Page 82 of The Knotheads Next Door
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected. "You went behind my back. To the man who abandoned us."
"He didn't—" She stops herself, clearly choosing her next words carefully. "It wasn't that simple, Rowan. Nothing about that time was simple."
"Then explain it to me," I challenge, aware that my voice has risen again, that people are definitely staring now. I don't care. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty damn simple. Three parents raised me, one didn't. Two fathers stuck around,one didn't. One donated sperm and disappeared, the others actually parented me."
"James wanted to be involved," she says, her own composure slipping. "We were the ones who pushed him away. Your fathers and I. We thought... we thought it would be confusing for you, having him in the picture."
The ground seems to shift beneath my feet. The narrative I've built my entire life around—abandoned by a man who didn't want me—suddenly tilting on its axis.
"You're lying," I say, but even to my own ears it sounds more like a plea than an accusation.
"I'm not." Her eyes fill with tears, and I hate how it still affects me, still makes something in my chest ache despite everything. "We made a mistake, Rowan. We thought we were protecting you, but we were wrong. And now... now you're suffering the consequences."
"Consequences?" I latch onto the word, anger flaring again. "You mean my biology? My latency? That's a consequence of your lie?"
"Not a lie," she corrects gently. "An omission. We never told you the full truth about why James left. We didn't think it mattered, until..."
"Until I turned out to be a genetic anomaly," I finish for her, the pieces clicking into place with nauseating clarity. "So what is it? What's wrong with me? With him?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," she insists, reaching for me again. "Nothing has ever been wrong with you. It's just... his family has a history of suppressed secondary gender expression. Especially in omegas. It often doesn't manifest until triggered by compatible alphas or significant life changes."
Compatible alphas. The words echo in my head, images of Theo, Jasper, and Wells flashing through my mind in rapidsuccession. Their scents, their touch, the way my body responds to their presence.
"So you're saying I was normal all along?" My voice cracks on the word 'normal'—the state I've been chasing my entire life. "That all those doctors, all those tests, all those feelings of being broken were for nothing?"
"We didn't know," she repeats, her own voice unsteady now. "James only told us about his family history after Pops contacted him. If we had known—"
"You would have what?" I demand, tears threatening to roll down my cheeks despite my best efforts. "Told me the truth? Let me meet him? Given me some context for why I've felt like a freak my entire life?"
People are definitely staring now, conversations quieting around us as the confrontation escalates. Through my peripheral vision, I notice three familiar figures approaching—Theo, Wells, and Jasper, drawn by the commotion or perhaps by my distress-laden scent cutting through the blockers.
Great. An audience. Just what this needs.
"Rowan, please," my mother pleads, real remorse in her eyes. "We made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. But we love you. We've always loved you. We just want to help."
"Help?" I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "Now? After I've spent my entire life thinking I was broken, different, wrong? After I've finally started figuring things out on my own? Now you want to help?"
Wells reaches us first, his expression carefully neutral though his scent betrays his concern. He positions himself slightly between us, not quite interfering but making his presence known.
"Is everything alright here?" he asks, his voice measured but with an undercurrent of authority that makes my mother step back instinctively.
"It's fine," I say quickly, not wanting him involved in this mess. "Family discussion."
"It doesn't sound fine," he observes, eyes flicking between us, assessing.
"Please," my mother says, addressing him directly. "I'm Rowan's mother. This is a private matter."
Something flashes in Wells's eyes—recognition, perhaps, of the complicated emotions at play. He hesitates, then looks to me. "Do you want me to stay or go?"
The question is simple, but the implications are vast. He's offering protection, support, but also respecting my agency. He’s letting me choose.
"I've got this," I tell him, gratitude mingling with the storm of other emotions churning inside me. "But thanks."
He nods, stepping back but not leaving entirely, a silent presence of support that both comforts me and further complicates our relationship.
I turn back to my mother, suddenly exhausted. The heat that's been slowly receding flares again, making me dizzy, oversensitive. This is too much, too fast, too public.
"I can't do this right now," I tell her, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I need time. Space."
