Knot Happening

By Quinn Hawthorne

Want to know what a serial killer, mafia boss, biker, and stalker have in common?

Being obsessed with me.

Listen, I'm not trying to give main character energy! I'm really not. I just so happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. If they could all just kindly fuck off, that would be fan-fucking-tastic. I do NOT have enough Hydroxyzine or lexapro to handle this.

I can tell you one thing though: Whatever they have planned for me? It's NOT happening.

Note: This is a standalone omegaverse why choose romance with a ton of spice and dark themes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quinn Hawthorne
• Release date: Aug 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781733631136

Book preview

PART ONE

before that night

Darcy POV

one

DARCY

The closet felt like my only sanctuary, its narrow walls a fortress against the outside world. Inside, the scent of my nest, the mixture of coconut and vanilla, wrapped around me like a comforting shroud. I had crafted this refuge with my own hands, a secret place where I could be myself, if only for a fleeting moment. The clothes hung high above, obscuring the view from the door, while beneath them lay the soft nest that cradled me.

I clutched the burner phone in my trembling hand, my heart pounding like a drumline in my chest. The time for my appointment with Dr. Parsons was drawing near, and the anticipation was a living thing, clawing at my insides. I had to be cautious; my father's voice echoed in my mind, a snarl reminding me that nests were for mated omegas, not for the likes of me. But here, in the dim light filtering through the cracks, I allowed myself this transgression.

Both the closet and bedroom doors were locked, and I had wedged a chair under the handle for good measure. Paranoia was a constant companion these days, its icy fingers whispering warnings of discovery. My father, with his political aspirations, would never understand the need to talk to a psychiatrist. He saw omegas as possessions, not people with their own desires and needs.

Dr. Parsons was amazing. Not only was she a psychiatrist, but she also worked with the Omega Underground. She gave up everything to assist omegas like me in navigating the harsh realities we face. Like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline, I clung desperately to our conversations. She was my solace in a crumbling world.

Josephine, a long-term housekeeper and the closest thing I had to a mother, bought the burner phone for me. Well, I paid for it. I wasn’t allowed to use my father’s funds, but over the years, I would take odd internet gigs until I figured out I was pretty good at coding. Then, I would code in the safety of my closet night after night until I could build up a reputation and client base, but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t nearly enough where I could live comfortably off the income. The irony wasn't lost on me, though. My coding skills were in high demand among those who wished me barefoot in the kitchen or solely strapped to a bed.

The phone rang, and I answered with a whisper, Hello?

Darcy, Dr. Parsons' voice had a calming effect, like a soothing balm on my frazzled nerves. How are you holding up?

Thank the Gods that you can talk to me twice this week, Sloane. I am losing my mind. I said, curling up in the tight nest of crocheted blankets I made myself. My finger popped through a loose stitch, and I wiggled it.

You know, I'm only a phone call away. If you need me, I am here for you. You don't have to wait for our sessions. I am a resource for you any time the need arises. Dr. Parsons said.

I know, but I always feel like I am being dramatic or stepping on toes. I don't want to burden anyone. I explained.

On the other end, Dr. Parsons huffed into the receiver, You aren't stepping on toes. In fact, it is almost my job to be there for you. I'd hate for you to suffer in silence when there may be help a phone call away.

I sighed and tucked the blanket closer around me in a guilty hug. I hated how true that statement felt. I felt like I definitely suffered in silence a lot of the time.

Yeah, I know. I just... I don't want to be seen as weak. I may be honest, but am I too honest? It didn't seem right to tell a psychiatrist I wanted to hide from the world. I needed to be less obvious with my shame.

You aren't weak, Darcy. I think it is normal what you are going through. You are in a tough spot. Do you feel like you can tell me more? Of course, I wanted to tell her more, but there was risk involved with that, too.

I don't think I can right now. I managed a weak breath into the phone instead of continuing.

We can go at your pace. Is there something you do want to talk about? How about work?

Well, I've spent the last few days buried in work. Coding, reading, and trying to find ways to seclude myself for as long as possible. Sometimes, it feels like the only place I belong is when I'm either lost in a book or lines of code, where no one can come knocking or demand anything from me. I sighed into the phone, feeling the weight of my words pressing against my chest.

Dr. Parsons hummed in acknowledgment. If you feel comfortable discussing it, Do you want to tell me more about what's causing all of this anxiety? she asked gently.

I hesitated for a moment before answering her. Part of me wanted to keep things bottled up, to pretend like everything was fine, but another part craved the relief that came with confiding in someone who wasn't going to use it against me or judge me.

Well, I'm supposed to go to lunch with my father tomorrow. My voice came out hushed, like admitting an unspoken truth. He's invited a ton of his political cronies, and I'm expected to play the part of the doting daughter. My hands started to shake as I pictured myself sitting across from yet another stranger, forced to smile and make small talk while my father leered at me from across the table.

That sounds incredibly stressful, Darcy. Are you okay? Dr. Parsons’ tone brims with concern, making me feel a little less alone.

I... I don't know. I'm just so tired of being treated like I'm some prize to be won or traded. And it doesn’t help that I hadn’t allowed myself to have a heat yet. My throat was tight, and my eyes stung with tears that I refused to shed. It's like he's disappointed that I'm not conforming to his fucked up ideals of what an omega should be, so he just locks me in my room when I’m not catering to his campaigns so he doesn’t have to look at me.

The second I even recognized what I said, I immediately apologized. It wasn’t just an apology to Dr. Parsons but also to myself. We’ve had this discussion before, more than once. It was a mental spiral I trapped myself in. If I dwelled too often on my current situation, my depression would get worse, which would make me not have the motivation or energy to continue working to get myself out.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before Dr. Parsons spoke up. Well, I'm glad you mentioned that. I actually wanted to ask you about your medication. Are you still able to manage your anxiety with the suppressants?

I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on the here and now. They've been helping, for the most part. I still get a little jittery sometimes, but nothing too bad. I just wish they could do more for my overall stress levels.

I understand completely. How about we discuss other options at our next session? In the meantime, would established routines and mindfulness breathing exercises help you get through this particular situation? Dr. Parsons queries.

I hesitated, the weight of my next words heavy on my tongue. I've been practicing some breathing exercises you taught me, and they seem to help. It’s just hard to remember to do them while surrounded by him as he watches for every microexpression that flashes across my face.

Dr. Parsons made a sympathetic sound. It's a difficult position to be in, Darcy. But remember, you're not just an omega. You're a person with your own dreams and aspirations. Don't let him define you.

He made a remark about my lack of heat, I said, the memory sour in my mind. It was subtle, but I know him. He's starting to wonder if something is wrong with me, if I'm defective.

The implication was clear: an omega who didn't cycle regularly was a liability, a blemish on the family name. The thought of him discovering I used suppressants sent a chill down my spine. The consequences would be unimaginable.

I'm doing my best to appear normal, I continued, my voice barely a whisper. But it's getting harder to keep up the facade. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering when he'll find out.

Dr. Parsons' tone was firm yet compassionate. You're doing everything you can to protect yourself, Darcy. Remember, the Omega Underground is here to support you. We'll help you navigate through this.

Her reassurances were a comfort, but the fear lingered, a specter haunting the edges of my consciousness. I ended the call with a promise to stay safe and a heavy heart, knowing that the battle for my freedom was far from over.

two

DARCY

The chime of silverware against fine china, the clinking of glasses, the murmured conversations—it all formed a backdrop to the spectacle my father had orchestrated. I sat at the long mahogany table in our opulent dining room, my spine rigid, my smile plastered on like a mask. Father had outdone himself with the lunch, a feast that would have been more appropriate for a state dinner than a casual gathering of his allies.

He was in his element, holding court at the head of the table, a glass of the finest scotch in hand. He introduced me with the flourish of a maestro presenting his star performer. I was the bait dangled for these predators, my value measured by the connections I could secure for him.

Gentlemen, may I present my daughter, Darcy, Father said, his voice dripping with pride that was as false as the affection he feigned for me in public.

The alphas turned their predatory gazes on me, their nostrils flaring subtly as they scented the air—no doubt trying to discern if the rumors of my lack of heat were true. My scent was carefully blended with the scent of a baby powder perfume. Baby powder was the unmistakable scent that indicated an omega's immaturity, so omegas would often employ this tactic to hide it.

I nodded politely, my eyes downcast in a show of submission that was expected of an omega. They didn't bother to conceal their appraisal of me, their eyes roaming over my body with the kind of ownership that made my skin crawl.

My father, ever the politician, steered the conversation toward policy and power, his voice smooth and commanding. I listened, my mind cataloging their stances, their hypocrisy, their self-interest masquerading as public service. They spoke of omega rights with the same breath they used to discuss economic strategies as if our lives were nothing more than political capital to be spent and traded.

One of them declared, his voice booming across the table, We must ensure the stability of our society, and that means supporting the traditional family structure.

I wanted to scoff. The stability of society or the stability of their fragile male ego?

Another chimed in, his voice slick with insincerity. Of course, we need to protect our omegas from the dangers of the world. It's our duty as alphas to provide for them, to guide them.

My thoughts were a whirlwind of contempt and disdain. Provide for us? Guide us? They didn't want to protect us; they wanted to control us, to keep us subservient and dependent on their so-called strength.

The conversation droned on, the alphas vying for my father's approval, which was ironic given my father was a beta, their words laced with veiled threats and empty promises. I watched the spectacle unfold, a silent observer in a world that was not my own. Every so often, Father's gaze would land on me, a subtle reminder to maintain the facade, to play my part in this grand charade.

I was good at faking it, at pretending that their words didn't sicken me, that their presence didn't trigger the memory of pain and humiliation. I remembered the sting of my father's belt, the searing heat of the welts rising on my skin, the taste of my own blood as I bit my tongue to stifle my cries.

But I was no longer that scared little girl. I had learned to wear my mask with practiced ease, to navigate the treacherous waters of my father's world with a grace that belied the turmoil within. The memory of that beating served as a stark reminder of what was at stake—my freedom, my future, my very life.

The lunch seemed to stretch on interminably, each minute a small battle in the war for my independence. The alphas finally took their leave, their parting words a series of veiled compliments and not-so-subtle hints about future alliances.

As the door closed behind them, I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, the tension in my shoulders easing ever so slightly. My father's approving nod was a bitter victory, a testament to my ability to survive in a world that was never meant to be mine.

You did well today, Darcy, he said, his tone laced with satisfaction. I'm confident that our guests left with a favorable impression.

I smiled, the expression as brittle as glass. I'm glad I could be of service.

I watched the last of them file out of the dining room, their voices fading into the cavernous hallways of my father's mansion. The lunch had been a grueling affair, a marathon of false smiles and empty pleasantries. I was just starting to relax, to let the tension seep out of my muscles, when the door swung open once more.

An older politician stepped back into the room, his presence commanding attention even in the absence of his peers. His eyes met mine, a flicker of something unreadable passing between us before he turned his gaze to my father. There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

This alpha was different. He was the leader of an omega-less pack, a fact that both intrigued and terrified me. His scent was unmistakable now that the room was free of the competing aromas of the other alphas—driftwood and a subtle hint of fish, the smell of the sea that clung to him like a second skin. I had to fight back the urge to gag, the scent so potent it was almost tangible.

My father and the alpha exchanged a few words, their voices low and conspiratorial. I strained to hear them, to glean some understanding of what was being said. And then it hit me like a punch to the gut—the alpha and his pack were interested in courting me.

A warmth spread across my face as I smiled at the alpha, the expression feeling foreign and forced. Internally, I was filled with a chaotic mixture of panic and dread, on the verge of falling apart. The thought of being forced into a mating bond, of being claimed by a pack of alphas, was enough to send me spiraling into a full-blown panic.

I wasn't ready for this. I wasn't ready to be handed over like a piece of property, to be bound to a pack that was as cruel and calculating as my father—and he was just a beta. The thought of what a pack of alphas might do to me in a room alone was a horror I couldn't begin to comprehend.

Of course, I heard myself say, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. I would be honored to discuss this with my father. Your pack is indeed a phenomenal catch, and I am truly flattered by your interest.

My father gave me a subtle nod of approval, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. I felt sick, the weight of my impending fate pressing down on me like a physical force. As we made our way back upstairs, my mind raced with calculations and contingencies. I needed to code faster, to complete more projects, to save enough to make my escape.

The thought of running, of leaving this life behind, was both exhilarating and terrifying. But it was a risk I was willing to take. Anything was better than the alternative—a life spent in servitude to a pack that viewed me as a mere object to be claimed.

After being led into my room and hearing the door lock behind me, I steeled myself for the battle ahead. I was Darcy McCarthy, and I would not go gently into the night that they had planned for me.

three

DARCY

The scent of my nest surrounded me, a fragrant fortress woven from years of solitude. Each blanket, every knitted afghan bore the marks of my clumsy fingers, a testament to the countless hours spent in quiet rebellion against my father's iron will. I smiled as I traced the erratic stitches, recalling the little girl who had sought refuge here when the world outside grew too harsh.

Soon, this will all be behind me, I whispered to the silence, the words as much a promise as a farewell.

With a gentle hand, I began to disassemble my sanctuary. It was a bittersweet task, each undone stitch a symbol of my impending liberation. The nest was my history, my story carved into every crooked line and uneven pattern, but it was a part of my life I had outgrown long ago.

The shadows of my room stretched long and thin as the afternoon sun began its descent, casting an eerie gloom over the remnants of my nest. I stood there, surveying the space that had been my refuge, my heart thrumming with a cocktail of fear and exhilaration. This would be the last time I'd lay eyes on this room, the walls that had heard my silent screams, the carpet that had cushioned my knees during countless heat spikes.

I had been squirreling away every penny I earned from my coding gigs, a stash that grew with each passing week. The Omega Underground had come through, as promised, providing me with a new identity, a lifeline to freedom. I had a new name, a new future waiting for me, tucked away in a bank account that my father's influence couldn't touch.

The laptop that had been my window to the outside world lay in pieces on my desk, its screen shattered like the facade of my perfect omega life. I had transferred all my work, my hope for a new beginning, onto a flash drive that now rested securely against my skin, hidden beneath the lace of my bra. It was a small, fragile thing, but it held the key to my independence.

Tonight, I would slip away into the night, a ghost in the machine, leaving behind nothing but the echo of my name. The charity ball would be my swan song, a final performance before I took my bow and exited the stage for good.

A shiver ran down my spine as I considered the possibility of being caught. The consequences of such a discovery were too dire to contemplate. My father's wrath would be unimaginable, his retribution swift and merciless. But the alternative, a life shackled to his ambition, was a fate far worse than death.

A soft knock on the door—Josephine, with her knowing eyes, interrupted my thoughts. As she stepped into my room, her gaze immediately fell upon the dismantled nest. The emotion that flashed across her face was fleeting but unmistakable: sorrow, pride, and an unspoken understanding.

Darcy, chérie... she trailed off, her voice heavy with unshed tears. Before I could respond, she closed the door behind her and rushed over to envelop me in a warm, comforting embrace. It was a hug filled with years of quiet complicity, a wordless acknowledgment that our time together was coming to an end.

Josephine held me at arm's length, her dark eyes searching mine for a flicker of doubt, a hint of hesitation. Do you have somewhere to go, mon coeur? she asked softly, her voice a tender caress against my cheek.

I met her gaze with steady conviction, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. My silent nod conveyed a lifetime of secrets, an acknowledgment of the shadowy network that had come to be my lifeline.

Josephine's relief was palpable; her breath hitched ever so slightly as she wrapped her arms around me once more. Mrs. Dubois? I ventured, calling her by her formal title out of habit. She squeezed me tighter in response, her silent acknowledgment that she knew of my plans, had known for quite some time, and was proud of me for taking this bold step.

In this moment, I didn't just feel her absence that would soon rend our lives apart; I also felt the weight of responsibility lift from my shoulders, the anticipation of the unknown, a thrilling whisper in my ear.

Josephine's hands were gentle as she undressed me, slipping the silk robe from my shoulders with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. The gown she held out for me was a vision of cerise, its delicate fabric whispering promises of freedom as she helped me step into it.

You remember the first time your father took us to the opera? Josephine asked, her voice a soft hum in the background as she zipped up the dress. The memory was a vivid one, the grandeur of the building juxtaposed against my longing to break free and play in the luxurious boxes.

I was more interested in the chandeliers than the singers, I chuckled, the sound hollow in the echo of my empty room. Josephine laughed, her fingers deftly weaving my hair into curls that cascaded down my back.

You were such a curious little thing, she reminisced, her eyes twinkling with the ghost of that little girl. Always questioning, never satisfied with simple answers.

Now I understand why she brought up this memory. She’s saying goodbye without saying it, telling me what she wished she could without fear of being overheard. I had to hold back my tears so they wouldn’t ruin her efforts.

As she applied my makeup, I closed my eyes and felt the gentle caress of the soft brushes against my skin. I guess some things never change, I murmured, opening my eyes to meet her gaze in the mirror. I couldn't help but notice how the eyeliner made my blue eyes appear even more vibrant, especially against the soft, smoky backdrop of the eyeshadow.

No, they don't, Josephine agreed, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. But change is good, Darcy. It's how we grow.

As she spoke, I felt the truth of her words deep in my core. I had grown, not just in stature, but in spirit. The girl who had marveled at the chandeliers had become a woman ready to carve her own path in the world.

We shared stories of my childhood, each one a patchwork quilt of laughter and tears, of trials and triumphs. Josephine had been there for it all, a silent sentinel in the background of my life.

Do you remember the time I fell out of the apple tree? I asked, a