Page 23 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

Oh, God…am I in trouble? Have I gotten myself into even more trouble than before?

A sound outside makes me curl smaller, pressing into the wall. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Alpha ones. Coming closer.

My vocal cords constrict, barely containing a whimper. I should kneel. Should present. But my body won’t move, locked in terror between training and the desperate need to run.

But he’s done all this for me. If he comes in here and sees me awake and alert but not in position… The terror of what this strange alpha might do shocks me into movement.

I scramble into position just as the door opens, my knees hitting the wooden floor hard enough to bruise. Training takes over—back arched, ass raised, arms stretched forward, forehead pressed to the cold boards. The position is ingrained, muscle memory born of pain and punishment. Present properly or suffer the consequences. My body assumes the pose before my mind can even process the shame.

The alpha’s footsteps stop abruptly. His pine scent spikes with…something I can’t identify. Not arousal. Not anger. Butsomethingthat makes my shoulders tremble.

“You’re awa—What are you…No. God, no. Please get up.”

The command confuses me, goes against everything I know,but an order is an order. I start to rise, keeping my eyes firmly on the floor.

“Stop. Wait.” His voice sounds strained. “Just…sit however is comfortable. Please.”

I try to hold it back. The whimper comes out anyway. Nothing about this makes sense. The strange gentleness in his voice, the lack of expected punishment, the way he keeps saying ‘please’ like I’m a person instead of property. I freeze halfway between positions, trembling with uncertainty.

His scent shifts again, taking on notes of distress that make the omega in me want to comfort him—a dangerous, forbidden impulse. Never engage unless you are needed or commanded to.

The heavy footsteps retreat several steps.

“I’m going to set this bag down,” he says, voice carefully controlled now. “There’s food and clothes. Take what you need. But please…please don’t kneel like that again.”

My eyes burn with confused tears. I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t understand what. I’m supposed to maintain position until given clear direction, but he’s already ordered me up twice. The conflict makes me tremble harder.

A soft sound comes from his direction—almost a growl. “You’re safe here. No one will hurt you. No one will…expect that from you. Ever.”

The words don’t make sense. None of this makes sense. His pine scent wraps around me, simultaneously soothing and terrifying because it feels sorightwhen everything else feels so wrong.

I remain frozen, caught between training and confusion, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the mask of kindness to fall away. Waiting for reality to reassert itself in pain and punishment.

But the alpha just sets down his bag with careful movements. I can feel his eyes on me, even though I don’t dare look directly at him.

He’s waiting for me to sit.

Stiff legs take me back to the cot where I sit, the soft creak sounding loud in the silence.

The alpha releases a heavy breath. “I, uh…I didn’t know what you might like. There’s fruit and chicken. Some clothes that might be too big for you, but they’ll work for now. And I also brought more medical supplies.”

My hands tremble in my lap. Why isn’t he demanding proper presentation? Why isn’t he…?

His footsteps move closer and my shoulders hunch, face scrunching as I wince, waiting for the punishment, the pain, the…

“Fuck.” I hear him whisper. “You’re shaking.” He stops moving. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Promises mean nothing. I learned that lesson in blood and tears.

“When was the last time you ate?”

It’s a direct question. Those require answers. “I…I don’t…” My voice cracks from disuse. How long has it been? “T…two days?”

He growls something low in his throat before his footsteps retreat again. There’s rustling, and I risk a discreet peek.

He’s pulling things from the bags, setting them on the small table. His movements are precise, controlled, like he’s trying not to startle me. From beneath my lashes, I catch glimpses of broad shoulders, strong hands being deliberately gentle with packages and containers. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the ends, and my fingers itch to trace those soft waves.

The sudden desire shocks me, like a current of electricity after years of numbness. I haven't wanted to touch anyone—haven’t wanted anything at all—since they broke me of such impulses. Yet here I am, fighting the urge to reach out, to connect. The Academy would consider this failure; weakness.

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