Page 11 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

The cabin sits in a small clearing, a dark shape against the violet sky. For a moment, I think my exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. But no—it’s real. A simple structure of weathered wood and stone, with a small porch and shuttered windows.

Panic flares, sending my heart into my ribs as I crouch behind a tree, watching. Waiting. But no lights flicker behind those windows. No smoke rises from the stone chimney. No signs of life stir in or around the building.

Still, I wait. The last traces of daylight fade as I huddle in my hiding spot, every muscle tense despite my exhaustion. A cool breeze rustles through the trees, making me shiver in my tattered excuse of a dress, and night creatures begin their songs—crickets chirping, an owl calling somewhere in the distance. But the cabin remains dark and silent.

Finally, desperation overcomes caution. I need shelter. Need rest. If I stay out here much longer, I’ll collapse, and then what?

Moving as quietly as my trembling legs allow, I creep toward the cabin. Each step feels like an eternity, my senses straining for any sign of danger. But I’m not made for stalking prey—I’m an omega. My instincts are geared toward finding safety, toward shelter. Right now they’re screaming at me to run, not creep closer to whatever might be waiting in that cabin.

Terror in my veins, I keep creeping forward. The porch boards creak under my weight—a good sign. If anyone lived here, they would know about squeaky boards; would have fixed them.

I turn my back to the door, fingers fumbling behind me for the handle. The metal is cool against my palms as I twist it awkwardly, keeping my eyes on the darkening forest. To my surprise, it turns. Not locked. My heart stops. Is this a trap? But my tired mind can’t process the possibilities anymore. I need to get inside. Need to rest.

The door swings inward with a soft groan that makes me wince. I freeze, listening. Nothing but the night sounds and my own breathing.

Moonlight spills through the windows, illuminating the interior. It’s a single room, sparse but clean. No dust covers the simple furniture—a small table, two chairs, a trunk against one wall. And most importantly, a narrow cot in the corner, neatly made with what looks like clean linen.

Someone maintains this place, but they’re not here now. Maybe it’s a hunting cabin, used only in season. Maybe I have time before they return…

The sight of that cot makes my instincts surge. Everything in me aches to nest, to burrow into what looks like the softest bedding I’ve seen in years. My hands twist against their bindings, desperate to touch, to arrange, to make it mine, even if just for a moment. I fight it. Force myself to check the cabin again, straining my limited senses for any hint of danger. But exhaustion wins. My legs give out and I stumble across the room to sink into the cot. A small sound escapes my throat—the mattress is so soft it brings tears to my eyes. After years of thin pallets and hard floors, it feels likefloating on a cloud. The linen smell of pine and sunshine, like they’ve been dried outside, and that neglected part of me keens at the comfort I’ve been denied for so long. I shouldn’t. I need to stay alert, need to keep moving. But my body betrays me, melting into the softness as my instincts whimper their approval.

I should remain alert. I should try to free my hands. Should examine the cabin more carefully. Should…should…

But exhaustion wins. My eyes drift shut even as my senses strain for danger. The last thought I have before unconsciousness claims me is that at least if they find me here, I’ll have had these few moments of rest.

These few moments of something almost like peace.

Chapter 4

Stone

The warm glow of pendant lights bathes our pack kitchen in amber as I watch Finn work. The massive space, designed to accommodate the controlled chaos of pack meals and celebrations, feels hollow tonight. Just as it’s felt hollow every night for the past…fuck, has it really been that long?…two and a halfyears. Two and a half years since it all started going to shit. Two and a half years since we lost that spark of hope.

Empty chairs cast long silhouettes across the dining room floor, like a reminder of who isn’t here.

As I watch Finn move, my gaze gentles. The sight of him still makes my pulse falter—straight honey-blond hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck, shoulders that, while wider than a typical omega’s, lack the bulk of an alpha’s frame. He stands eye-level with most betas, taller than the average omega but still needing to tilt his head back to meet an alpha’s gaze. Those stormy gray eyes of his can cut right through bullshit when he wants them to, though tonight they’re focused intently on his work. Makes him look almost ethereal in the amber kitchen light.

Finn moves like some small graceful thing between counter and stove, his hands steady as he chops fresh herbs. He handles thechef’s knife with a confidence that’s almost surprising—those delicate hands so sure with the blade. I remember how he taught himself, spending countless hours watching cooking shows and practicing each technique until it was perfect. Until he could dice an onion faster than any trained chef.

And he did it all for us.

That’s our Finn. Beautiful and deadly capable, even if he doesn’t see it himself. The ambient light catches his profile as he works, highlighting the gentle curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. Everything about him is a study in contrasts—soft features masking an iron will, delicate build hiding unexpected strength. He doesn’t remember how close we came to losing him. The guilt of that secret bears down harder than any alpha command, but we made our choice that night. Better Finn hate us for our distance than know the truth about what Ren did. What we all did, really.

And so he’s been trying. He didn’t just learn to cook; he mastered it, turning simple ingredients into works of art that brought the pack together around this very table. Or used to, anyway.

He works for a few minutes, unaware of my attention, and it hits me that to any outsider looking in, all would look…normal. Just an omega cooking dinner for his pack. But I catch the slight tremor in Finn’s fingers when he pauses to check his phone. Again. The fourth time in the last hour. No messages.

The air is rich with the aroma of seared chicken and fresh homemade bread—Finn’s signature comfort food. But beneath it, I catch the sour note of his distress. Distress that he’s trying desperately to mask. Distress that claws at my skin, telling me I need to make it all better. Now.

I just…don’t know how.

He’s set the massive oak table for four, though we both know none of the place settings will be used. Jax and Ren are handling “pack business” again. Their chairs will remain empty…just like they have so many nights these past months. And mine? Well, the guilt won’t let me sit and eat. Unlike our pack alpha, Jax, I can’t pretend that everything is okay and just carry on. And Ren? Fuck, he’s probably too messed up to even realize the pain he’s causing.

Still, Finn adjusts each setting with care, as if the perfect arrangement of silver and crystal might somehow draw the others home.

I lean against the kitchen door frame, caught between entering and retreating. My presence might offer comfort, but it will also emphasize the absence of the others. My fingers dig into the wooden frame, leaving half-moon indentations as I fight the urge to cross the threshold. To go to him. To wrap my arms around his waist from behind and bury my face in the crook of his neck like I used to. The memory of how perfectly he’d fit against me makes my skin ache with longing.

The empty chairs mock us both. It’s a visual reminder of how our pack is quickly fraying at the edges.

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