average human’s Reviews > Knot What She Seems > Status Update

“See what I did? Break the hold.” He releases my arm but doesn’t step back, just waits for me to straighten. Once I’m looking him in the eye again, he says, “Your turn.”
Immediately, his hand shoots forward, and the next thing I know, there’s no air in my body. Unlike Antonio, who was forceful with me but clearly just practicing, I think the professor might actually be trying to snap my neck.
I can’t breathe. Can hardly think.
It’s suddenly impossible to remember what he did when my hand was on him. Of course, it’s not as if he walked me through it step-by-step. My hands scrabble at his arm, one of them banging against his elbow without having any effect. The other goes to scratch at his wrist, his fingers.
“Are you a fucking omega? Scratching? That’s what you’ve got?” His snarl should make me panic, should make my knees melt. His accusation should make my gaze dart around the room to see who’s noting the harm to Teddie’s reputation.
But I can’t get enough oxygen and tears are filling my eyes.
He shakes me by the neck, and that motion catapults me back in time.
Moonlight drips down the wall like candle wax, and I stare at it dully. Bright white drips of light, I think, vaguely noting that I rhymed. But my conscious mind is only half-aware. Most of me is floating around somewhere above my body as I hear the belt buckle coming undone behind me. As the thick fingers wrap tightly around my neck, and orders are whispered in my ear in another language. Orders I don’t follow.
And that’s when the alpha starts to shake me like a rag doll. Behind him, one of his companions yanks my dress up over my thighs.
“Theodore! What the fucking hell? Did you faint?” Luka’s derision calls me back to the present moment, where I’m hunched over, his fingers loose around my neck as I suck in gulping breaths of air.
“He piss himself yet?” Professor Ridge yells from across the room, calling attention to me and my pathetic state. The blond man stares over at us with an ugly smirk on his godlike face.
“About to,” Luka calls back.
And something inside me snaps. It might be my patience or my sanity—I’m not sure, and I sure don’t give a fuck as I sweep my hand and latch onto Luka’s wrist. Half a breath later, my other palm slams into his elbow, shoving forward until he’s bent over awkwardly just like I was.
I should stop. I know I should.
But the animal portion of my brain has taken over. Survival instincts activate, motivated by the awful collection of memories that ensure I’ll never trust an alpha group again. The belittling condescension of Alpha Team X is like a match to this kindling that’s been piling up inside of me for years. This unlit rage, this desperate build-up of dead undergrowth and cruel truths that’s simply fodder when I finally find that flame.
Bringing my knee up, I slam Luka’s face down onto it.
Fuuuuck.
A burst of punishing agony shoots from my kneecap up through my spine from the hit, right before Luka’s fist smashes into my knee and makes me collapse as he smoothly rolls out of the way and then stands up.
From the mat, I stare up at him looming over me, blood dripping from his nose, a few spots already marring his shirt.
And I realize that if he hated me before, that’s nothing to how he loathes me now.
I’ve just turned my scent match into an enemy for life.
Good.
I don’t want a match anyway.