Page 1 of The Knotheads Next Door
Chapter 1
Rowan
The crash of breaking glass jolts me from my social media-induced stupor. I freeze mid-scroll, thumb hovering over a meme about omega mood swings and soup. (So relatable. So tragic.) My ears straining to catch what's happening downstairs.
"It was decades ago!" Pops's voice, tighter than I've ever heard it.
I'm not trying to eavesdrop. I swear. But when your parents are yelling loud enough to rattle the light fixtures, and your childhood bedroom shares a vent system with the kitchen, it's less "snooping" and more "accidental trauma through air circulation."
I slide off my childhood bed silently, bare feet finding the worn carpet as I creep toward the source of the sound.
"That doesn't matter!" My mother's voice now, sharp with that dangerous kind of emotion that always makes my stomach clench. "He has no right to contact us now, not after all this time."
I sink to the floor beside the vent, knees pulled to my chest, making myself small as if they might somehow sense my eavesdropping from two floors below.
"You're overreacting." Dad now, his usually calm beta voice strained with tension. "We should at least hear what he has to say before—"
"I'm overreacting?" Something else shatters—the decorative vase from Aunt Judith, I think, the one Mom always hated but kept on display out of familial obligation.
"He abandoned us. Abandoned her. And now he wants back in our lives because what? He's curious? He's feeling nostalgic?"
I press my ear closer to the metal grate, heart hammering against my ribs. They're talking about me. They have to be. But who is "he"?
"Lower your voice," Pops warns, and I can picture his expression—jaw tight, alpha pheromones spiking with protective instinct. "She'll hear you."
"She deserves to know," Dad counters. "She's not a child anymore."
"She's our daughter," Mom insists, her voice breaking on the last word. "Ours. Not his. He gave up any right to her when he walked away. That was the agreement."
Another crash, followed by the sound of liquid splattering. A wine glass, maybe, knocked from the counter in my mother's agitation.
"James is back in town," she says, and something in her tone makes my blood run cold. "And if he thinks he can just walk back into her life after twenty-eight years like nothing happened—"
James. The name means nothing to me, and yet the way she says it—like the name is both a poison and prayer—makes something deep inside me uneasy.
"We never told her the truth," Dad says quietly. "Any of it."
The silence that follows is worse than the shouting, heavy with secrets I know are about to change everything.
And even though I know — I know— I should not creep out of my room and listen at the top of the stairs, I find myself doing just that.
Finally, Dad’s voice sounds again.
“I think we should be more concerned about Rowan. What if he seeks her out? What if he tells her? So much of it has to do with her. She should hear about the whole thing from us.”
My body tenses like it always does when Dad uses that tone—a Pavlovian response from twenty-eight years of emotional weather forecasting.
"He has no reason to reach out to her now," Pops says. His voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when he's trying not to growl, his alpha instincts kicking in despite the calming tea he drinks by the gallon. "It was decades ago."
"You never told her the truth," Dad chimes in. His gentler beta nature usually keeps things balanced in our little family pack, but tonight there's an edge to his voice I rarely hear. "We all agreed we wouldn't. But maybe we should have. Especially since—"
Silence. And it's the awful type of silence that screams louder than words. The kind that makes my skin crawl with unspoken revelations.
"…You don't think she ever suspected?" Mom says, softer now. "That maybe, just maybe—"
Oh no. No no no.
My heart's already thudding as I rush down the stairs. I'm not even trying to be quiet. I burst into the kitchen. The overhead light is harsh, illuminating my parents' shocked faces in all their guilty glory. Mom's hands are frozen mid-gesture, her omega scent tinged with distress. Pops stands by the sink, arms crossed,the picture of alpha tension. Dad sits at the kitchen island, his normally gentle face tight with worry.
