Page 5 of Knotting the Cowboys

"You just need to be more confident," he'd told me once, early in our relationship, back when I thought his attention meant something. "Alphas can smell insecurity."

What they could smell was biology, and they'd built an entire society around exploiting it.

Every law, every social norm, every unspoken rule favored them. They got the best jobs, the best homes, the besteverything, while Omegas scrambled for scraps and got told to be grateful for the opportunity.

But even within our designation, hierarchies existed.

Male Omegas had it easier—not easy, but easier. They could walk alone at night without quite as much fear. They got hired for "Omega-appropriate" jobs at better rates. They weren't expected to be quite as submissive, quite as decorative, quite as willing to fold themselves into smaller and smaller spaces.

I'd seen it firsthand at the community center where I'd volunteered.

Male Omegas got placed in accounting or IT roles.

Female Omegas got reception or cleaning.

Male Omegas could be "independent" until they found the right Alpha.

Female Omegas who stayed unmated too long were "difficult" or "broken."

The worst part was how early it all started.

Before I was even born, my parents had picked out my name: William. They'd been so certain they were having an Alpha son, had decorated the nursery in strong blues and bought tiny suits. The ultrasound had been unclear, but they'd hoped.Prayed.Made plans for their future Alpha who would protect and provide and carry on the family name with pride.

Then I arrived—female, Omega, wrong in every way that mattered to them.

They'd still tried to file the birth certificate with "William." Some desperate attempt to speak a different future into existence, as if a masculine name could override biology. The government clerk had taken one look at the designation marker—that damning little Ω—and shaken her head.

"Can't register a female Omega with a traditionally Alpha male name," she'd said, like she was doing them a favor. "Sets unrealistic expectations. How about Willa? Closeenough to honor your original choice but appropriate for her designation."

Appropriate.

That word had followed me my whole life.

Appropriate clothes (modest). Appropriate behavior (submissive). Appropriate aspirations (limited).

Even my name had to be appropriate, neutered down from William's strength to Willa's softness.

My parents never quite forgave me for that, I think.

For being born wrong, for forcing them to change their plans, for failing to be the Alpha son they'd dreamed of. They did their duty—fed me, clothed me, educated me—but there was always that distance, that disappointment that hung in the air like smoke.

"You need to be realistic about your options," my mother had said when I'd told her about my college plans. "Marketing is very competitive. Very...Alpha-dominated. Maybe consider teaching? Or nursing? Something more suitable."

Suitable. Appropriate. Safe. Code words for "know your place."

But I'd tried anyway.

Fought for every inch of space in a world that wanted me to disappear. Clawed my way through college, through internships where I did all the work and got none of the credit, through years of being passed over and talked over and told to wait my turn—a turn that never came.

And where did all that fighting get me?

Standing on a hotel porch in a town I've never heard of, turned away for existing while unmated, with a broken car and a bag full of everything I have left.

The sun dips lower, painting Main Street in shades of gold that would be beautiful if I could afford to appreciate them.

Somewhere in this town, Alphas are heading home to warm houses and guaranteed futures.

Somewhere, mated Omegas are setting dinner tables and feeling secure in their place in the world.

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