Page 129 of Knot Their Arrangement

Knowing that he's the actual author of these books I've treasured adds another layer of meaning to every carefully crafted sentence.

"Why do I have a strong feeling something's brewing and you're not sharing yet?"

Rhett's words barely register at first, my mind still lost in the story's latest plot twist. But something in his tone –a mixture of concern and knowing– finally pulls my attention from the page. I look up just in time to catch Damon pausing mid-pour of what appears to be an expensive whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

The sight shouldn't seem unusual for someone of his status and position.

I imagine many powerful men start their days with aged spirits in crystal glasses worth more than most people's monthly rent. But something about the action feels off – like he's going through familiar motions while his mind wrestles with weightier matters.

His expression maintains its usual calm, that carefully cultivated mask of control that probably serves him well in both boardrooms and criminal enterprises.

There's a subtle tension around his eyes, a barely perceptible tick in his jaw that makes me frown.

"What's wrong?" The question slips out before I can stop it, drawing his golden gaze to mine.

His momentary silence speaks volumes.

The way he seems to consider his response, weighing words with the precision of someone used to having them analyzed for weakness – it tells me everything I need to know about what's coming.

Like it always happens.

The thought carries bitter familiarity. How many perfect moments in my life have been shattered by my father's interference? How many times has peace been stolen by his determination to control every aspect of my existence?

"Let me guess," I say softly, closing the book despite being at such a crucial scene. The weight of it in my hands feels suddenly significant – this piece of art created by an Alpha who sees Omegas as equals rather than possessions, who writes about our struggles with genuine understanding rather than fetishized fantasy.

Just moments ago, I'd been mentally cataloging which of Kieran's books I wanted to read next, planning out a literary journey through his carefully crafted worlds.

The butterflies that had danced in my stomach at the revelation that he was Xavier Knight –the author whose works had given me hope during my darkest moments– now turn to lead weights of dread.

"My Father has already gotten involved and probably wants me home?"

The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they need to be said. Because this is how my story always seems to go – moments of joy interrupted by the long reach of paternal authority, freedom snatched away just as I start to believe I might actually deserve it.

Rhett and Kieran's heads turn in perfect synchronization toward Damon and Ezekiel, their expressions a mixture of concern and brewing anger.

Ezekiel's dark eyes shift questioningly to their leader, watching as Damon lifts the crystal tumbler of whiskey to his lips.

The liquid disappears in one smooth motion, as if the expensive aged spirit were nothing more than a cheap shot instead of what has to be at least half a glass of high-end whiskey on the rocks.

The casual way he treats such fine alcohol speaks volumes about his state of mind – this isn't about appreciation or enjoyment, but necessity.

The empty glass meets the marble island counter behind him with a soft click that somehow manages to sound ominous in the charged atmosphere. His darken eyes sweep across his pack first, something unspoken passing between them all before his gaze finally settles on me.

I brace myself for disappointment, for that look of defeat I've seen so many times before on the faces of those who tried to help me. But Damon's expression remains remarkably composed, almost relaxed – though there's steel in the depths of his darkened eyes, a determination that makes my heart skip.

"Yes," he confirms, his voice carrying that smooth authority that seems as natural to him as breathing. "Rajesh Prava Ahvi has interfered with our official claim to make you our Omega." The way he says my father's full name carries subtle venom. "He's informed us that another pack has proposed you're on a temporary break that would be resolved three days from now."

He pauses, clearly gauging my reaction before adding.

"Two days, since today technically doesn't count, it seems."

I fight to keep my expression neutral despite the heavy weight of disappointment settling in my chest.

It's harder than it should be – years of practice at hiding my emotions crumbling in the face of having hope snatched away yet again. The silence that follows his words feels thick with implications, with all the things that could happen in those two days.

"What did you do to counter them?" Rhett's question carries that dangerous edge I remember from the forest, when he wore a glowing mask and delivered fiery justice.

Damon's lips curve slightly, though the expression holds no real humor.

---