at how she hasn’t begged for a pack. Look at how she has little to no scent to tempt alphas.

All of that is true, but it’s only because he’s had me on suppressants and scent blockers since I graduated from the AOA and returned home. When I’d resisted, he’d barked at me to comply, and he’s been doing it every day since.

I suffer through the crowd, shaking hands and smiling, but remaining silent. My father’s commands before this were clear. Do not speak unless spoken to, and no one here cares what I have to say. No one here wants to speak to me, and so I remain silent.

Eventually, my father catches my eye and gives me a nod. His silent assertion that I have done my duty for the day and I can disappear until it’s time for us to go. It’s all the permission I need to step away from Brian and his too familiar touch and wind my way through the crowd. Normally, I’d head to the car and the reading tablet I’ve stashed there.

It only has Frederick Bell approved reading on it, but it’s better than nothing, something to occupy my time while I wait.

But today I feel itchy… like I wouldn’t be able to sit still, to focus. The idea of spending the next hour in a car alone chafes. I guess technically I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with the driver who doubles as a bodyguard, but it’s not as though any of them talk to me. No, they’re just as silent as I am unless they’re responding to one of my father’s orders or giving me an order themselves.

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