Knot Happening Again (Claimverse Book 2)

The bar pulses with energy, the constant hum of voices and clinking glasses washing over me. I lean against the polished wood, nursing a whiskey I have no intention of finishing. The amber liquid swirls in the crystal tumbler, catching the light from the overhead chandeliers. This place is swanky, far removed from the dingy pubs where I started my career.

But that’s Maddox for you.

Always pushing for the best, the most prestigious.

I watch him work the room, his easy charm on full display. He’s in his element here, moving from group to group with practiced ease. His tailored suit stands out among the sea of black and navy.

I catch snippets of his conversations as he passes.

Biggest upset of the season.

Unprecedented winning streak.

Revolutionizing the sport.

He’s laying it on thick tonight, but I can’t fault him for it. This is what he does best, after all. Selling the Leon Carver brand, turning me into something larger than life.

If only he knew the truth.

I take another sip of whiskey, wincing as it burns down my throat. Normally, I’d be right there beside him, shaking hands and flashing my media-ready smile. I’d be looking for any excuse to cut this tour short, to get back home to Rhys and the others.

But not tonight.

Not with a strange omega in our nest back home.

Our scent match.

The thought sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over me. This should be the most exciting time of our lives. We should be celebrating, planning for the future. Instead, I’m here, thousands of miles away, drowning in regret and self-loathing.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a welcome distraction from the downward spiral of my thoughts. I fish it out, my heart rate picking up as I see the name on the screen.

P.I. Johnson.

‘I need to take this,’ I mutter to Maddox as I pass him on my way out. He nods, barely breaking stride in his conversation with a potential sponsor.

I weave through the crowd, pushing past the throng of admirers and hangers-on. The air grows thicker as I approach the back of the bar, heavy with the scent of alcohol and desperation.

At the end of the hall, a door leads out into an alley. I push it open, grateful for the rush of cool night air that greets me. The sounds of the city—car horns, distant sirens, the low hum of conversation from the street—wash over me, a stark contrast to the artificial atmosphere of the bar.

I lean against the rough brick wall, taking a deep breath before answering the call.

‘Johnson,’ I say, my voice gruff. ‘Tell me you’ve got something.’

‘Mr. Whitaker,’ the investigator’s voice crackles through the speaker. There’s a hint of excitement in his tone that sets my nerves on edge. ‘I have an update. Is this a good time?’

I glance back at the door, muffled music and laughter spilling out into the night. A part of me wants to say no, because I’m sure it’s the same thing as ever. A whole lot of nothing. Just a tiny, insignificant detail meant to string me along.

Like all the others.

‘It’s Carver,’ I remind him in a flat tone.

‘Right,’ he replies dryly. ‘I apologize. It’s unusual for an alpha to take another alpha’s last name.’

I’m half tempted to tell him to stop projecting his own bullshit on our brotherhood, but I keep my mouth shut. I have other shit on my mind, and I’m used to other alphas reading into my bond with Rhys.

‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I say, brushing it off. ‘What have you got?’

There’s a pause, and I can almost see Johnson shuffling papers on his desk. The silence stretches, each second feeling like an eternity.

‘It was difficult to find any records of Ms. Thompson,’ he begins, his voice careful, measured. ‘I believe that was intentional.’

My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles turning white. ‘How so?’

‘It wasn’t Ms. Thompson who covered her tracks,’ Johnson explains, and I can hear the frown in his voice. ‘It was her family. They seem to have scrubbed all traces of her existence from their lives.’

The news hits me like a freight train. But looking back, I can’t really say I’m shocked. The Thompsons always were more concerned with appearances than their own daughter’s well-being. I remember the lavish parties, the carefully curated social media presence, the constant pressure to be perfect. No room for mistakes in that world.

Just like my own family.

But who am I to talk?

‘But,’ Johnson continues, pulling me from my memories, ‘once I started focusing on what they didn’t want me to find, it became a little easier. I have connections in the Omega Registry Office.’

My throat tightens, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. The Registry keeps track of unmated omegas, monitoring their status and well-being. It’s meant to protect them, but in reality, it’s just another way to control them, to keep them in line. Rhys has been fighting its existence for years.

‘Is she mated?’ I force the words out, hating the jealousy that flares in my gut. What right do I have to be jealous, of all things, after what I did to her?

‘No,’ Johnson says, and I let out a breath. The relief is short-lived, though, as he continues. ‘But that actually helped narrow things down. There are only a few options left to unmated omegas in their mid-twenties with no family connections to fall back on.’

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, cold and heavy. I’ve seen enough of the world, been in enough seedy bars and backroom deals, to know what those ‘options’ usually entail.

‘What are you trying to say, Johnson?’ My voice is low, dangerous. Part of me doesn’t want to hear the answer, but I need to know.

I owe her that much.

He clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable for the first time since I hired him. ‘I was able to track her down. She’s living in the same city as you and your pack, Mr. Carver. Has been for a number of years.’

I can’t fucking breathe.

She’s been here, all this time?

In the same city?

I lean heavily against the wall, my mind reeling. How many times have I walked past her on the street, never knowing? How many times has she seen my name in the headlines?

‘Where?’ I manage to ask, the word barely more than a whisper.

‘I haven’t managed to get her home address yet,’ Johnson admits, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. He’s not used to dead ends, to information that eludes him. ‘But I found out where she works.’

There’s a long pause, and I can feel my patience wearing thin. Every second that passes is another moment of uncertainty, another twist of the knife in my gut.

‘Spit it out, Johnson,’ I growl, pushing off the wall and beginning to pace the narrow alley.

He sighs, a heavy sound that carries the weight of bad news. ‘She usually works at a rut bar called the Scent Bar. And there’s a record of her working with an omega escort service as recently as a few years back.’

The world tilts on its axis, the ground beneath my feet suddenly unstable. Sweet, innocent Ophelia, working as an escort? The girl I knew, with her designer clothes and carefully manicured nails, having to slum it in rut bars?

It doesn’t compute.

Part of me wants to reach through the phone and throttle Johnson for even suggesting it.

‘You’ve got to be mistaken,’ I snarl, my free hand clenching into a fist.

‘I’m afraid not, Mr. Carver,’ Johnson says, his voice gentle, almost pitying. It makes my skin crawl. ‘I’m sending you a picture now. It’s from the escort agency’s private website.’

My phone buzzes with an incoming message. With shaking hands, I pull it away from my ear and open it.

And there she is.

Ophelia.

She’s older now, and somehow even more beautiful than I remember. Her raven hair falls in soft waves around her face, framing those piercing blue eyes that seem to stare straight into my soul. She’s wearing a high-collared dress, deep blue satin that hugs her curves. The collar, I realize with a start, is no doubt hiding the mark.

The mark I left on her neck all those years ago.

My chest aches as I stare at the picture, drinking in every detail. The slight tilt of her chin, defiant even in this degrading situation. The curve of her lips, not quite a smile but not a frown either.

And her eyes…

They’re harder now, guarded in a way they never were before. But there’s still a spark there, a fire that refuses to be extinguished.

Is this what I reduced her to?

She’s living like this because of me.

The questions swirl in my mind, a torrent of guilt and self-loathing that threatens to drown me.

‘Mr. Carver?’ Johnson’s voice pulls me back to the present, tinny and distant through the phone’s speaker. ‘What would you like me to do next?’

I hesitate, torn between the desperate need to see her and the crushing guilt that threatens to overwhelm me. What right do I have to barge back into her life after all this time? Haven’t I done enough damage?

But the thought of leaving her like this, of turning my back on her again…

I can’t do it.

I won’t.

‘Nothing for now,’ I say finally, my voice hoarse. ‘I’m cutting my trip short.’

‘Understood,’ Johnson says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice. He’s used to clients who want to dig deeper, to uncover every sordid detail. But I’ve heard enough. More than enough. ‘Shall I continue the investigation?’

‘No,’ I tell him, my tone leaving no room for argument. ‘I’ll take it from here. Thank you for your work.’

I end the call before he can respond, my mind racing. I should be heading home, back to Rhys and the others. Back to the omega who’s supposedly our scent match. A chance to complete our pack, to build the future we’ve always dreamed of.

That’s what I should do.

But it doesn’t matter.

It’s all a fucking lie.

Without her, without Ophelia, it means nothing.

I don’t give a shit if this other omega is my scent match. She’s not her. She’s not my mate. Not the omega I started to mark so many years ago. Not the one I’ve been searching for.

I stare at Ophelia’s picture for a long moment, tracing every detail of her face with my eyes. She looks so different, yet so achingly familiar. I remember the first time I saw her, a quiet teenager with a shy smile. I remember the last time, too—a beautiful woman sprawled across my bed, hair mussed and lips swollen from my kisses, looking at me like I hung the moon.

I close the picture. Can’t look at it for another moment without taking action.

I know what I have to do.

I’m not going home yet.

I have a visit to pay first.

Pushing off the wall, I head back into the bar. The noise and heat hit me like a physical force after the relative quiet of the alley. I scan the room, quickly spotting Maddox’s distinctive suit. He’s deep in conversation with a group of fighters, but his eyes find mine immediately. His brow furrows in concern as he takes in my expression.

I make my way over to him, murmuring apologies as I push past the crowd. Maddox excuses himself from his conversation, meeting me halfway.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks, his voice low. He’s known me long enough to read the tension in my shoulders, the tightness around my eyes.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. After a moment, I manage to force out the words. ‘We need to cut the trip short. I’ve got to get back.’

Maddox’s eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. ‘Is it Rhys? The pack?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ I assure him quickly. The last thing I need is him worrying about the others. ‘It’s… personal. I’ll explain later.’

He studies me for a moment, his sharp blue eyes taking in every detail. I can see the questions forming, the concern building. But he knows me well enough to recognize when I’m not ready to talk.

‘Alright,’ he says finally, nodding. ‘I’ll make the arrangements. We can be on a plane by morning.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder. The relief in my voice is palpable. Maddox is good at his job—too good, sometimes. He could have insisted on finishing the tour, on fulfilling our obligations. But he trusts me, trusts that I wouldn’t ask this without good reason. ‘I’m going to head back to the hotel. Got some things to take care of.’

He nods again, already pulling out his phone. ‘I’ll text you the details once I’ve got everything sorted.’

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. ‘Leon?’

I look back, raising an eyebrow in question.

‘Whatever it is,’ he says, his expression serious, ‘we’ve got your back. You know that, right?’

A lump forms in my throat, unexpected emotion welling up. I manage a nod before turning away, not trusting myself to speak.

As I walk out of the bar, my mind is already racing ahead. I need to find Ophelia, to see her face to face. To apologize, to try to make things right. Even if she hates me, even if she never wants to see me again, I owe her that much.

And then…

Then I’ll go home.

I’ll face Rhys and the others.

I’ll tell them everything, lay my sins bare and let them decide if they still even want me in the fucking pack. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I push it aside. I’ve been carrying this guilt for too long, letting it poison everything good in my life.

It’s time to stop running from my past. Time to face the consequences of my actions.

Whatever they may be.Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

As I step out onto the bustling city street, the cool night air hits me like a slap to the face. I take a deep breath, letting it clear my head. Somewhere out there, Ophelia is living her life, unaware that her past is about to come crashing back into it.