Page 232 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

“No.” My voice is firm and Finn looks startled for a bit before he chuckles and pulls me into him. We collapse on the bed and he’s suddenly on top of me, pressing me into the soft fibers. I chuckletoo. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to scare me away with the details, but you’ve seen me at my worst before. Don’t hide from me. Please.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing across my brow. “It won’t be pretty.”

“When has anything in my life ever been pretty?”

That draws a weak laugh from him, but his eyes are serious when they meet mine again. “I just…I don’t want you to get scared when…”

“I won’t.”

He sighs. Presses his forehead against mine, his lips ghosting across my lips, before he groans. “And this place. I hate this place. I want my nest.”

I know what he means. This isn’t home. It’s not the place he’s spent years building into a sanctuary, piece by piece. It’s not the nest he’s poured so much of himself into, the space that holds his scent and his memories and his heart.

This place is just a house.

I wish I could change that for him.

I will.

The next day is a blur. I try to transform our room into something closer to home. I raid the linen closets, gathering every soft blanket and pillow I can find. I arrange them the way I remember our nest—blankets draped just so, pillows creating the perfect hollow. Each time Finn rearranges things in his restless state, I let him, adding what I can to the familiar patterns.

I get Stone to find me plants outside. I tuck them into spots around the room, trying to bring back that homey feel. It’s not the same—nothing could be—but watching Finn’s shoulders relax slightly when he catches sight of them makes it worth it.

His scent grows sweeter with each passing hour, filling ourmakeshift nest with a warmth that’s almost dizzying. It clings to my skin, sinks into my clothes, and I find myself breathing it in like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

But it’s not just me.

The air in the house feels heavier, charged with something unspoken, something primal. Finn’s scent is everywhere now—soft, sweet, intoxicating—and I can see the way it’s affecting the alphas.

Jax has been tense, his usually calm and steady presence fraying at the edges. There’s a sharpness to his movements, a restless energy that wasn’t there before. I catch him pacing the hallway outside our room more than once, his shoulders tight, his jaw clenched. When he thinks we’re sleeping, he leans against the doorframe, his head tipped back as he breathes deeply, like he’s trying to steady himself.

Stone isn’t faring much better. He’s quieter than usual, amber eyes tracking Finn like a predator watching its prey. He keeps his distance, but I can see the strain in every line of his body—the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to reach out, to touch, to claim. His scent has grown heavier, more dominant, and I can feel it in the air whenever he’s near, too.

Neither of them says anything about it, but their instincts are obvious. Finn’s impending heat is pulling at them, fraying their control, and I can tell it’s taking everything they have to keep themselves in check.

But they don’t push.

And then there are the other things—the quiet murmurs between Jax and Stone. The way they’ve started stockpiling what Stone referred to as Finn’s favorite snacks in the pantry, the extra blankets and pillows they’ve added to the closet.

One afternoon, I catch Jax in the kitchen, his hands braced against the counter as he stares at a list in front of him. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and when I step closer, I can see it’s a checklist of supplies—food, water, medical kits, more blankets.

I hover in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. Things between all of us are…complicated. We haven’t had time to process everything—the scent match, the truth about what happened two years ago, the Academy, and then there’s all the pain and secrets between us. But watching him now, seeing the careful way he’s planning for Finn’s needs, I can’t hate him. Can’t hate any of them, really. Neither can Finn, though he’s hurting in ways I can barely comprehend.

Jax notices me after a moment, his head lifting slightly. The silence stretches between us, not exactly uncomfortable, just…careful. Like we’re both trying to figure out where we stand.

“There’s tea,” he says finally, nodding toward the kettle. “Just made it.”

It’s such a small thing, but I understand the gesture for what it is. I’ve seen how the alphas move around Finn these past few days—gentle, attentive. They’re extending the same courtesy to me, I realize. Trying to make us both feel safe.

“Thanks,” I murmur, moving to pour myself a cup.

From here, I can see his list more clearly. He’s thought of everything—extra pillows, fever reducers, electrolyte drinks. Things I wouldn’t have known to consider.

His eyes flick toward the hallway, where Finn is curled up on the couch, legs tucked under him as he flips through a book he’s not really reading. “Just trying to be prepared,” he says quietly.

There’s something in his voice—something raw and aching—that makes my insides ache, too. He’s not just making lists; he’s trying to build some semblance of security.

“It’s hard,” I say softly, surprising myself. “Being away from home.”

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