Page 136 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

The argument has faded to murmurs again. I catch fragments: “…need to be more careful…” and “…can’t risk…” and “…not ready…”

They’re right. I’m not ready. Not for stores or choices or a world that’s changed too much while I was locked away. Not for the way that alpha’s touch sent me straight back to the Academy, to white walls and clinical hands and?—

“—can’t keep her locked up forever,” Stone is saying when the voices become clear again. “We’d be just like them at that fucking mystery Academy!”

“No, but we can be smarter about this! We can’t afford mistakes, not with everything else going on. Not with what’s at stake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Jax doesn’t answer. Footsteps storm across the floor below, followed by the slam of a door that makes the whole house shudder.

The silence that follows roars in my ears.

I should go down. Should apologize. Should offer to leave—orsomething. Anything. But my body won’t move, frozen in memories of other loud voices, other punishments that always, always followed.

Somewhere in the house, a door opens and closes more softly. Quiet footsteps on stairs. My heart rate spikes—is someone coming for me? Coming to tell me I have to go?

But the footsteps pass the nest room. A distant click of another door.

I’m alone.

The weighted blanket suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me. I push it away, gasping, but the air is too thin, too cold without it. Like everything else in this new world, I can’t seem to find the right balance between too much and not enough.

A sob catches in my throat. I bite it back, pressing my face into a pillow that smells like Finn. Like his bravery. Like his pain.

I wonder if his hand still hurts.

I wonder if they’re going to send me away.

I wonder if Vi is really out there, fighting back while I hide under blankets and break the people trying to help me.

Another door slams somewhere upstairs. Then silence.

Real silence this time, heavy with all the things they didn’t say. All the fears they didn’t voice. All the questions about whether I’m worth the risk, worth the fight, worth the damage I keep causing to their carefully constructed peace.

I pull the weighted blanket back over me, letting it press me down into the nest that isn’t really mine. That I haven’t earned. That I might lose, just like everything else.

And in the darkness beneath it, I wait for whatever comes next.

The door opens so quietly I almost miss it beneath the blankets. Almost, but not quite—beneath that blindfold at the Academy I’d learned to track every sound, every movement, every potential threat.

But it’s just Finn. I can tell by his scent, though it’s different now. Sharper. Sadder.

He doesn’t come to the nest. Just slides down with his back against the door, knees drawn to his chest. His right hand is wrapped in white gauze, spots of red bleeding through.

I should apologize. The words build in my throat like they always do, automatic as breathing. I’m sorry for causing trouble. I’m sorry you got hurt. I’m sorry I’m not worth what it cost you.

But something stops me. Maybe it’s remembering all the apologies at the Academy, how they were never enough, how there was always something else to be sorry for. Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been telling him sorry ever since I arrived here. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the way Finn just sits there, so still and quiet, like he’s carrying something too heavy to move under.

He doesn’t look angry. That’s what finally makes me peek out from the blankets—the realization that there’s no tension in his shoulders, no disappointment in his scent. He just looks…lost. Like he’s drifted too far from shore and can’t quite remember how to swim back.

“Your hand,” I whisper, because it’s easier than all the other things I want to say.

Finn glances at the bandage like he’d forgotten it was there. “Jax wrapped it. Said nothing’s broken, just…” He trails off, flexing his fingers slightly. Wincing.

“I never meant—” The apology tries to surface again, but Finn shakes his head.

“It’s okay, Hailey.” His voice is soft but firm. “Don’t apologize for what that prick did. For what any of them did.”

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