Page 13 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

She settled back against my shoulder, her warm breath fanning across my neck. I could feel the exhaustion radiating from her, the deep bone-weariness she’d been fighting all week. Now, safe in my arms, it was overtaking her.

“Sleep.” I stroked her hair, petting her gently, hoping the soothing touch would help her drift off. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Kit mumbled something incoherent, already drifting off, her body growing heavier against mine by the second. I smiled, pressing another kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in.

This—her—was what I’d fought to live for. What I’d continue fighting for. My Omega. My future. My very reason for breathing.

Rocco and his threats, the pain in my abdomen, the long recovery ahead—none of it mattered in this moment. Only Kit, warm and alive against me, trusting me enough to finally rest. I’d failed to protect her once, but never again. I’d heal. I’d get stronger. And then I’d make sure no one ever threatened her again.

But for now, I was content to hold her while she slept, to be her shelter as she had been mine. To guard her dreams as fiercely as she had guarded my life.

six

DIMITRI

Three weeks.It had been three weeks since we’d brought Tommy home from the hospital, and still, Kit moved around our penthouse like a ghost caught between worlds—present but not fully here. I watched her from the doorway as she tucked the blanket around my youngest brother for the third time in an hour, her delicate fingers smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with practiced precision. Every movement calculated, controlled—nothing like the wild fear I still caught in her ice-blue eyes when she thought none of us were looking.

“Kit, I’m fine,” Tommy insisted when she reached for his pillows next, though his voice lacked its usual playful edge.

He was sprawled across the couch, resting, healing. I knew being laid up was starting to eat at him. While he was getting better every day, his recovery was slower than any of us would have liked.

“You’ve adjusted these pillows so many times they’re about to file a restraining order.”

She didn’t laugh at his joke. Instead, her hands stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming their task. “The doctor said proper elevation is important for circulation.”

Across the room, Gio sat in an armchair, his own bandages visible beneath his thin t-shirt. His hazel eyes met mine over Kit’s head. He was worried too.

“Did he also say you need to work yourself to exhaustion?” Gio’s gravelly voice held no accusation, just concern wrapped in his usual blunt delivery.

Kit didn’t answer. She just moved to the side table where a neat row of pill bottles stood like soldiers awaiting orders. She checked each label methodically, setting two aside for Tommy and one for Gio.

“Water?” she asked, already turning toward the kitchen.

“I’ve got a full glass right here, Butterfly,” Tommy said, reaching for her wrist. “Sit with me for a while?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I’d cataloged all of Kit’s smiles by now—the shy ones, the genuine ones that transformed her whole face, the ones that bled into surprised laughs that sounded as pretty as songs. This wasn’t any of those. This was armor.

“I need to make more tea. And Beretta needs his walk soon.” On cue, the Doberman lifted his head from where he’d been lying at Tommy’s feet, ears perking up at the mention of his name.

Marco, who’d been unusually quiet from his spot by the window, finally spoke. “I can take him out, Kit.”

She shook her head. “You need to rest, too. Bruised ribs are no joke. I know they’ve been bothering you.” Before any more protests could be raised, she slipped past me and into the kitchen.

I caught Marco’s eye, noting the frustration there.

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting her take him out alone.” Marco was already up, signalling to Beretta, who gingerly got to his feet, favoring his back right leg.

The bandage was still wrapped tight, his muscles knitting themselves back together from where he too had had surgery. We’d gotten lucky that the vet had been able to save the limb and patch him up. Another few weeks and he’d assured us Beretta would be back to chasing tennis balls.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here before she realizes we’re gone.” Marco attached the leash and headed for the door, slipping out unnoticed. I heard him issue orders to Niles, one of our newly promoted guards, to follow him out as backup, leaving Enzo behind as our personal security.

Lonnie, God rest his soul, had been one of the good ones we’d lost that night, and finding replacements proved difficult when I wasn’t sure who the fuck I could trust.

Not when we had a mole in our midst. A snitch. Or, as I liked to refer to the asshole, a dead man walking.

But that was a problem for another day. Today was about our Omega. While I admired her strength, I recognized the signs of someone holding themselves together by sheer force of will.

I knew those signs intimately. I’d lived them for years.

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