Page 41 of Knot All is Crystal
“She will if she doesn’t want something to happen to her sister and niece,” he sneers, always quick to use her family against her. “Find me a male Omega or Queenie will be on offer.
“How long do we have?”
“I give you six weeks to find a new one before I turn over Queenie for seasoning.”
Seasoning.
Breaking her is what he means. Having her so thoroughly destroyed that she won’t fight back.
I can figure something out. I have to. That’s enough time for me to come up with an alternative. I won’t accept this fate for Queenie.
Not when I’m the one who handed her to him.
“I’ll take care of it.”
FIFTEEN
I standin front of the baking aisle at the specialty grocer, lamenting the lack of options for vanilla beans. I want to make crème brûlée for Emmanuel tonight. And maybe he won’t be able to taste the difference between Tahitian and Madagascar vanilla beans, but dammit, I can.
I guess Madagascar will have to do.
Digging through my basket, I mentally add the total to ensure I’m not over my budget. I have enough left over to make a nice mocktail.
One of the weird side effects of being on his medical team is that I know Emmanuel doesn’t drink alcohol because of his migraines. That’s fine with me. I drink, but it’s not something I need a partner to do.
I’ve been looking forward to this all weekend. We’ve been texting daily since we met, and I know my feelings for him are becoming more permanent with every message. I fear he’s being woven into my DNA.
And that may be the worst thing to ever happen to him.
I slide into line behind a tall, red-haired Beta and begin digging through my purse for a hard candy. I love the cherry ones the most and nearly squeal when I find one, popping it in my mouth happily.
“Crystal?” The man in front of me turns around, and I smile when I see Gage, my tattoo artist. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Emphasis on fancy. I didn’t know you shopped here!”
Gage leans on his cart casually. He’s younger than me by a few years, but that doesn’t stop me from appreciating his attractiveness—tall, with broad shoulders and covered in tattoos. I especially like his short-cropped beard and mustache. I can tell he takes care of it. He shrugs with one shoulder and beams a smile that shows off his crooked, crowded teeth.
I’ve always liked his smile. It’s warm and approachable.
“I have celiac, so I eat gluten-free, and they have the best selection.” He gestures at his cart, full of pasta, bread, and prepared foods stamped with a “gluten-free” starburst. “I don’t cook much with my long hours, so having easy shit on hand is a necessity.”
“Makes sense. How’s Burger?”
He pulls out his phone and shows me the goofiest-looking mutt I’ve ever seen. He’s midsized, maybe thirty pounds, with wiry gold fur and one ear that sticks up. His tail points up with a curl that touches his spine, and a big black and pink tongue hangs out.
“He’s good, as meddlesome as ever. I came home the other day, and he’d shredded his entire bed.” He shakes his head, shoving his phone in his back pocket. “I’ll figure it out. Growing pains, you know? We’ll come into our routine eventually.”
I wish I could have a pet, but working two jobs doesn’t leave me much time for it. I have Sunday through Tuesday off from Prism, but on the other days, I leave the clinic and head straight there.
“It’s weird seeing you outside the shop,” I blurt. “You look different without your gloves on.”
“You look different with pants on.” Gage’s face turns bright red, and his mouth gapes a couple of times like a fish out of water. When I crack up, my laugh bubbling out of me with such force that I bend over, he breathes a sigh of relief. “I am so sorry! That was unprofessional. I don’t know where that came from.”
“You’re good, Gage. I needed that.” I’ve felt a little tense since my conversation with Puck last Wednesday. It wasn’t just discovering that he has an unknown depth to him, but the guilt that I had painted him with such a one-dimensional brush.
And his proclamation about turning garbage into art? It hit a little too close to home.
Will my Alphas see the art that I can be? Or am I forever destined to be the trash they walk past on the street?
