Page 42 of Knot Their Arrangement

"This," the manager's voice trembles with barely contained rage, "is Damon Castellano."

Damon…Castellano?

The manager launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed litany of praise as if he's given this speech many times before.

"Mr. Castellano's influence extends through every level of business in this city. From the highest echelons of legitimate enterprise to the...more discrete operations that keep establishments like ours running smoothly."

The way he says it makes it clear there's more beneath the surface, darker dealings that polite society pretends not to notice. His hands gesture animatedly as he continues listing accomplishments:successful mergers, strategic acquisitions, territorial expansions– each achievement more impressive than the last.

Then his eyes land on the man standing next to me, and I swear he nearly chokes on his own tongue.

"And Mr. Blackthorn!" The name comes out like a prayer. "Kieran Blackthorn himself, the king of market manipulation!"

The white-haired man –Kieran– merely raises an eyebrow, but even that subtle movement carries enough authority to make the manager stammer.

"His financial advisory firm handles portfolios worth billions. The way he moves money through markets..." The manager shakes his head in apparent awe. "They say he can predict market crashes months before they happen, that he's never made a bad investment."

A modern-day Midas, then.

I watch as the manager's face grows increasingly panicked, as if he's just realizing the full magnitude of the situation.

"You're incredibly fortunate that the entire pack isn't present," he tells the receptionist, whose cheek still bears an angry red handprint.

So these two men are just part of this superior power house of a pack…

"Your display of ignorance and disrespect toward the most powerful men in our industry..."

He trails off, seemingly unable to find words strong enough to convey his displeasure.

"But I'm afraid the damage is already done."

The way he says it makes my skin prickle with unease. These men –Damon with his dangerous charisma and Kieran with his quiet power–are clearly accustomed to a world where consequences are swift and permanent.

A world where a single misstep can end more than just a career.

What strikes me most is how naturally they wear their power. Damon commands attention with every movement, every word carrying the weight of unspoken authority. Meanwhile, Kieran's presence is more subtle but no less potent – like a stiletto compared to Damon's broadsword.

And somehow, through some twist of fate or cosmic joke, I've landed squarely in the middle of their world.

Me, a runaway Omega who barely escaped an arranged marriage, now stands between two of some of the most powerful Alphas in the city.

If this was some sort of dark omegaverse novel that I enjoy reading, you’d think I was the main character.

I wish…maybe that would mean they’re my pack and I wouldn’t have to keep running away in this world. Wouldn’t that be swell for a few damn chapters.

"Speaking of expertise," Damon's smooth voice cuts through my literary daydreams, "you seemed quite confident in your assessment of my Omega's attire ranking in the hierarchy of richness." His tone carries a dangerous sort of amusement as he tilts his head slightly. "Rags, was it?"

The receptionist's face goes pale as she stumbles over her words.

"I-I didn't mean... that is, I was just?—"

Damon moves to my right side, his hand still firmly clasped in mine, while Kieran maintains his position on my left. The formation feels deliberate, protective in a way that makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction.

"These," Damon gestures to my traditional garments with his free hand, "are what you deem as rags? Royal attire passed down through generations of wealth?"

"Even if it is generational," the woman argues, desperation making her bold, "those sandals were hideous! Worse than what you'd find in flea markets in the heart of India!"

"Have you been there?" Kieran's quiet question cuts through her rant like a blade.

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