Page 93 of Knot Their Arrangement

Does it even matter anymore?

The storm rages around me, thunder punctuating my sobs like nature's own drumbeat. Each flash of lightning illuminates the forest in stark relief, creating shadows that dance like spirits come to witness my surrender.

In these final moments, I find myself thinking of Damon and Kieran. How for one brief, shining moment, I experienced something close to what I've been praying for. They showed me that different kinds of Alphas exist – ones who value consent and pleasure, who see Omegas as partners rather than possessions.

At least I'll die knowing that was possible.

That knowledge feels like a gift, even if it makes everything else more painful by comparison. Like seeing a glimpse of paradise before being cast back into hell.

The rain plasters my saree against my skin, the weight of tradition literally dragging me down even in these final moments.

But I remain standing, refusing to meet my end on my knees.

If this is to be my last act of defiance, let it be this: dying on my feet, praying not for rescue but for a better chance of resurrection into my next life.

"Trouble?"

The voice cuts through the storm's chaos, familiar and impossible.

Time seems to stop as that voice echoes through the rain.

My body goes completely still, muscles locking in place as my mind struggles to process what I've just heard. With painful slowness, I turn my head over my shoulder, just enough to see the figure standing mere steps away.

The glowing mask stares back at me, its eerie red and blue illumination cutting through the darkness. But I barely register the terror it should inspire.

I'm too caught up in that voice – a sound that sometimes whispers through my dreams, a reminder of a brief moment when life held real joy.

It can't be him.

But I'd know that voice anywhere.

The boy who was barely more than a teen himself back then. The one whose smile could light up entire rooms, whose very presence sparked excitement and possibility.

Everyone called him a firecracker because that's exactly what he was – explosive energy contained in human form, ready to ignite at any moment.

I only knew him for an instant, really.

What started as a one-night stand of rebellion –my first, my chosen loss of innocence– bloomed into a week of wild adventure and forbidden pleasure.

Seven days that changed everything I thought I knew about life and love and possibility. Seven days of sneaking out to midnight races, of kisses stolen in dark corners, of laughter that felt like freedom.

He showed me a world beyond the suffocating walls of tradition, beyond the carefully prescribed paths my father had laid out.

But like all beautiful things in my life, it couldn't last.

My father's network of spies was too vast, his control too absolute.

When he discovered my rebellion, he gave us one final night – though looking back, I realize he probably thought we wouldn't dare take it. Wouldn't risk his wrath for a few more hours together.

But we did.

That last night burned with the intensity of a supernova. We knew it was ending, knew everything would change come morning, so we poured all our defiance, all our passion, all our youth into those precious hours.

After that, the walls closed in.

My father made sure I understood that joy was not for me, that pleasure and freedom were luxuries I hadn't earned. That relationships would be assigned, not chosen, and any further rebellion would have permanent consequences.

The boy disappeared from my life as suddenly as he'd entered it.

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