Page 18 of Knot Your Business

“Not yet.” I trace the broken seal of the envelope.

He doesn’t say anything, and I press the phone tighter to my ear like that will actually make me closer to him.

“I hate feeling like this,” I whisper.

He makes a noise in his throat, something between a hum and a grunt that has always been a sound of comfort. My chest tightens, but I ignore it.

“Darling, any pack will be lucky and honored to have you.” Papa’s voice drops into a low croon.

It’s embarrassing how much it soothes me. I’m twenty-two. Isn’t that old enough to not need this kind of comfort from your dad?

There’s the sound of a door closing, and Papa sighs. “Your mother is home.”

“I’ll call you after everything is confirmed,” I say.

He murmurs a quick, “Love you,” and then is gone.

I set my phone on the stairs beside me and run my hand along the open edge of the envelope again. Like pulling off a bandage. Or getting waxed. Quick count to three.

One.

Two.

I pull the packet before I can lose my nerve. Skipping the letter on top, I rifle through the papers until I find it: the photo of the pack. Even in the glow of the yellow streetlight, I recognize the golden hair.

My breath catches.

Matching with Violet is the absolute worst thing that can happen. Stay. Away. From. Her.

The memory is so fresh, it slices across my heart again. Tears blur the picture of them, Rylan’s black hair messier than at the gala and Jasper’s small smirk devious enough to make my knees weak even now. The third man is unfamiliar, his brown eyes conveying a dark and lethal countenance, though he’s dressed impeccably in a black button-up and slacks that suit his olive skin.

I grab the letter, part of me hoping against all odds they put the wrong picture in the packet.

Dear Miss Violet Fallon,

It is with immense pleasure that we are able to inform you of matching with Pack Montegue of Los Angeles.

No.

Closing my eyes, I pull my knees to my chest, trapping the information before it can fly away. I rest my forehead against my knees.

Everything drains out of me. Every moment of running, of fighting, of hoping.

The night stands a solemn watchman over my weeping.

Nine

VIOLET

Faedra’s normally sunny demeanor is dimmed tonight, and I can’t help but feel guilty about it. She’s landed her dream match, that pack that had absolutely enthralled her at the gala, and yet she’s got a carefully neutral expression on her face as she maneuvers around the various groups between the bar and the small alcove I’ve sequestered myself to.

Two guys lean close together, their gazes flicking over toward me every few minutes. No doubt they recognize me and are coming up with ways to approach me.

The question is do they want to fuck me? Or use me to get in with my father?

Both options have bile rising in my throat. I flick my hair over my shoulder and turn back to my phone, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram while Faedra pulls the other chair out with her foot.

“You sure you want to stay here? We can go to the other one,” she says as she sits down across from me. She hands off the Old Fashioned without missing a beat, taking a large drink from her copper mug.

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