Chapter 3: Knot Happening Again: Chapter 3

I burrow deeper into my nest of pillows and blankets, inhaling the fading scent of jasmine and sea air. My own scent, barely detectable now thanks to the industrial-strength suppressants I’ve been popping like candy. The makeshift nest is pathetic compared to what the average omega would have, but it’s the best I can do in this shoebox apartment.

A twinge of pain shoots through my lower abdomen, making me curl tighter into myself.

Shit. Not good.

I fumble for the bottle of suppressants on my nightstand, shaking out two pills and dry swallowing them. The recommended dose is one, and my recommended dose is zero—at least until I have a normal heat for the first time in years—but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I know it’s not healthy. I can practically hear my doctor’s voice in my head, lecturing me about the dangers of overdosing on suppressants.

But what choice do I have?

I can’t afford to go into heat.

Not now.

Not ever, really, but especially not when rent is due in less than a week and I haven’t been able to work for days because of these stupid pre-heat cramps.

The thought of entertaining clients makes my skin crawl. Even the memory of that alpha’s hands on me at the Scent Bar sends a shudder of revulsion through my body. But beggars can’t be choosers, and this omega is definitely begging.

For a break, if nothing else.

I roll onto my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The paint is peeling in one corner, revealing the dingy plaster underneath. It’s a perfect metaphor for my life, really. A thin veneer of normalcy barely concealing the mess underneath.

My gaze drifts to the nightstand, to the drawer where I keep my ‘toys.’ Maybe if I just…

No. I’ve tried that.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing helps except an alpha’s knot.

And with my scent unlocked, I attract a dangerous amount of attention under normal circumstances, even with the suppressants. If I go into full-blown heat, I’ll be a magnet for every creep in a three-mile radius.

An unlocked scent is just another fun side effect of bonding sickness. A rare one, but no surprise I got it. Most omegas are only a beacon to alphas in heat, but me? I smell like an omega in full bloom twenty-four-seven, three hundred and sixty five days out of the year when I’m not on those damn pills. Mating regularly helps, too, which is one of the reasons I went into this line of work to begin with—that, and desperation. But an alpha’s knot can only mute the scent for a few days without suppressants, and without them, pregnancy would pretty much be an inevitability.

That’s the last damn thing I need.

But there’s something else in that drawer. Something that’s been at the back of my mind since Natalie mentioned it. I hesitate for a moment before reaching over and pulling the drawer open.

Buried beneath a tangle of charging cables and half-empty bottles of lube is a crumpled brochure. I fish it out, smoothing the glossy paper against my thigh. The logo stares back at me, sleek and professional.

Temporary Bonds.

I snort. As if anything involving alphas and omegas could ever be truly temporary. But… what if it could be? What if there was a way to get through my heat without ending up bonded or broke or both?

I flip open the brochure, skimming over the carefully worded promises. ‘Discreet.’ ‘Professional.’ ‘Safe.’

Yeah, right. I’ve heard all that before. But as my eyes land on the phone number at the bottom of the page, I can’t help but wonder.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and punch in the number. It rings once, twice, three times. I’m about to hang up when a cheerful voice answers.

‘Thank you for calling Temporary Bonds! This is Samantha. How may I assist you today?’

I freeze, suddenly at a loss for words. What am I supposed to say? Hi, I’m a desperate omega with a busted mating mark and an unlocked scent looking for a quick knot?’

‘Hello?’ Samantha prompts, her voice still irritatingly chipper. ‘Is anyone there?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ I manage to croak out. ‘Sorry. I’m, um… I’m calling about your services?’

‘Wonderful!’ Samantha chirps. ‘Are you interested in becoming a client or a staff member?’

I blink, thrown off by the question. ‘A… client, I guess? I’m an omega,’ I add, as if that wasn’t blindingly obvious.

‘Excellent! We’re always happy to help omegas in need. Can I ask what specifically you’re looking for? Heat assistance? Scent therapy? Tactile therapy? Or perhaps you’re interested in our short-term arrangement options?’

My head spins at the barrage of choices. ‘Heat assistance,’ I blurt out before I can overthink it. ‘But, um… how much does all this cost? There’s got to be some kind of fee, right?’

Samantha’s laugh tinkles through the phone. ‘Oh, honey, no! There’s absolutely no charge for omegas. Our alphas and packs pay a membership fee that covers all services.’

Great. So we’re the product.

Should’ve known.

But it’s not like it would be the first time I’ve sold myself out of desperation. Somehow, though, this feels… different. More personal. Mostly because I’m looking for something other than money in return.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the real question. The one that’s been eating away at me since I first laid eyes on that damn brochure. ‘What about… what about omegas with incomplete marks? Do you work with them?’

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and my heart sinks. This is it. This is where they tell me I’m damaged goods, not worth their time or effort.

But then Samantha’s voice comes back, warm and reassuring. ‘Of course! We’ve actually worked with several omegas in similar situations recently. It’s more common than you might think.’

I blink, stunned. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely,’ Samantha confirms. ‘You can mention it in the onboarding questionnaire along with your other information when you come in. We’ll make sure we match you with alphas or packs who are comfortable dealing with incomplete marks.’

Hope flutters in my chest. It’s a fragile, unfamiliar feeling. But then, I’m not just a normal omega with a broken mark. Something tells me they don’t have any other clients with unlocked scents. ‘How long does all this take? The questionnaire and everything?’

‘Oh, not long at all! The questionnaire itself only takes about half an hour. You could come in today if you like. From there, matches happen pretty quickly.’

I glance at the clock. It’s barely noon. I could be there and back before my next dose of suppressants wears off. And with my heat looming… well, I’m desperate enough to give just about anything a try at this point.

‘Okay,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’ll come in today. What’s the address?’

Samantha rattles off an address in the business district, not far from where I live. I jot it down on the back of the brochure, my handwriting shaky.

‘Wonderful!’ Samantha chirps. ‘We’ll see you soon, then. Just ask for me at the front desk when you arrive.’

I mumble a goodbye and hang up, staring at my phone in disbelief. Did I really just do that? Am I really going to go through with this?

But as another cramp twists through my abdomen, I know I don’t have much choice. It’s this or…

Well, I don’t want to think about the alternative.

I haul myself out of my nest, wincing at the ache in my muscles. A quick glance in the mirror confirms what I already knew. I look like hell. Dark circles under my eyes, hair a tangled mess, skin pale and clammy.

Not exactly the picture of omega allure.

But it doesn’t matter, right? This isn’t about finding a mate. It’s just about getting through my heat without ending up bonded or broke.

I can do this.

I throw on the first clean clothes I can find. A pair of leggings and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder. It’s not exactly professional, but it’s comfortable, and right now, that’s all I care about.

The walk to the Temporary Bonds office takes longer than it should. Every step sends a jolt of discomfort through my body, a reminder of why I’m doing this. By the time I reach the sleek glass building, I’m sweating and shaky.

I pause outside, taking in the modern facade. It’s nothing like the seedy clubs and ruthouses I’m used to. This place looks… legitimate. Professional. The kind of place respectable omegas might actually come to for help.

Not that I’m respectable.

Not anymore.

But maybe they can help me anyway.

I push through the revolving door, stepping into a lobby that wouldn’t look out of place in a high-end hotel. Soft lighting, tasteful artwork on the walls, comfortable-looking seating areas scattered about. The air is thick with pheromone inhibitors, masking any trace of alpha or omega scents.

A friendly-looking beta woman sits behind a curved reception desk, her smile bright as she looks up at me. ‘Welcome to Temporary Bonds! How can I help you today?’

I approach the desk hesitantly, still half-expecting to be thrown out. ‘Um, I’m here to see Samantha? I called earlier about… about heat assistance.’

The beta’s smile doesn’t falter. ‘Of course! Samantha mentioned we might be expecting you. If you’ll just have a seat, she’ll be with you in a moment.’

I nod, sinking into one of the plush armchairs scattered around the lobby. It’s so comfortable, I have to fight the urge to curl up and nest right there. I distract myself by taking in more details of the decor—the abstract paintings on the walls, the potted plants in every corner, the soft music playing just on the edge of hearing.

It’s all so… normal.

Nothing like the places I usually end up.

No alphas prowling around, eyeing me like a piece of meat. No omegas dolled up and on display. Just a calm, professional atmosphere that almost makes me believe this might actually work.

‘Ophelia?’

I look up to see a smiling woman approaching me. Beta, by her scent—or lack thereof. She’s dressed in a crisp blazer and pencil skirt, looking every inch the professional.

‘I’m Samantha,’ she says, extending a hand. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier. It’s lovely to meet you in person.’

I shake her hand, surprised by the firm grip. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ I mumble, suddenly feeling very underdressed in my ratty sweater and leggings.

If Samantha notices, she doesn’t comment. ‘Why don’t you come with me? We’ll get you set up with the questionnaire and then we can discuss your options.’

I follow her down a hallway lined with doors, each one labeled with a number. We stop at one marked Consultation Room 3, and Samantha ushers me inside.

The room is small but cozy, with a comfortable-looking armchair and a sleek tablet mounted on a stand. The walls are a soothing shade of blue, and there’s a small fountain bubbling away in one corner.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Samantha says, gesturing to the chair. ‘The questionnaire is pretty straightforward, but if you have any questions, just press the call button and someone will be right in to help you.’

I nod, sinking into the chair. It’s even more comfortable than it looks, and I have to resist the urge to curl up and nap right there.

‘Take your time,’ Samantha adds with a gentle smile. ‘And remember, there are no wrong answers. We just want to get to know you and your needs so we can find the best possible match.’

With that, she leaves, closing the door softly behind her. I’m left alone with the tablet, its screen glowing invitingly.

I take a deep breath and tap the start button. Here goes nothing.

The questions start off simple enough. Name, age, class. But as I scroll through, they get more detailed. Medical history, heat cycles, sexual preferences.

I hesitate over some of them, not sure how to answer. How am I supposed to know what kind of alpha I prefer when I’ve never had a good experience with any of them?

But I push through, forcing myself to be honest. What’s the point of lying? If this is going to work, they need to know what they’re dealing with.

When I get to the section about mating status, my finger hovers over the screen. There it is, in black and white.

Incomplete mark.

I tap it, then type out a brief explanation in the box provided. No need to go into the whole sordid story. Just the basics—marked at eighteen, alpha left, never completed the bond.

As I work through the questionnaire, I find myself relaxing in spite of myself. The questions are thorough but not invasive, and there’s always an option to skip if something feels too personal.

By the time I reach the end, I’ve told them more about myself than I’ve told anyone in years.

Everything but the part about my unlocked scent. But I’ll only be seeing the alphas during my heat anyway. The one time I’m supposed to perfume unprovoked, so it’s not like they’re going to notice.

The final section asks about my preferences for a pack. I stare at the screen, at a loss.

What do I even want?

All alphas are the same in the end.

They’ll use you and leave you.

But I guess if I have to choose…

I end up leaving most of it blank. No preferences for age, appearance, hobbies, assets, careers, or pack size. I just know I want more than a single alpha. Better odds that way. The only thing I specify other than wanting a fully fledged pack is that I want a temporary arrangement only.

No long-term commitments, no attempts at bonding. Just get me through my heat and let me get back to my life.

As I hit the submit button, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I slump back in the chair, suddenly aware of how drained I feel. Between the suppressants and the stress, I’m running on fumes.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Samantha pokes her head in. ‘All finished?’ she asks with a smile.

I nod, hauling myself to my feet. ‘Yeah, I think so. What happens now?’

‘Now,’ Samantha says, leading me back to the lobby, ‘we process your application and start looking for potential matches. It usually doesn’t take long on an omega’s side of things—we’ll be in touch within a day or two with some options for you to consider. You can come in and meet the potential packs and figure things out from there.’

I nod, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety in my stomach. This is really happening. I’m really doing this.

‘And remember,’ Samantha adds as we reach the front desk, ‘you’re under no obligation to accept any of the matches we suggest. If none of them feel right, we’ll keep looking until we find someone you’re comfortable with.’

I manage a weak smile. ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

The Scent Bar could learn a thing or two from this place when it comes to their policies on consent.

As I step back out onto the street, the late afternoon sun warm on my face, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just set something in motion that I won’t be able to stop. But as another cramp twists through my abdomen, I remind myself that I don’t have much choice.

My doctor’s words at my last visit come back to haunt me.

“It’s not just about the suppressants being dangerous, Ophelia. Although they certainly are. This formulation was never meant to be used for as long as you have without letting yourself go through the recommended annual heat cycle. But if you continue to use them, eventually, your body will develop a resistance. And when that happens, the suppressants won’t be enough to hold your heat back.”

It’s clear my body has decided I’m going into heat, suppressants or no. So it’s this or suffer through an agonizing heat alone.

And I’m not sure I can survive that.

I start the long walk home, telling myself not to get my hopes up. Nothing will come of this anyway. No alpha or pack in their right mind would want a damaged omega like me.

But as I climb the stairs to my apartment, I can’t quite squash the tiny flicker of hope in my chest. Maybe this time will be different.

I let myself back into my sad little apartment, immediately heading for my nest. As I curl up among the pillows and blankets, I realize I feel… lighter, somehow.

But I’ve been burned too many times to truly believe things can change for the better. So I push the hope away, burying it deep where it can’t hurt me. No use getting excited over nothing.

Still, as I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder what kind of alphas might be interested in a broken omega like me. And for the first time in years, I let myself imagine what it might be like to feel safe and cared for during a heat.

It’s a dangerous thought. But as I slip into dreams, I can’t quite bring myself to push it away.