Page 5 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

One thing’s for certain. I’m done asking fate to clean up the mess I made. If spending the rest of my life proving she was worth choosing from the very beginning is the price I have to pay…I’ll pay it.

Whatever it takes, I’ll earn the chance to stand in front of her again. Whether she forgives me or tells me to go to hell…that choice will be hers to make. But I’m choosing her. In every fucking lifetime, I’m choosing her.

No more lies. No more revenge. No more excuses.

She’ll never have to question whose side I’m on. Even if it takes the rest of my fucking life.

Chapter Three

Lennon

The scent of coffee pulls me toward consciousness even though the claws of my dreams do everything they can to hold on.

“Wakey wakey, sleepy head.”

The surprisingly gentle voice of Veronica whispers next to my ear, pulling me back into the land of the living.

“Mmm, I’m awake…” I murmur, brushing sleep from my eyes. Blinking them open, I force myself to focus, and a bleary Veronica comes into view. I take the mug of liquid gold from her hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as I silently beg the caffeine to help me become something that resembles that of a human and not a total corpse.

I know without looking in the mirror that I am a mess.

After spending hours sobbing last night, I can feel just how puffy my eyes are. At least one of the girls tended to my hair, braiding it back away from my face so it is one less thing for me to deal with, at least for right now.

Today means facing more emotions. Ones I don’t think I’m ready to uncover, but are inevitable.

My father’s documents.

Or rather,Patrick Gilmore’sdocuments.

Even thinking his name makes my chest tighten. What the fuck do I call the man who raised me? I mean, I know that, in a legal sense, he’s Patrick. But how do I undo the life I’ve lived? Is it appropriate to call him my father after everything that’s happened becausefatherdoesn't seem like the right word anymore? According to Brett, I had four doting fathers. And I got to see a photo of them a few months ago. I remember tracing my fingertips over the faded image of my mother and the four men gathered around her hospital bed, each of them looking down at me with unmistakable love. Suddenly, every question I’d ever had about where I came from had an answer.

I may have been my mother’s daughter, but it was my father, Glen, who I got my eyes from. The shape of my face. My smile. Even the way my eyes soften when I laugh belonged to him long before they belonged to me.

It’s hard to miss someone you never got to meet.

And yet, I do.

A part of me longs for them. The people who should have been with me for every milestone. Birthdays, scraped knees, achievements. Every version of me they never had the chance to know.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Veronica asks, lowering herself onto the edge of my nest.

I shuffle back so I am able to lean against the mountain of pillows behind me. I sigh, unable to meet either of their eyes just yet.

I still feel raw. Humiliated. Flayed open, every emotion sitting just beneath the surface, threatening to spill free if I let my guard down for even a second.

But, it does feel somewhat manageable now.

“I am okay.”

It’s not the complete truth, but it also isn’t a lie either. Because Iwillbe okay. Losing people, both ones that are already six-feet under and those that are still breathing is bound to be a process. I just didn’t think it would ever be something that I would have to deal with. Especially not in this capacity. In fact, I can’t remember a time in my life before losing my fathe–Patrick, that I ever had to deal with anything other than the usual social politics of being a female Omega. I suppose I had always lived a drama-free, happy life until then.Until now.So maybe these feelings of grief are as overwhelming as they are because this is a first for me.

Does that make me lucky?

If I had known about my birth parents earlier, would I have processed them differently? What kind of life would I have lived if I had known the truth all along, and was forced to be raised by the man posing as my father anyway? Is this luck?

“If you need more time, we can always leave the boxes for another day. The last thing we need is a rabid Omega on our hands,” Bronte says, making me chuckle.

I place my hand over hers, giving it a slight squeeze. “I promise I’m fine. Well, enough to go through the files. If I don’t do it now, I never will.”