Page 48 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

They’re a pack.

“You okay?” Finn asks, noticing my pause. His nostrils flare slightly as he takes in the scents, and something pained crosses his expression.

I nod, though I’m not sure if I am. The intensity of the combined scents makes my skin prickle with awareness. A whine keeps trying to rise to the surface, wanting to respond to the clear markers of strong alphas, but there’s something else. Something that makes me want to gather everything soft and everything that smells like them and put it all in a nice big…nest?

My breaths pick up.

I’ve never wanted to nest like this before.

It’s forbidden. At least, at the Academy it was. That’s why we only had a hard cot and nothing else in the room apart from a toilet. To discourage this urge. That and the suppressants we were given were to ensure we didn’t go into heat until we were with our masters.

Finn moves past me out the room and down the corridor. I follow on shaky legs but find myself slowing with each step. This isn’t just a place they live—it’s a home. The kind I’ve only seen in magazines or through windows during my childhood.

The hallway walls are a warm cream color, dotted with art and photographs. My eyes catch on a large painting that makes me stop in my tracks—sweeping strokes of deep blues and purples, creating what looks like a night sky over mountains. Something about it pulls at me, makes me want to reach out and touch the textured canvas.

“Ren painted that,” Finn says softly from beside me. There’s a tremor in his voice that makes me glance up at him. His arms are wrapped around his bare torso, fingers pressing into the scars there. “One winter. He said the northern lights inspired him, but…” He swallows hard. “He mostly painted it because I mentioned once that I’d never seen them.”

The care in that gesture—an alpha painting something just because an omega mentioned wanting to see it—seems like something I’d read in a book or a dream that wasn’t real.

We continue down the hall, passing more signs of life. A jacket thrown over a chair, well-worn boots lined up against the wall. A stack of papers on a side table, post-it notes sticking out from between pages. The air smells like coffee and fried eggs, though it must be left over from breakfast.

The living room opens up before us, and I have to bite back a gasp. Huge windows let in streams of natural light, illuminating a space that looks lived in and loved. There’s a massive sectional couch covered in throws and pillows, some of which have clearly been arranged with purpose. It’s his nest, I realize, glancing up at the omega beside me.Hisnest, integrated so naturally into the room’s decor that it doesn’t seem out of place at all.

It’s…breathtaking.

Something inside me crinkles and pulls in at the edges.

I wonder what it would feel like to have a nest.

When the alpha brought me a blanket, brand new from the scent of it, it felt like another trick—even after he left it and I snuggled in under the soft warm fibers clutching his jacket to my chest.

I swallow hard, pulling my gaze from the pillows on the sofa.

Bookshelves line one wall, stuffed with everything from novels to encyclopedias to what looks like comic books. A guitar leans in one corner next to a sophisticated sound system. More art covers these walls too—some abstract like the one in the hall, others realistic landscapes that take my breath away. And one that makes me pause—a portrait of Finn caught in a moment of pure joy, his head thrown back in laughter, eyes crinkled at the corners. The artist captured something raw and real in the way light plays across his features, in the subtle flush of his cheeks, in the natural fall of his honey-gold hair. It was longer at the time the canvas was painted.Looked like some kind of halo. Even in paint, he radiates that same fierce freedom I’ve been watching all morning.

I want to look away and not stare at everything. This is their home and I’m a stranger. An intruder. Even before I revealed, there were whispers that reached my ears from betas who would gossip about packs and how territorial they are.

The thought alone makes me nervous.

What catches my attention next are the plants. Some sitting on stands at the corners, small succulents growing on shelves. I want to stop looking, but something else catches my focus.

There are photos. Many of them.

They’re everywhere—clustered on shelves, arranged on walls, sitting in frames on various surfaces. In them, I see glimpses of a life I never knew existed. Four men in various combinations: laughing, hanging out together,living. Finn features in many of them—as a matter of fact, he seems to be the constant in all of them. Sometimes it’s a shot with him alone with one alpha, sometimes with all three. The love in those images is palpable, radiating from genuine smiles and casual touches.

My eyes linger on one photo where Finn is sandwiched between two alphas on the couch, all three of them asleep. A fourth person—presumably the third alpha—must have taken the picture. They look so peaceful, so…normal. And their faces. God, I never knew alphas could be so beautiful.

One has sharp cheekbones and full lips, dark hair falling across his forehead as he sleeps. The other’s jawline could cut glass, his muscled arm wrapped protectively around Finn’s waist. Both of them are huge, making Finn look small between them despite his own impressive height. Their bodies speak of strength—broad shoulders, defined muscles visible even through their clothes. These aren’t the bloated, aging alphas that would come to inspect us at the Academy. They’re young, fit,gorgeous.

My hand drifts self-consciously to my soft middle, to the curves that have always made me feel too big, too much. Even at myhealthiest, I never looked like Finn—all lean muscle and graceful lines. The omega in the photo fits perfectly between these beautiful alphas like he belongs there.

I hear Finn’s breath hitch and turn to find him staring at the same photo, his eyes bright with unshed tears. When he notices me watching, he quickly looks away, but not before I catch the flash of pain across his features.

“The kitchen’s through here,” he says roughly, moving past me. “You must be hungry.”

The kitchen is just as warm and welcoming as the rest of the house—all warm woods and gleaming countertops, with herbs growing in pots along the windowsill. Everything is immaculate.

“Sit,” Finn says, gesturing to a barstool at the counter. “When’s the last time you ate? Really ate, not just…” He trails off, jaw tightening.

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