Page 12 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

When Finn’s hand shakes as he checks the oven timer, a dull pain radiates through my ribcage. He steadies himself against the counter, just for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and continuing his preparations. Always the caretaker, even when he’s the one who needs to be taken care of.

The warm, rich scents of his cooking can’t quite mask the pain. It’s becoming a familiar discomfort, like a splinter we’ve learned to live with but can’t quite ignore.

I catch myself reaching for him sometimes—an instinctive need to comfort my omega. But my hand always freezes midway, uncertain if I still have that right. If my touch would help or hurt. The distance between us feels wider than physical space.

There was a time when I would have known exactly what he needed—a gentle touch at the nape of his neck, a firm hand against the small of his back. Now, I second-guess every instinct, afraid of making things worse, afraid of the rejection I probably deserve.

I watch silently as Finn reaches for another sprig of rosemary,his slender fingers trembling slightly before steadying. The scent of his distress grows stronger, mingling with the aromatic herbs and roasting meat in a way that makes my insides twist with guilt. When he finally turns and spots me, he startles, the wooden spoon in his hand clattering against the counter.

“Stone!” His hand flies to his chest, but he quickly composes himself, pressing a smile to his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The wooden spoon in his other hand trembles slightly before he sets it down. “I didn’t hear you come in. Dinner’s almost ready. I tried that new recipe for herb-crusted chicken you mentioned liking last time.”

The hope in his voice is worse than any accusation could be. I can see it in the way he straightens his spine, in how his eyes dart hopefully past me to the empty doorway, as if expecting the others to materialize. His scent shifts subtly—a hint of anxiety threading through the warm notes of herbs and butter, making my instincts bristle with the need to comfort him. I’m an alpha, and he’s an omega.Myomega. Every cell in my body demands I fix his distress. Fix this. Fixus. But I don't know how to fix what we’ve all broken.

“It smells amazing, Finn.” And it does. Everything Finn makes is amazing. He puts his whole heart into caring for us, even when we don’t deserve it.Especiallywhen we don’t deserve it. The words taste like dirt in my mouth. Inadequate. So inadequate against the weight of what’s broken between us.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption, even as shame burns in my gut at the relief I feel. Finn’s shoulders tense—he knows this dance as well as I do. “I’m sorry, Finn. I got an alert from the perimeter sensors. Probably just some deer again, but I should check it out anyway.”

The smile stays fixed on his face, but something in his eyes dims. He’s too good at hiding his pain these days. Too practiced at swallowing disappointment. He knows I don’t need to go check out a single alert. More often than not, it really is just deer and nothingto worry about. No one would purposely trespass on the Ironwood property unless they wanted to lose an arm, a leg, or both. But that’s Ren’s sort of thing. Not mine. At the very least, they’d get a hefty fine.

“Of course. I understand,” Finn says anyway. “Should I…should I save you a plate?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with all the other times I’ve said yes, knowing I wouldn’t return. Knowing the food would sit, growing cold, until Finn finally wrapped it up and put it away, alone in this too-big kitchen. My gums ache with the urge to bare my teeth and growl—not at him, never at him—but at myself, at this situation we’ve created.

His scent spikes with distress before he can mask it, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the raw hurt beneath his careful composure. It’s there in the slight tremor of his lips, in the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. The strained bond between us pulses with shared pain, and I have to fight the urge to cross the space between us, to pull him close and promise things will get better. But we both know I’d be lying.

“Don’t wait up,” I say softly, hating myself for the way his shoulders slump slightly before he catches himself. “It could take a while to patrol the whole boundary.”

“Right.” He turns back to the stove, his movements slow and controlled. “Be safe out there.”

I want to cross the room, pull him into my arms, press my lips to his, and promise thateverythingwill be okay. That we’ll fix this. That tomorrow will be different. But I don’t. Because I’m a coward, and because lies taste bitter on my tongue.

Instead, I retreat, the sound of his quiet cooking following me out. Each step away from the kitchen feels like another failure. We have what so many packs dream of—an omega who loves us, who takes care of us, who makes our house a home. And we’re throwing it away, letting it slip through our fingers like water whilewe chase ghosts and nurse wounds that should have healed years ago.

The cool evening air hits my face as I step outside, but it doesn’t wash away the guilt. Nothing does anymore.

Behind me, through the window, I catch one last glimpse of Finn. He’s standing at the sink, hands braced against the counter, head bowed. The sight follows me into the gathering darkness, a reminder of everything we’re losing, one empty chair at a time.

I let the forest swallow me up, hoping it might somehow absolve me of the pain I’m causing.

The forest wraps around me like an old friend as I follow the familiar path to my sanctuary. Branches whisper overhead, stirring memories of simpler times when our pack was whole. When we used to come out here in the middle of the wild, just us enjoying whatever treat Finn made for us while we watched the stars. Back when we weren’t all walking wounded, tiptoeing around each other’s scars.

The alert from earlier nags at my conscience, but I dismiss it. Single alerts usually mean wildlife, and right now, I need the solitude of my cabin more than I need to patrol a probably-empty perimeter. The guilt of lying to Finn sits heavy in my gut, but out here, at least I can breathe. The forest doesn’t judge. Doesn’t remind me of broken bodies and shattered bonds. Doesn’t echo with phantom screams that still wake me in cold sweats. We thought we could protect Finn from the truth, but maybe we’re just protecting ourselves from having to face it.

As I approach the clearing, something makes me pause. Years of instinct kick in before my conscious mind catches up. There’s a scent on the breeze. It’s faded. Delicate.Feminine, with notes of…something I can’t quite place. Something that makes some deep part of me stir with interest. My throat rumbles involuntarily, and I have to forcefully swallow back a growl.

Moving more cautiously now, I scan the area. The cabin looks undisturbed at first glance, but that scent… It’s subtle, probably hours old, but unmistakably there. Someone has been here.Ispossibly still here.

The realization that I should have checked that perimeter alert hits me hard. Stupid. Careless. I’ve gotten too comfortable, too certain of our compound’s safety.

Drawing closer, I notice subtle signs I missed before—grass bent in an unnatural pattern leading to the porch, and…I frown, crouching to peer down at the dark wet mark that’s smudged the worn planks. Thin streaks of blood. They glisten in the moonlight, still fresh enough to catch the silver gleam.

My senses are on high alert now as I stand. I don’t usually walk with a flashlight, and I couldn’t be more relieved of that fact than now. I’d have alerted the intruder even before I knew of their presence.

Focusing on the door, that strange scent grows stronger as I move closer, and with it, my interest. There’s something about it that calls to me, makes me want to chase it to its source.

I reach for the handle, movements slow. I rarely bolt the door, but even then, it’s clear someone has been here. The handle doesn’t turn all the way to let me in. Normally, I’d be angry at the intrusion, but that scent…it’s doing something to my head, making it hard to focus on anything but finding its source.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I ease the door open.

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