Page 4 of Knotting the Cowboys

"Not our problem." He crosses his arms, biceps flexing in that deliberate way Alphas do when they want to remind you who's bigger. "No room for unmated Omegas. That's final."

I want to argue; to scream about rights and laws and basic human decency.

But I can see it in their faces—that particular blend of self-righteousness and willful ignorance that no amount of logic can penetrate. They've decided what I am based on my designation and lack of mate marks, and nothing I say will change that.

"Fine." I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder with more force than necessary. "Thanks for nothing."

The late afternoon sun seems harsher when I stumble back onto the porch, the cheerful Main Street scene now mocking in its normalcy. Other people go about their business—mated pairs, family packs, everyone belonging somewhere while I stand here with a broken car, empty pockets, and nowhere to go.

My phone shows three percent battery.No signal anyway.The car isn't going anywhere without a tow I can't afford. The hotel won't take me. And the sun is already starting its descent toward the mountains that ring this postcard-perfect town.

I've been in bad situations before, but this one—the totality of it, the careful cruelty of being turned away not for lack of money but lack of a mated pack—threatens to break something in me that's been holding on by threads.

The hotel door opens behind me, and I tense, ready for them to tell me to get off their porch too. But it's just another guest, an older Beta woman who gives me a sympathetic look before hurrying past.

Even she can smell it on me—the desperation, the alone-ness, the dangerous combination of Omega and unprotected.

I need a plan.

Need to think.

But all I can do is stand there, watching my broken car leak fluid onto Main Street while the town continues its peaceful existence around me, indifferent to another unmated Omega with nowhere to go.

Battle Scars

~WILLA~

Standing here on this picture-perfect Main Street, turned away for the crime of existing while unmated, I'm transported back to every moment in the city that led me here.

It's funny how discrimination has different flavors depending on the zip code—in the city, it wore designer suits and spoke in corporate buzzwords.

Here, it wears flannel and speaks in fake concern for "safety."

But the message is always the same:Omegas, especially female Omegas, need to know their place.

The city taught me that lesson early and often.

Every job interview that ended the moment they caught my scent, every apartment application rejected with thin excuses, every sidewalk crossing where I had to lower my eyes and quicken my pace when an Alpha passed. We like to pretend we've evolved past our basic designations, that we're more than our biology, but the city stripped that illusion away daily.

I remember my first real job interview after college—marketing coordinator at a firm downtown.

I'd worn my best suit, practiced my answers, researched the company until I could recite their mission statement in my sleep. The Beta interviewer had been impressed, nodding along as I outlined my ideas for their social media strategy.

Then the Alpha partner walked in, took one breath, and I watched my chances evaporate in real-time.

"We're looking for someone more... assertive," he'd said, as if Omega and assertive were mutually exclusive concepts.

That's how it always went.

Alphas sailed through doors that slammed in Omega faces.

They'd show up to interviews in wrinkled shirts and get hired on "potential." They'd pitch half-formed ideas in meetings and get praised for "thinking outside the box." They'd take credit for Omega work and get promoted for "leadership qualities."

The whole system was rigged in their favor, and they walked through life like they'd earned every advantage their designation handed them.

Brett—I can think his name now without flinching, mostly—was the perfect example.

We'd started at the same company on the same day. Within six months, he'd been promoted twice while I was still fetching coffee and being told to "smile more." He'd swagger into meetings late, interrupt everyone with his "brilliant" insights —usually just louder versions of what some Omega had suggested quietly— and get patted on the back for his "initiative."

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