Page 21 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

He takes a slow sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “You smell…”

My heart stops.

“…like dirt,” he finishes.

Relief makes me lightheaded. Of course, that’s all he smells—I’m still far enough away that her honey-sweet scent is buried under forest floor and morning air. But I can’t stay around. Can’t risk him catching even a whisper of that omega on my skin.

“Tripped,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. “Listen, I’m not staying long. Just came to grab some stuff?—”

The back door opens and Ren steps out, also clutching coffee. Great. Just great.

“You missed dinner last night,” Ren says, like I’ve committed some cardinal sin. “He made your favorite.”

I can’t help the harsh laugh that escapes. “Yeah? Well, I don’t think I was the only one missing, now, was I? Where were you two all night, anyway? More ‘pack business’ I don’t know about?”

That hits. I see it in the way they both stiffen, in the guilty glance they share.

“Stone—” Jax starts.

“Save it.” The words come out harsher than I intended, betraying the feral thing clawing beneath my skin. “I just need to grab some stuff from my room.”

They exchange another look as I brush past them. The lie settles heavy in my gut. This is the first real secret I’ve ever kept from my pack brothers. From my family. But what choice do I have? I can’t explain an omega I barely understand myself, one who flinches at every movement and whose scent calls to the very center of me. Which makes it even worse, because that same scent carries so much fear it makes my chest ache.

If I wake up now and this was all a dream, I’d believe it.

The house is quiet as I slip inside, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. Finn must still be asleep upstairs, probably exhausted from cooking the dinner I missed.

Another wave of guilt, but I push it aside. I can’t afford distractions. Not now. Not with her waiting, alone and afraid in my cabin.

I need to hurry. The longer I’m gone, the more likely she is to run. And something tells me if she runs, I’ll never find her again.

In the kitchen, I grab what I can without being too obvious. Fruit from the fruit tray. Some energy drinks and…

I open the fridge, chest tightening as I spot the four perfectly wrapped dinners from last night. My throat closes up as I release a heavy breath.

I turn, gaze shifting toward the door, as if I can see through it and up the stairs into our bedroom where I know Finn must be resting. There are four dinners here. That means Finn didn’t even eat last night. He left his wrapped here, too.

Slowly, I lift my plate from the shelf. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, laden with more than just food. Finn would have used the good herbs from his garden. Would have timed everything perfectly, kept checking the clock, wondering if I would like it…

I close my eyes, releasing a heavy breath. Pack dinners are sacred. Doing what I’m about to do feels like a betrayal of something fundamental.

But then I think of her, huddled in my cabin, probably haven’t eaten a decent meal in who knows how long. She’s tired and dirty and afraid and…

Fuck.

And I need to take care of her until I can figure out my next move.

My hands move before I can second-guess myself, wrapping the dinner in a cloth and tucking it carefully into my bag. The guilt doesn’t lessen, but it shifts, making room for something else—a need to care for the strange omega that runs deeper than logic or pack obligations.

I owe Finn an apology. More than one. But right now, someone else needs this meal more.

The medical supplies are trickier. We keep most of it in the downstairs bathroom, and I have to pass Ren and Jax again to get there. They’re still on the porch, talking in low voices I deliberately don’t try to overhear.

I’m betraying them. With every bandage I take, every secret I keep, I’m betraying my pack. But the thought of that omega waking up alone, in pain…

I snarl at the mere idea. I need to hurry. But as I stuff the medical supplies in with the food, all I can think about is that honey-sweet scent and soft curves and the fact that the impossible truth I’ve stumbled on is going to tear my pack apart.

Medical supplies garnered, I move through the house with purpose. The stairs creak beneath my feet despite my attempt at stealth, each sound making me wince. When I reach the top landing, I freeze. The door to our shared bedroom is cracked open, and Finn’s sweet omega scent drifts out—sage and fresh-baked bread, tinged with something sadder. My chest constricts. He always smells like this when he’s troubled.

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