Knot The One They Want

Chapter 17: The Meeting Of Pack Spade

Lorali

I stare half‑heartedly at the pot of freshly diced, boiling potatoes, steam curling upward in lazy ribbons. I’m making lasagna tonight, the pack omega’s favourite dish, or so the witch claims but I couldn’t care less about that now. My mind is captured, imprisoned and consumed by thoughts of my fated mate. I am a happy prisoner of my own head, chained to the fantasy of him.

I wonder if he’s thinking of me too, if he’s caught in the same storm of awe and obsession. He’s probably shy, embarrassed, hiding somewhere in this house hence I haven’t seen him. I know he hasn’t left; I never heard the front door open. And ever since I left the bathroom looking red, I’ve been rooted here in the kitchen, which gives me a perfect view of the main entrance.

"I’m home alone with my fated mate. He’s just around the corner, and this place is drenched in his scent. I’m in heaven," I squeal, swaying back and forth, grinning ear to ear, lost in bliss. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

But the moment shatters when the door swings open. My attention snaps away from the boiling potatoes, I turn towards the open door as four bodies file in, one after the other, the witch at the head. This must be the pack. And the smaller one, trailing behind the two menacing figures, must be Walter, their omega.

He looks pretty, almost delicate, with a bright complexion and hair that I imagine feels like soft fluff between fingers.

The pack halts immediately, the witch stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of me. My eyes lock with Walter’s amber gaze, and suddenly the only thing I can smell is cinnamon buns. His scent. It floods me, intoxicating, pulling me under. I drown in those eyes, in that sweetness, in the strange importance of it all. Yet even as I’m trapped, I don’t feel the spark of a fated bond or scent match, just something else, something I can’t name. I’m trapped in his eyes until his expression twists.

His face hardens into the nastiest scowl I’ve ever seen. Hatred gleams in his eyes, sharp and merciless. Confusion claws at me. I glance behind, hoping maybe someone else is the target of that venom, but no, just as I thought no one is there. He’s looking at me.

What on earth did I do to earn such a look?

"Oh wow, what a way for you all to meet," the witch says cheerfully, tugging Walter’s hand and dragging him closer to the kitchen. The other two men follow as looming shadows.

"Walter, this is... umm.. What’s her name again? It’s on the tip of my tongue." The witch taps her chin, feigning thought, appearing to have forgotten my name though I’ve told her it a thousand times today alone.

"Lorali. My name is Lorali."

The words barely leave my lips before a hard hand crashes against my face. Gasps ripple through the room. My cheek burns, head snapping to the side, eyes wide and stunned.

"I told you the rules. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You Alma omegas always feel above the rules." Her voice seethes with fury. The worst part isn’t even the slap, it’s that it happened in front of my pack. My pack. And none of them move, not even an inch.

"Now, Lorali, greet your masters properly." The witch says wiping her hands against her skirt as if scrubbing away filth... as if my skin carries disease.

Was this woman insane? No. This wasn’t just her. This whole pack is insane.

"Hurry up and kneel. We don’t have all day."

Kneel? Kneel?!! No way. This witch is out of her mind. Now she wants me on my knees, like some subject, when I am supposed to be their packmate.

I lift my head, ready to unleash my fury and defend myself but the moment I meet her eyes, cold and burning with rage that feels personal, I falter. I know she’ll do worse than slap me if I defy her this time.

I bite my lip, swallowing my anger, and sink to my knees, head bowed. Humiliation scorches me. I hate this. I hate her. I never knew I could hate someone so much with my entire being in a single day. I’ve only been here for one day, yet it already feels like an eternity.

"Greet," she commands, voice sharp, treating me like an obedient puppy. That I prove to be very good at being.

"Greetings. I’m Lorali Alma. It is of the greatest pleasure to meet you all today."

Pleasure my foot.

I keep my head down, eyes locked on the floor, and all I can see are their feet shifting across the tiles. Walter doesn’t even bother to greet me back; perhaps he thinks I’m not worth it as he turns and walks off, his shoulders stiff, leaving behind the bitter, burnt scent of cinnamon that clings to the air like smoke. The other two rush after him.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell is he so mad about? Omega scent only changes when emotions reach a breaking point, and depending on that emotion, the scent can turn sweet or sour. This is clearly sour, clearly bad, and I already know, I’m going to be blamed.

"Get your home‑wrecking self-up," the witch snaps, as if on cue, yanking me upright with my hair pulling at my scalp. Before I can even face her, another slap lands across my cheek, sharp and merciless.

"Are you happy seeing the destruction you’re causing?" she hisses. Before I can answer, another strike crashes against my face, harder than the last.

"I’m sure you’re so happy Walter is distressed, right?" Her hand flies again, her ring grazing my cheek this time, leaving a stinging cut. I bite down on my lip, holding back the scream clawing up my throat. I know better. If I make noise, she’ll only hit harder.

She grips my chin, twisting my head, forcing me to look up at her. She’s taller than me by a feet or more, her eyes look into mine burning with pure rage, it felt evil.

"You’re exactly that bitch Cleovera," she spits on my face, yanking my hair so hard my scalp screams. My head jerks back, pain radiating down my neck. Then, just as suddenly, she lets go, and the relief is instant, dizzying.

"Get back to cooking. I want no more mistakes from you today."

"Yes, ma’am," I mumble, voice barely more than a whisper.

"I didn’t hear you. Are you ignoring me? Have you not learned your lesson?" Her voice rises laced with fresh fury and newly found energy to beat me into a pulp.

"I said yes, ma’am. I’ll get back to cooking immediately," I stammer louder, my voice shaking.

Luckily, she doesn’t strike me again. She just turns and walks away, her anger still burning like a storm cloud.

The moment she’s out of sight, I let out a long, trembling sigh.

My cheek throbs, swollen with the sting of her ring etched into my skin. The entire right side of my face feels heavy, puffed up, like I’ve transformed into some grotesque pufferfish. I want to scream, to cry, to collapse, but I can’t. I swallow the tears down my inflamed throat, choking them back.

I force myself to stay busy, clinging to the rhythm of cooking to keep my thoughts from spiraling. I know I probably won’t even get to eat this meal. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

The witch made it clear, I only eat scraps, whatever the pack leaves behind when they’re done eating and judging by how they devoured everything at breakfast, I already know tonight will be the same.

I finish preparing the lasagna, layering it carefully, adding the final touch of parsley before sliding it into the oven. The heat roars to life, and I turn back to the sink, plunging my hands into the dishwater, scrubbing at plates just to keep moving.

"Are you okay?"

The voice is soft, gentle and almost hesitant. I freeze, lifting my hands from the water, wiping them on my apron. When I turn, Walter is standing opposite the island with a first aid box clutched in his hands. His scent still carries bitterness, but it’s calmer now, not as suffocating as it was before he stormed off and left me to be beaten for it.