Torment Me Knot
The BrokenVerse Book 4
I was taken from Haven’s basement.
Chosen for experiments no omega should survive.
Wallace cut me open and called it science.
Pain was all I had. Every wound etched deeper. Hope vanished.
When the Facility fell, freedom didn’t come.
Wallace dragged me deeper into hell, until rescue found me.
But too late to save what he broke.
Sera is my rescue. A rare female alpha. My scent-matched mate.
To save my life, she takes me to the Omega Healing Centre,
giving me safety I can’t trust, promising healing I can’t imagine.
Everything changes with Aubrey.
An omega marked by the same monsters, haunted by the same fears.
I never believed omegas could be scent-matched,
but my body wakes for his.
Aubrey has mates of his own.
Three scent-matched alphas I’m too broken to let close.
I can’t flinch forever, not with pack and danger closing in.
Wallace is hunting me.
He wants his property.
He’ll destroy anyone in his way.
When Sera is taken, Aubrey and I have to fight—
not just for her, but for each other,
and for what hope we have left.
I was made to bleed. Made to break.
But for Sera, for Aubrey, for our pack, I won’t be a victim.
If pain is all I have, I’ll use it to carve a future no one can touch.
Aubrey
I was the stolen omega.
Property of a monster who broke me and branded me with scars.
I barely speak, barely breathe, afraid of my own scent-matches.
I can’t let Kevin, Ezra, or Lex close. Not when my body’s every instinct panics at the promise of love.
Hope is a threat. Trust feels like a weapon. Freedom is too big to hold.
Everything shifts with Espie.
An omega abused by the same monsters, and somehow, my scent-matched mate.
Ours is a bond the world says should never exist.
But she comes with tangled danger. A rare female alpha scent match.
There is not one without the other.
None of us know how to touch each other without flinching.
But Espie and I find a language beyond fear. Sera’s strength anchors us.
Together, we are something new: a patchwork family, traumatized, unwanted, and determined to fight for each other’s right to simply exist.
But Wallace isn’t done.
His ambition hunts us in the shadows. No place is safe.
When Sera is taken, Espie and I must face a past that nearly destroyed us and risk everything to bring her home.
I never thought I’d be anything but tormented.
I never thought I’d fight for love.
But for Espie, for our pack, and for every omega still shackled by the world’s cruelty, I won’t just survive.
I will fight.
If scars are all I am, I’ll use them to cut a new path to freedom.
What you’ll find between these pages:
Scent-matched fated mates
Reverse harem/poly pack romance
Multiple mates (three male alphas, one female alpha, one female omega, one male omega)
Deep trauma healing and survival
Omegas rescuing omegas
Female alpha dynamic
High heat, knotting, nesting
Pack bonds and found family
Safehouse escapes and rescues
Broken yet fiercely loving alphas
Emotional and physical healing
No shifters, no accidental pregnancies, only raw humanity and hope
Torment Me Knot is a standalone reverse harem Omegaverse romance within The BrokenVerse universe. It contains multiple points of view, scorching steam, and a heartbreak-to-hope journey toward happily ever after. Expect romance and heat across three male alphas, one female alpha, one female omega, and one male omega—all directions, no limits. Human characters, no shapeshifting, no surprise pregnancies. MFFMMM.
Chapter One
SERA
The fluorescent lights above my desk buzz like a migraine I can't switch off. I should have gone home by now. The building's empty except for John at the front desk, and knowing him, he's been asleep since nine. Here I sit anyway, surrounded by case files that multiply when I'm not looking.
Three more missing Omegas this month. Three more reports added to the stack that's starting to look less like paperwork and more like a memorial. I lean back, leather creaking under me, and press my thumbs into my temples. The headache's been building for four hours. Maybe five.
Silverpine County's "protective measures" are just as suffocating as anywhere else. Registration. Movement restrictions. Mandatory custody. All dressed up as safety while omegas keep vanishing into thin air. The system built to protect them? It's the thing making them vulnerable. And I'm part of it. I shove back from the desk. Part of the machine that smiles and stamps paperwork while people disappear.
My secure line rings. I grab my phone before the second ring. Only a handful of people have this number, and none of them call this late unless something's gone sideways. The display reads: Canton City.
"Vidal."
"Sera." Gravelly voice. Familiar. Ronan Hawthorne. We've traded cases across county lines for years now, built on shared wins and mutual disgust for bureaucratic bullshit. Men bend rules until they snap. I respect that, even when his methods make my law degree twitch. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
I glance at the photos spread across my desk. Young faces that aren't coming home.
Isla Wilson. Hazel Sullivan. Violet Dawson. Three of six this month, all from Hearth. The omega center that was supposed to be a sanctuary. Robert Coleman's face keeps surfacing in my inbox, flagged on every interview transcript Legal sends over. Director of Hearth. Being questioned. Still not charged. My gut tightens the way it does when a file is about to get bigger, not smaller.
"Just reviewing another batch of missing persons. What's the situation?"
"We raided a facility two weeks back." He pauses and exhales. "We pulled out an Omega named Leah, a survivor from the Haven Institute ring."
My hand flattens against the desk. Haven. My stomach twists at the name alone.
"Word is there were others in that building," Ronan continues. "Young ones, moved before we could reach them."
I straighten, and the metal frame groans under me. Haven Institute. The scandal that ripped through multiple counties. Senator Hardwick. Commissioner Turns. Director Mercer. I still remember the photos in those police reports. Omegas with dead eyes. Medical records detailing forced heats, experimental injections, bodies treated like equipment to be calibrated. The whole network dragged into the light by survivors who refused to stay silent. This is the fallout.
"You think someone's picking up where they left off?"
Silence on the line. Then: "More than think." Papers rustle. "We've got intelligence that Ethan Wallace is behind it. Remember him?"
My throat closes. For a second I forget how to breathe.
Wallace. Hardwick's shadow scientist. The one they said designed Haven's experiments, who turned healing into torture, who saw Omegas as lab rats instead of people. Rumored to have slipped the net when everything burned down. Of course he survived. Cockroaches always do.
"Sera?" Ronan's voice goes soft. "You still there?"
"I remember." Flat. Controlled. "What makes you think he's operating in my territory?"
"Transport patterns and medical supply orders. Three of your missing Omegas match the profile of ones taken from our raid site." The line goes quiet as he chooses his words. "He's building something new, Sera. And he's not done experimenting."
I grab a pen, already writing. "Send me what you have. Locations, patterns, anything."
"Already compiled, and the encrypted file's coming through now." His voice drops. "Sera, this one's different. Wallace isn't like the others we've taken down. He's brilliant, he's ruthless, and he's got resources we haven't been able to trace." A beat. "Don't go in alone."
The line clicks dead. I stare at the terminal as his file downloads, then click it open. I should call my team. Should coordinate. Follow protocol. Instead, I scroll through the data. Abandoned facilities. Shipping manifests. Power consumption spiking at a research complex on Silverpine's outer edge, officially derelict for five years. Every piece slots together too neatly. Too deliberately once you look for the specifics. The kind of operation that slips through official channels while committees debate jurisdiction and by the time the paperwork clears, more omegas will be gone. More families destroyed. Wallace will be a ghost again.
I check my weapon and grab my tactical vest. Some things won't wait for red tape.
The last time I waited for authorization, two Omegas disappeared before the warrant cleared. Tactical hit the building six hours later. All they found were restraints bolted to concrete and blood in the drains. Wallace moved fast. That was his pattern. Hit, experiment, relocate. If this facility was active tonight, waiting until morning could mean losing everyone inside it.
I wasn't planning a raid. I just needed eyes on the place. Confirmation. Then I’d call it in.
The drive takes forty minutes. Forty minutes of running Ronan's intel through my head. Three of my missing Omegas could be in that facility. Young women who trusted that someone would come looking for them. I'm coming.
The facility hunches against the sky, all sharp angles and dead windows. Officially abandoned, but fresh tire tracks cut through the access road. I park a quarter-mile out and approach on foot, every nerve firing.
I flatten myself against the corner of an outbuilding and scan the facility. The perimeter fence has been patched recently. Cameras at regular intervals, not standard for a building nobody's supposed to be using. My skin prickles. I circle the perimeter, staying low, until I find what I'm looking for. A loading dock on the east side, service entrance tucked beneath a rusted awning. Camera blind spot. The lock is old, the kind that gives way to a pick in under thirty seconds. I slip inside and ease the door shut behind me.
The smell hits first. Antiseptic. Bleach. Underneath, something sour and animal, the kind of scent that seeps into concrete after months of fear. Emergency lighting throws sick green shadows as I move deeper into the building that’s meant to be abandoned, weapon drawn, back to the wall.
The smell leads me upstairs. A corridor stretches into darkness ahead, emergency green bleeding across concrete, no sound but my own breath. A door stands ajar twelve feet in. I flatten my back against the wall, ease sideways, and glance through the gap. Bile climbs hot and fast. I swallow it down.
A lab: empty but recently used. Restraint tables with leather straps worn soft at the buckles. IV stands with tubing that reeks of chemicals. Instruments laid out on steel trays, edges glinting.
A thin, reedy noise sounds from deeper in the building. A whimper so soft it almost wasn’t there. I follow it down a corridor lined with reinforced doors. Locked. Locked. Locked. Don't think about what's behind them. Focus.
Last door. Slightly ajar. Someone left in a hurry. Or maybe they’re coming back in a hurry. I have to be quick. I push the door open and find a female. Small, maybe five-three. Café-au-lait skin. Dark curls matted with sweat. She's unconscious on a medical table, wrists raw from restraints, IV lines snaking from both arms. Electrodes at her temples. The chemical smell's stronger here. Suppressants. Forced heat inducers. The sharp ammonia bite of adrenaline stimulants.
I check for threats. Clear. Then I move to her side. She’s breathing. Pulse weak but steady. Whatever they did, she's still alive.
I reach for her forehead.
Gardenia.
Clover.
Her scent hits me. My hand shoots out to the edge of the table, fingers white-knuckled against the metal. My whole body recognizes her. Reaches for her. Knows her before my mind catches up. Scent-match. No. No no no. I can't pull my hand back from her forehead. Can't move. Can't breathe. Twenty-eight years and I thought this would never happen. I knew this would never happen. Female Alphas don't get this. We don't get mates. We don't get packs. We get respected from a distance and we die alone and that's just...that's how it...
She's so small.
I brush a sweat-damp curl off her forehead. "Sweetheart," I whisper, and the word cracks in my throat.
Her wrists. God, her wrists are shredded, skin torn in layers where she must have twisted and pulled. How long did she fight? How long did she... Stop. Stop it. Focus. I'm shaking. When did that start? I look at her face. Really look. Hollowed cheeks. Purple smudges beneath her eyes. Cheekbones too sharp. The whole time I was sitting at my desk shuffling papers and she was here. I didn't know. I couldn't have known. That doesn't help. Doesn't change anything. My mate was being tortured fifteen miles from my office and I was reviewing fucking case files.
Footsteps in the corridor. Multiple. Moving fast.
I shove everything down and lift her. She weighs nothing. Way too light. I feel her ribs through the medical gown.
"Check the final lab." Voice from the hallway. "Wallace wants confirmation the subject is still viable."
Subject. They call her a subject. My vision narrows. Too few voices. Wallace had already started clearing the facility out.
My heartbeat slows. Everything gets very, very still. Get her out. Then come back and burn this place to the ground.
Their scents reach me before I see them. Wrong. Chemical. The sharp synthetic edge of artificial pheromones layered over beta, but aggressive in a way betas never are. Ronan's intel mentioned enhanced betas. Gene modification.
I don't wait to see what's coming.
The IV lines first. I ease the needles out of her arms, one, then the other. Blood wells up in the crooks of her elbows. I press down with my thumbs until it stops. The electrodes leave raw red circles on her temples when I peel them off.
I slide one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lift. She weighs nothing. Her head falls back, and I have to look away for a second. Just a second. Then I tuck her against me, her cheek pressed to my collarbone, and move.
Window at the end of the corridor. Second story. Manageable. I move fast, keeping low. I can feel every ridge of her spine against my forearm, the flutter of her pulse against my chest. Her scent wraps around me, warm and green and mine. Every instinct I have screams at me to stop, to curl around her, to growl at anything that comes close. I keep moving. Behind me, the voices get louder. Doors slamming open. They're checking the rooms one by one.
I reach the window, shift her weight to one arm, and flip the latch. The frame groans as I shove it open. Cold air rushes in. Below, a service alley. Dumpsters. Concrete.
"She's not here." Closer now. Too close. "Where the hell would the little slut go?"
I swing my legs over the sill, cradle her against my chest, and drop.
The impact jars through my knees, my hips. Pain lances up my side, but nothing shifts wrong. Nothing grinds. I stay low, pressing us both into the shadow of the dumpster until the voices fade from the window above.
Then I run.
The car is where I left it, tucked behind a stand of dead brush. I wrench open the back door and ease her onto the seat, laying her down as gently as I can. Her head settles against the upholstery. She doesn't stir. I shrug off my jacket and tuck it around her, then slam the door and throw myself behind the wheel.
Engine roaring before my door's fully closed. Tires screaming as I tear out of the access road. I don't see anyone behind me, but I floor it anyway, taking back roads I know by heart, doubling back twice before I hit the highway. No pursuit vehicles. No roadblocks. Either Wallace didn't know who’d taken her yet, or he was more interested in disappearing than fighting for one Omega in a compromised site.
By the time I merge into traffic, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely grip the wheel.
The Omega, my mate, hasn't stirred. Her scent fills the car. Gardenia and clover and underneath, the sour trace of old fear. She's alive. She's breathing. I got her out, and it's not enough. It will never be enough. Somewhere in the last hour, my entire life rearranged itself around a tiny omega. A stranger, but that doesn’t matter. She’s mine and that’s everything. I don't know what Wallace did to her. I don't know how to fix it. I don't know anything except that I'd burn down the world before I let anyone hurt her again.
She needs the best help and that’s the Omega Healing Center. Canton City. Silverpine General would report her intake within the hour. Too many people there still answered to the old system. Canton City has medical staff who understand trauma. Facilities built for healing. If anyone can help her, what Adrian Blackwood and his pack have built can. I tighten my grip on the wheel and drive toward the only thing that makes sense. Toward safety. Toward help. Toward whatever the hell comes next.