Page 1 of Chain Me Knot

Chapter One

Asher

Iscrub a hand across my stubbled jaw, watching the modernist house through the tactical van's tinted windows. Its glass walls reflect the setting sun, all clean angles and expensive minimalism. This is the kind of place that doubles as rich-alpha big-ball energy. My contact swears there's an omega trapped inside, and after eight years heading omega abuse cases, I know the prettiest packages hide the ugliest truths.

“Your complexion's looking a bit green there, Ash,” Phoenix teases, but the strain in his voice betrays his tension. He runs fingers through his messy blond hair, a nervous tell I've known since we bonded as pack brothers ten years ago. “You're not going to puke in the van again,are you?”

“That was my first time on a raid and you know it,” I growl, but the familiar banter keeps me steady. “And if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly composed that day either, brother.”

It was a first raid for both of us, and I’d been worried sick. Literally. The truth was we hadn’t been fast enough to save the omega who’d been reported as living in that abusive situation. Unfortunately, omegas’ living circumstances weren’t reported unless they were dire, which meant they were bad enough to be noticed and someone had been motivated enough to make a call. Oftentimes that was too late to save the omega. Not for the first time I cursed the legislation that stripped omegas of their autonomy, essentially making them property, as well as the people in society who think ignoring the most vulnerable is okay.

“Security system's top of the line,” Soren interrupts from behind his wall of screens, his neat brown buzz cut gleaming under the blue monitor light. “But whoever installed it left a backdoor. Amateur hour.” He glances up, brown eyes sharp with concern. “Although thermal imaging is concerning.”

Phoenix shifts beside me, his muscled frame coiled tight. “Four heat signatures. Three on the main floor, one below.” His jaw clenches. “Underground.”

“Of course it's underground,” I mutter, stomach turning. “They always hide omegas underground.” In the three decades since the Mortalis Strain began decimating omega births, our society's “protective” measures have become nothing but prettied-up prison sentences. Register them, monitor them, control them—all in the name of preservation. The Haven Institute claimed to cherish and protect omegas throughout the seven-year 'training' that followed their designation. Haven promised to match their charges with loving packs. Thank the gods that place is under investigation after Sylvia Mercer’s corruption was discovered by Pack Blackwood.

But broken omegas still come through the station, and no one is listening. My hands are tied by law, forcing me to return them to their abusers, their ‘rightful’ alphas. Their ‘owners’. The thought of another omega trapped in this cycle of abuse churns the ball of barbed wire in my gut.

“Hey.” Soren squeezes my shoulder, his touch grounding. “We've got this, Ash. We're not letting another one slip through.”

“Yeah, well, eight years of these cases is eight years too many.” I check my tactical vest. Each rescue should feel like a victory, but lately, every omega we pull from these gilded cages leaves another scar on my soul. “They should be treasured, protected, allowed to thrive. Instead...”

“Instead, we've got bastards thinking they can chain up omegas like property,” Phoenix finishes, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. “But that's why they've got us. The three most devastatingly handsome and capable alphas in the department.”

“Speak for yourself,” Soren snorts, fingers flying across keyboard. “Some of us rely on brains rather than your caveman approach.”

“Says the man who took down three traffickers with 'caveman' muscles last month,” I remind him, grateful for my pack's ability to lift the heaviness, even momentarily. Soren is a muscular bastard, hefting weights every day as though his life depends on it. The results show in the stretched material over his shoulders and biceps. At over six and a half feet tall, people give him a wide berth, eyeing him as though he’s a threat. They don’t give him time to show his soft center.

“How are we going with those locks?” I ask. If the alphas inside knew we were here, the door’s locking system would engage, they’d move the omega, and we’d lose our chance to save him or her.

“Almost there,” Soren reports, serious again. “Give me two minutes and the doors will be disabled.”

Two minutes until I face another reminder of how far our world has fallen. Phoenix and Soren's presence swells through our pack bond. Together, we've saved dozens. But some days, like today, I fear we're fighting a losing battle against our own fucked-up society.

Soren leans back from the console, reaching for his gear. “We're clear. Security disabled. No alerts triggered.”

Phoenix and I share a look across the van's cramped interior. His dark roast coffee scent sharpens with pre-raid focus, mixing with my whiskey and leather markers in a familiar blend.

I send a message to the raid team, hidden from the house, and hear their affirmations in my ear piece. The night air hits my face as we exit the van, my bond brothers moving in perfect sync. Years of practice make our approach silent despite full tactical gear as we charge to the front door.

Phoenix takes position, fingers curled over the handle. One nod from me and he rips the door quietly open before we surge inside, a coordinated wave of tactical precision. Phoenix's voice booms through the space. Like Soren, Phoenix is tall, muscular and in peak physical condition, with a voice that can resonate through walls. He’s the alpha bark we need to force submission before anyone can think. “Police! On the ground! Hands where we can see them!” His scent floods the area, pure alpha authority. The backup team flows around us, securing exits, checking corners.

Three alphas jerk up from a plush sectional sofa, the leather creaking with their sudden movement. On a massive wall-mounted screen, explosions illuminate their shocked faces as some action hero dives from a burning building. Popcorn arcs through the air, scattering across the hardwood floor like pale confetti. Looks like this pack of assholes was having a lovely time while their omega suffers. I work hard to temper the fire that rages under my skin.

The pristine cream walls mock me as I scan the space. No home with three alphas who have a bonded omega should look this untouched. The leather sectional lacks the natural creases and indents of regular use. The glass coffee table doesn't have a single fingerprint. Even the throw pillows sit with artificial precision. But it's what's missing that makes my skin crawl.

There are no sweet omega undertones in the fabric, no personal items, not even the subtle markers that should linger if an omega lives here. The air is sharp with nothing but alpha dominance.

The oldest, clearly the pack's prime, recovers first. Matthew Carmichael is maybe fifty, sporting expensive casual wear and a Rolex that probably costs morethan my yearly salary. His lips pull back in a snarl that shows too-white veneers, silver hair disheveled from lounging.

“What is the meaning of this?” Each word drips with the kind of entitled arrogance that only comes from decades of wealth and power. His scent floods the room, aggressive alpha dominance trying to overwhelm us. But I am a stronger alpha. His attempt slides off me.

“On your knees. Now.” I release my dominance in a controlled wave. The two younger alphas, James and Derek Carmichael, drop, but their prime resists, his silver hair catching the light as he tries to stare me down while he grits his teeth, fighting me.

“You storm into my home, without cause—”

“I said, on your knees.” My growl resonates through the room, hitting that precise frequency that demands submission and his knees crumble beneath him. I ignore the daggers he shoots at me from his eyes as Phoenix moves in, securing their hands as they resort to the usual litany of threats and insults.

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