Page 117 of Seen Knot Heard

Warmth spreads through me at his consideration. He’s always trying to take care of everyone. “Yes, please.”

I follow Holden out of the kitchen, and we part ways in the foyer, me heading for the stairs and him stepping outside.

In my bedroom, I plug the thumb drive into my laptop and sink into the chair at my desk. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs, and I rub a hand over my face. I spent little time sleeping last night, but I don’t think my mind will shut off long enough for me to take a nap.

With a heavy sigh, I pull my laptop closer, the metal cool beneath my fingertips. I open it, the fan whirring to life, and the screen wakes to the dimmest light option available. I was working at night last time, and I adjust the mode, bringing up the brightness as I wait for the computer to recognize the thumb drive.

When the little icon appears on my dashboard, my fingers hover over the trackpad, trembling slightly. I can feel the weight of the words inside, the pain and isolation that had poured out of me when I wrote them. It’s a piece of my past I’m not sure I’m ready to revisit, a reminder of how broken I’d been.

How broken I still am, in so many ways.

Instead of clicking on the file, I open a new document, the blank page staring back at me like an old friend. I let my fingers dance across the keys, losing myself in the familiar rhythm, the emotions spilling onto the page. There’s no rhyme or reason, no intention beyond getting the thoughts out of my head.

It allows me to block out the fear, the uncertainty, and even the hope. For a while, I forget that my heart is being pulled in a thousand different directions, torn between the past and the present.

Then an email notification pops up, and my pulse leaps at the chime. I freeze, my fingers poised over the keys as I stare at the subject line from my publisher as nervous anxiety floods my system.

I’ve never had to do this before. Grady always handled the business side of my career. But I can’t avoid them forever.

Steeling myself, I click on the email.

I skim over the words, my heart pounding harder with each line. There’s talk of contracts and negotiations, of deadlines and expectations.

But it’s the seven-digit number at the bottom that makes my breath catch in my throat.

The number seems to pulse on the screen, and my arms drop to my sides as I stare. I have no idea what Dominic put in the email he sent back, but this is almost double what I expected, and for a moment, I can only stare at it in disbelief.

My vision blurs as the realization of what this means crashes over me. This isn’t a paycheck—it’s a lifeline. It’s real security,real power. With this, I wouldn’t be relying on the Misty Pines pack. I could bring something of my own to the table.

My hands tremble as I read the email again, sure that I misunderstood. But the number remains, stark and unchanging. Adrenaline surges through my veins, mixing with a sense of disconnect, like this is happening in some other reality where I actuallymadeit as an author.

I force myself to close the email, knowing I can’t make any impulsive decisions. Not about something this big.

The dump file of emotions slaps me in the face, and I close that, too, not needing to be reminded of my emotional mess. As the window vanishes, it once again reveals the icon for the thumb drive.

My fingers tremble as I open it, skimming the pages of a story written in the darkest days of my captivity, when despair was my only companion and the walls of Louie’s penthouse threatened to suffocate me.

The desperation for a savior spills across the paragraphs, bleeding onto page after page. I don’t even remember half of it. Much of that time slipped by in a haze. But as I scroll down the document, dread seeps into my bones. The sentences become different, sprawling without punctuation or breaks.

Gone is the hope, the promise of a better tomorrow. In its place, a seething anger pulses through every line.

I blink, wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me, if the stress of the past few days has finally taken its toll. But as I read on, the changes become impossible to ignore. The Misty Pines pack, once the heroes of my story, now meet a grisly end, consumed by flames that leap from the pages with a vicious intensity.

A sickening realization dawns, and my pulse races.

This isn’t my story, not anymore. Someone has tampered with it, warped it into a grotesque reflection of my deepest fears.And there’s only one person who would have done this, one person with the motive, the means, and the opportunity.

Louie.

He must have known the guys would check the laptop for booby traps, but also that I would want to reclaim this part of myself, and he twisted my words for his own purposes.

I feel violated, as if he reached into my very soul and left his Mark, a taint that I’ll never be able to wash away. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat, and I fight the urge to slam the laptop shut, to run and hide like a frightened child.

Instead, I force myself to keep reading, to confront the poison he’s left behind. Because I know, deep down, that this is a message. A warning and a threat.

He’s not done with me, not by a long shot.

When I reach the end, I push the laptop away, trembling as I try to draw in a steadying breath. But the air feels thick, suffocating, like a weight pressing on my chest.

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