Page 25 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

Good.

The bags underneath their eyes are dark and heavy. Dominic’s face is gaunt, as though he hasn’t been eating properly since I left. His cheekbones are sharper now, the skin stretched tighter over them than I remember. Even the way he carries himself has changed. His shoulders no longer square with a menacing confidence, but sag beneath a weight I know all too well. Holden looks very much the same. There is a sadness to him now that is so at odds with the man I had once known. The man I thought I knew at least. The easy assuredness that used to radiate from him has been replaced with hesitation. His eyes constantly search the room, never settling long. Like he’s waiting for something that never comes.

I don’t know whether I feel happy or sad to see the way my leave has affected them. A part of me rejoices at the fact they feel as destroyed as I have felt. To see them suffer, unable to sleep or eat properly.

It’s the small inconveniences.

The ones that may seem insignificant but completely fuck with your day when they stack up for months. The restless nights. The food that turns to ash in your mouth. The constant exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. The feeling that you’re only surviving because your body refuses to give up, even when your mind begs it to.

Those are the ones that have been haunting them.

The more I think about it, the more I like the sound of me haunting them. That I was the one who has so greatly interfered with their lives that they are now shadows of themselves. Alphas and Betas who, for once in their lives, finally appear weak.

Maybe that’s my favorite part. Knowing I followed them home. That every sleepless night, every missed dinner and every hollow look in the mirror carries a little piece of me with it.

Serves them fucking right.

They should know their place.

Forever be beneath my feet now.

Seeing that look on their face ignites something inside of me. Something that has remained dormant for far too long now. A small disturbance to their lives isn’t enough. No, these three men have a much greater debt to pay for what they did to me.To us.I want them to rue the day I was born. I want their pain to consume them as it did me. I want them to understand that I am not some weak Omega. That they can’t fuck me over without consequences. I want them to learn that actions like theirs don’t earn forgiveness. They earn repayment. And I intend to collect every last fucking cent of what they owe me.

Having them beg on their knees for my mercy isn’t enough. Oh no. I will have them crawl through the depths of hell before I even consider looking in their direction in a way that is outside of my job description. Friendship is not on the cards for either of us. I want to see them sacrifice pieces of themselves for me. I want to carve my name into their flesh in the way they did mine. Brand them so fucking dramatically they won’t go a single day without thinking about me. Just like they did to me.

I didn’t eat. Sleep. Think. I barely existed. So consumed by my grief and the betrayal they caused me. Yes, I’ve grown. But not that fucking much. The tables have turned this time, and instead of firing either of them, I want them hanging onto their jobs by the skin of their teeth. I want them to know that they’re only here because I permit it. Because I decide. Me. The Omega. Theirscent match.Their head coach. Their owner.

Every time they lace up their skates, I want them to remember whose name is on the paperwork that keeps them employed. Every drill. Every roster announcement. Every minute of ice time. It all comes through me now.

Until I say I’m done.

I watch the current team skate around the ice, getting their warm-ups in. I try not to cringe as I watch some of the younger and inexperienced members fumble through the drills. Sloppy passes. Poor communication. Weak transitions. They’re hesitating instead of trusting their instincts, second-guessing every play before they’ve even committed to it. It’s a confidence issue. One that has infected the entire club from the top down. I had thought to call back some of the players that left whenI did, but I knew I couldn’t. Contracts are already signed, and yet another move in the middle of a season would only create unnecessary tension across the league.

I mean, sure. I want to make waves, just not in that kind of way.

If I have to push the players, however green they may be, running drills from sun up to sun down, I will. They may just fucking hate me for it, but at least we will be in with a chance at the finals. Not a contender for the wooden spoon.

The Cardinals weren’t built to scrape by. They were built to win. Somewhere along the way everyone forgot that. Well, I’m here to remind them.

There is one missing piece to the team. The one person I haven’t seen now that I’m back.

Sasha fucking Volkov.

It was plastered across the news when he announced his temporary hiatus from the team.

Health leave.

News anchors and media outlets tried to draw conclusions as to what was really going on with the star defenseman, but only myself and two others know the truth.

Burnout. Stress. Invisible injury. Guilt-shaped bruises.

Sasha was finally paying for what he had done.

The Alpha who believed he could control everyone around him could no longer control himself. What he does in all of his free time is still lost on me. For now, getting this team in order is more important than the likes of him. I need to tackle one issue at a time, and Ars Mortis are the least of my concerns. I will put my hatred aside for now. Because this is going to be one hell of a long ride, and unlike the pansies dancing around the ice right now, I came to win.

I step out onto the ice, taking my first deep breath all day. Out of everything I have done in the past weeks, this is the firstthing that has felt right. The scrape of my skates across the fresh ice settles something inside me that I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. My legs instantly adjust to the change in stance. The chill in the arena seeps beneath my equipment, biting at my skin in the way only a rink can. Helmet clipped beneath my chin. Gloves pulled tight. Stick balanced comfortably in my palm.

This is where I belong.