Page 221 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

I nod, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. It’s a comfort,being able to track our pack mates by sound and scent, knowing exactly where they are in relation to us. Even in this strange place, that much hasn’t changed.

Stone returns to his cooking, sliding perfectly cooked eggs onto plates with a practiced flip of the wrist. “He’ll be hungry when he comes down,” he says, as if reassuring himself. “He always is after…”

After trauma. After fear. After watching his home being violated.

“Just have to hope this doesn’t trigger his heat early.”

I freeze.

Fuck. He’s right.

Our main goal right now is to keep our omegas as calm and protected as we can. Not only for their sakes, but for ours.

I rise from the chair, moving to the cabinets to search for mugs. “I’ll finish making that tea. The good stuff.” It’s a small thing, but Finn’s face always softens when we remember his preferences. The little rituals that say: we see you, we know you, we care.

The upper cabinets are well-stocked with dishes and glassware, more evidence of Ren’s thorough planning. I find a set of earthenware mugs that remind me of ones Finn picked out for our kitchen last spring—heavy, handmade things in shades of blue and green. The similarity can’t be coincidence. Ren has always been observant, always noting the small details that others miss.

As I fill the mugs with hot water, Stone arranges breakfast on plates, adding a few slices of toast he’s managed to make while I wasn’t looking. The fragrance of food and brewing tea fills the kitchen, transforming the strange space into something almost homey. For a moment, I can pretend we’re just on vacation, enjoying a quiet morning in a mountain retreat.

The illusion shatters when Stone winces, his injured arm bumping against the counter as he reaches for the salt.

“Let me look at that,” I say, moving toward him. “The bandage probably needs changing.”

He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a look.

His shoulders drop slightly, a heavy breath leaving his frame. “If I let you look at it, will you stop bugging me about it?”

I don’t answer. I know what he wants to hear, but what’s the point of lying?

He releases another heavy sigh. “Fine.” Setting down the spatula, he heads over and sits on one of the chairs. I retrieve the first aid kit from the table and set it beside him, snapping on gloves before I carefully peel back the bandage on his upper arm.

The wound is angry and red, though thankfully showing no signs of infection. It’s a serious injury, one that would have most people in a hospital bed. Instead, Stone’s been here frying eggs and bacon.

“Thank God it’s not worse,” I murmur as I clean the wound with antiseptic.

Stone hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. “Yeah.”

My fingers move with a confidence born from years of dealing with gym injuries—torn muscles, sprains, the occasional bad fall during a challenging workout. Our fitness business has given us plenty of practice with first aid, though nothing quite like a gunshot wound. Still, the principles aren’t so different—clean, protect, support.

Just as I’m securing the bandage, the water pipes groan again, signaling the end of Finn’s shower. Stone and I both glance toward the ceiling, then at each other. There’s worry in Stone’s eyes, the same concern that gnaws at my own gut.

“He held it together last night,” Stone says quietly. “Better than I expected.”

I finish with the bandage and begin to pack away the supplies. “He’s…he’s always been good at loving with everything he’s got.”

“Always.” Stone’s voice is rough with something like regret.

The admission hangs between us—like an acknowledgment of how we’ve treated Finn since the accident. Protecting him, sheltering him, keeping him in the dark about so many things. Allwith the best intentions. All with love. But still, maybe, a mistake.

“We need to tell him the truth,” he says finally. “About everything.”

My jaw tightens. “Not yet. Not when he’s still processing last night.”

“Fuck,” Stone whispers under his breath.

Before I can respond, footsteps on the stairs draw our attention. Finn appears in the doorway, dressed in clothes that must have come from the dresser upstairs. They fit him well enough—a soft sweater that hangs a bit loose on his frame, jeans that are cuffed at the ankles. His gray eyes take in the scene before him, lingering on Stone’s fresh bandage, on the breakfast spread, on the steaming mugs of tea.

“You’re cooking,” he says to Stone, his voice carefully neutral.

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