Page 110 of Believe it or Knot

“What-” I gasp out, lifting my hands to bat him away, kicking my feet to scramble back from them, but it doesn’t help anything. Everything hurts and I don’t make it far before rough hands grab me, drag me back. A body straddles me, pinning me to the ground.

“Oh, no, little beta.” A low voice rumbles as a hand clamps down on my neck, squeezing tight enough to cut off my already meager air. “No running.”

There’s a pinch in the flesh of my arm and my mouth opens in a silent scream as I realize they’ve done it. They’ve drugged me.

“Shh,” the voice says. “Just go to sleep.”

I want to fight. I want to scream and scratch and howl. But my body goes slack, my muscles relax and my eyelids flutter. The hand at my neck releases and air rushes into my lungs, accompanied by black rushing into my mind.

Track 25: Sorry

Guilt is eating me alive.

I never should have said the things I did to Sorrel. Never should have given her an ultimatum or implied that she’s only with the Cordova pack because of her childhood dream of being a famous singer.

I know her well enough to know that never even factored into her relationship with them, but when faced with the possibility of losing the love of my life to arguably the most famous pack in the world, I panicked and lashed out.

I have no idea what happened after Sorrel left me in that room, but whatever it was, wasn’t good. How could it be when the interview where the Cordovas were going to announce her joining the pack never aired, and instead they took Hollis Grailess to the red carpet event they’d promised to take Sorrel to?

Some part of me thought that meant she’d chosen me, that the reality of facing a life without me in it was enough for her to give them up and choose me. But she never called, never reached out, never even texted a single word. It’s been radio silence since then.

And now… this.

This farce of a ‘news’ story.

Painting my girl as the villain. A conniving, money hungry wretch who used her body and her looks to get the Cordova pack to trust her, but her only interest in them is what they could do for her.

An anonymous source leaked the conversation between Sorrel and I where she apparently details how she’s using them. Only I know for a fucking fact that conversation never happened. I click on the link and listen to the audio of Sorrel’s voice, saying things she certainly never did.

Fucking AI bullshit, or statements stitched together from a conversation where the entire point isn’t what they’re reporting. It was actually the opposite.

I’d wanted to give her the time and space she needed to come to me. No matter what I said, she has to know she can come to me, that I’ll always be there for her, be her safe space. But I can’t wait. Not with all the hatred spewing toward her from trolls and assholes who have no fucking clue what she’s actually like. That she goes out of her way for everyone, twists herself up to make sure no one else is uncomfortable or worries about her.

I don’t want her to face this alone. Though I’m sure that Sadie and Sylvie are with her. Fuck. I hope they’re with her. I hope she has some support.

But she’s about to get more.

She hasn’t been returning my check in texts or phone calls, so I’m on my way over to her cabin. I can’t think of where else she might be or where she would go. Though I suppose she could be with Sadie or Sylvie at either of their pack houses.

I’ll go to the city next if she isn’t here, camp outside whichever compound she’s in until she’ll talk to me.

I have to make this right. I wanted to as soon as she left at that stupid interview. My alpha was roaring at me. I was letting our mate walk away from us. But I’m a stupid, stubborn asshole who had too much pride to call her back. I needed her to pick me. I felt sure that she would, eventually.

Oh, how a few days away from her can whittle my pride down to nothing. I’m ready to beg for her forgiveness, for another chance, for any scrap of her she’ll give me.

Please. Please. Please.

The lights are off in her little cabin. Not even the front porch light is lit up, like it usually is, like it has been every time I’ve driven by her house since I got home. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, even as relief hits.

It has to mean that she’s come home. That she’s here.

Or it means that the bulb burned out, and she hasn’t come home to replace it.

I park my motorcycle and climb off, pausing next to it to recite what I want to say to her, the speech I’ve been writing in my head since she stormed out of the green room at the interview. I’m not very good with words, so this takes some time. And during that time, I notice a few things.

First, Sorrel’s bike isn’t leaning against her porch like usual. Second, there’s no movement or sign of life from inside the cabin. If she’s home, she would have heard the engine of my bike. Under normal circumstances, she would have peeked through the window to verify that it was me. And third—and this really sends a chill down my spine—her door looks like it’s cracked open.

I’m moving before I fully process it, storming up the steps, taking in the way the frame of the door is broken right near the lock and handle. “Sorrel!” I roar, slamming the door open and running into the small space. I don’t know why I’m calling for her. Part of me already knows she’s not here, or if she is, she can’t respond to me.

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