Page 5 of Knot My Type

“I’ll go tomorrow,” I say, with a sense of determination. “I’m a bestselling author. I’ve written and published eight books. Most of them have been successful. I can do this.”

I’m trying to convince myself more than Rebecca. She believes in me, unlike my inner spirit, but perhaps it’s time I change that.

Rebecca tilts her head, surprise replacing disbelief. “You’re serious?”

I nod, grounding myself in the commitment. “Even if I don’t come back with a book, maybe I’ll return with…”

“A pack? Are you going to Millbrook then?” Her teasing tone cuts through the tension.

“Maybe it’ll be a good reason to stop suppressing myself and start living again,” I say with a big smile on my face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

There I go again, dwelling on the past and undermining my new adventure. I need to stop this, or I'll end up joining the country club just to find myself a Sugar Alpha. They're the worst of their kind—old, out of touch, and stuck in outdated gender roles. Sugar Alphas often expect traditional roles, which can be stifling for an independent Omega, especially one who's been on suppressants so long that she's forgotten what her natural scent even smells like. Especially one like me, in my thirties, who's spent most of her adult life alone, chemically muting the very essence of what I am. Their outdated views and expectations can make them unsuitable partners for those seeking equality and mutual respect—not to mention they'd probably expect me to go off my suppressants immediately, to be some docile, scent-drunk omega who exists solely for their pleasure and convenience.

The thought makes me shudder. I've worked too hard to build my independence, even if it meant dulling my omega instincts with daily pills. Some days I wonder if the suppressants have done more than just mask my scent—they've helped me forget how to be vulnerable, how to trust, how to let another person close enough to truly know me. But the alternative—being seen as nothing more than biology and pheromones—feels even worse.

ELIANA

The gravel in my driveway crunches as if it's judging me. I stagger up the walk with all the grace of someone who's either tipsy or dizzy from drinking way too much alcohol. Not the fun kind of drunk—where I went way over my head and didn't stop drinking to ease out the pain—but I haven't been drinking anything but coffee, yet my brain feels foggy.

My rented cottage leans just a little more to the left than I remember. The once-white paint is curling off like it’s trying to escape, and a vine I never planted has wrapped halfway up the porch post like it’s laying claim.

“Still standing, huh?” I mutter, setting my bag down with a dramatic thud. “That makes one of us.”

The porch groans under my weight. So does the screen door, which I have to shoulder open like it owes me money. Inside, the air smells like disuse—stale wood, forgotten laundry, and something vaguely floral from a candle I definitely didn’t blow this morning before I left.

I close the door with my hip, drop my coat on the floor, and kick off my boots . The silence that follows is the thick, yawning kind—not peaceful, just empty.

“Miss me?” I ask the room, flipping on a light that blinks twice before holding steady.

No answer, obviously. The house has long since stopped talking back; it used to chatter all the time. Especially when I visited the Dew & Toxic cocktail lounge—sometimes, I couldn’t get the walls to shut up. Now, the walls are bare, lacking the artwork I once bought when money flowed into my bank account like water. When the funds dried up, I went from buying expensive pieces to selling them at auctions, praying I at least made a profit. So I could pay my bills—and, most importantly, my rent.

I head into the kitchen on autopilot, passing the sagging couch, the coffee table scarred with old water rings and red wine regrets, and the stack of notebooks that still think I’m a writer.

The kitchen is well, it’s trying. The sink drips. The window is clouded with fingerprints I don’t remember leaving. The tiny kettle in the corner sits like it’s sulking.

I click it on and lean against the counter, then I run my fingers over the edge of the laminate—chipped, warped, familiar. Kind of like me. The thought makes me huff out a short laugh which doesn't make it past my chest. My suppressants have been messing with my emotions lately, making everything feel muted.

"This is fine," I say to the toaster. "Everything issofine."

The kettle starts its slow, dramatic climb to boiling, and I keep talking like I haven't spent the past six weeks bottling every word in my throat—along with every natural instinct the little pills have been dampening.

"I'm not spiraling," I continue. "Just revisiting. Briefly. You know. For character development."

I dig out a chipped mug and drop a teabag in, watching the steam curl like it's trying to escape too. The chamomile scent rises weakly, nothing like the warm vanilla and honey fragranceI used to carry naturally. Then I take my tea and shift to the couch. It groans as I sit down.

"Shut up! I haven't put on that much weight," I hiss at it, though I know the suppressants have been screwing with my metabolism.

Or maybe I have. One thing for sure, I'm cold—always cold now, another delightful side effect of chemically suppressing my omega biology. I grab the blanket I keep at the side of the couch and wrap it around myself.

"Cozy," I mutter, curling up with the tea cradled to my chest, wondering when I became someone who talks to kitchen appliances and argues with furniture.

I close my eyes and lean back remembering that I have my tea in my hand, I have a sip, and then put it to the side, on the side table. My body’s tired, because I’ve been holding something too heavy for too long. My skin prickles, not from cold but from the awareness that something’s coming that I’ve been pushing back with to-do lists and denial.

On cue a memory hits.

It starts at the base of my spine, curling inward like smoke curling up through the floorboards. It makes my skin itch beneath my clothes, and makes my scalp tingle like static electricity is running just under the surface of me, begging to spark.

I shift on the couch. The cushion sticks to the backs of my thighs, and I suddenly hate how much fabric is touching me. My leggings feel too tight. My shirt feels like sandpaper. Even the air feels too close.

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