Page 32 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

A tiny shift of movement from the corner catches my attention. She’s pressed herself into the far wall, practically becoming one with the shadows. The position gives her clear sight of both the door and the windows—strategic.Survival instinct. Something not naturally ingrained in an omega. The thought makes my jaw clench.

“Sorry I was gone so long.” I set the pasta on the table, movements deliberate and slow. “Work was…complicated.”

She doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect her to. Her scent carries notes of fear, but also…curiosity? Probably I owe that curiosity for the fact she stayed despite having hours to run.

“You didn’t turn on any lights.” It’s not a question, but I keep my voice gentle. “Smart. Safer that way.”

Another tiny movement. She’s good—almost silent. But I catch the way she shifts slightly, responding to the praise even if she doesn’t mean to.

“May I turn on the lamp?” I ask, staying perfectly still. “Just the small one?”

The silence stretches. I can hear her breathing—quick, shallow breaths that make my chest ache. Finally, the smallest whisper: “Yes, Alpha.”

I stiffen. Heat rushes through me, my cock going hard at just those two words. And following right behind this unbidden and unwanted heat is pure disgust. Her submission hits something primitive within me that it shouldn’t. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s terrified, traumatized, conditioned to submit because god knows what they’d do to her if she didn’t. The fact that any part of me responded to that makes me sick.

What’s worse, from what I’ve gathered, that probably isn’t the only thing she’s been taught to do to submit. The fact she presentedto me this morning without even the slightest prompt was proof enough.

It’s like she was trained to be the perfect little slave.

My muscles stiffen as the word settles in my mind. The perfect little slave for some piece-of-shit alpha.

Omegas are submissive…but not like this.

I force my breathing to steady, pushing back against both the arousal and the self-loathing. Baby steps. The rain drums against the roof, matching the rhythm of my thundering heart.

I reach for the small lamp, movements telegraphed and slow. The soft light floods the corner of the room, and air snags in my lungs. She’s wearing my clothes—the hoodie and drawstring sweats I’d left earlier. They dwarf her small frame, making her look even more fragile than before. But there’s something about seeing her in my clothes that makes me rumble with satisfaction.

I shut that feeling down. Hard. She’s not mine to protect. Not mine to…anything. Scent match or not, we have Finn and…we can’t…we can’t hurt him more than we already have. We wouldn’t survive it.

And that brings me to how this is a big fuck-up and will be an even worse fuck-up if I don’t manage things carefully.

“You found the clothes,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Good. They’re warmer than what you had on.”

She’s still pressed into the corner, but now I can see how she’s positioned herself. Back to the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. The hoodie has slipped, revealing the edge of what looks like an old scar on her collarbone. My hands clench at my sides.

“I brought pasta.” I gesture to the container without moving closer. “It’s still warm. Finn—” I stop short. Mentioning Finn to her is bringing up protective instincts. “It’s good. If you’re hungry.” But then my gaze shifts to the table, only to see the chicken is still there, still perfectly wrapped, still untouched. Which means she’s only eaten that apple I gave her this morning.

Good going, Stone. Maybe she doesn’t like chicken?

Her eyes flick to the container with the pasta, then away. That same wariness from this morning, like she’s expecting a trick. Like food is a trap waiting to spring.

“You didn’t eat much earlier,” I continue, easing down to sit on the floor. Getting closer to her level, making myself less threatening. “The apple…” I study her, noting the way her chin is bowed to her chest. How she doesn’t look at me. How she doesn’t even move, as if trying to erase her presence. No. Herexistence.

And like this morning, she hasn’t said a word out of place. I’ll have to use the same tactic again with the direct questions.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You can answer me. I won’t bite.”

She flinches and I almost groan with the immediate guilt. What sort of choice of words was that?

I clear my throat and it’s a deep rumble that makes her head dip even more, even as her neck angles slightly toward me. Fuck.

“Please answer. You only wanted the fruit? You don’t like chicken?”

“I’m sorry, Alpha.” The words come out rushed, fearful. “I didn’t mean to waste?—”

“No.” I cut her off, then immediately regret my sharp tone when she flinches again. Softer: “No apologies needed. Not for food. Not for anything.”

She blinks, but not at me. At the floor, because she still keeps her gaze low. Confusion is evident in her scent. Those hazel eyes hold so many questions she’s afraid to ask. So much fear of getting the answers wrong.

---