Page 7 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

MARCO

I’d stashedthe takeout bag under my arm, trying not to spill the coffees as I navigated the hospital corridor. The doctor’s words echoed in my head—stable condition, improving slowly, still critical. Medical jargon that boiled down to “Tommy’s alive but not out of the woods.” I’d heard enough.

The scent of the food I’d picked up—Kitania’s favorite pasta from that little Italian place on Seventh—wafted up as I approached Tommy’s room. The door was closed, and I had to juggle all the shit I was holding to manage the handle. I’d already spilled coffee on my shirt twice today and was sporting the stains to prove it. Sleep deprivation was a bitch, but I wasn’t about to complain. Not when Tommy was fighting for his life.

I spotted Gio first when I entered—rigid posture, that thousand-yard stare, his hand clasping Kitania’s like a lifeline. Our Omega looked worse than yesterday, if that was possible. Hollowed cheeks, dark circles beneath eyes that had seen too much already.

Dimitri’s deep timber rumbled behind me as he finished up talking with Tommy’s doctor. Even D looked rough—his imposing frame somehow managing to look both intimidating and exhausted.

Seven days of this nightmare had pushed us all to the edge.

Between the three of us, we’d established a rotation, none of us willing to leave Kit alone for long. Not that she’d asked for our help—our stubborn little Omega would have stayed here by herself, surviving on vending machine shit and sheer willpower if we’d let her. But that wasn’t how this worked. Not with family. And especially not with pack.

“Brought something that doesn’t taste like cardboard,” I announced, crossing to Kit and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

Her hair smelled like hospital disinfectant with traces of that floral shampoo from when D had finally convinced her to shower yesterday. I set the food on the small side table, then crouched before her, hands resting on her knees as I studied her face. The shadows under her eyes had deepened, her skin pale enough to see the blue veins beneath. My chest tightened.

“You look like shit, Angel.” Not that she wasn’t beautiful. She wasalwaysbeautiful. But the stress of this past week had definitely taken its toll, and she looked so damn fragile.

The comment earned me a small, reluctant smile—the first I’d seen from her today. A tiny victory.

“Always the charmer,” she murmured, but there was affection beneath the tiredness in her voice.

Her hand left Gio’s to squeeze my wrist briefly—a point of connection, of acknowledgment. I felt Dimitri watching us, saw the flash of something in his eyes—not jealousy, exactly, but that particular brand of longing he carried. My brother had always been the most guarded of us, the most careful with his emotions. The leader among us, always strong, rarely vulnerable. Seeinghim with Kitania these past months had been like witnessing ice thaw in spring—slow, inevitable, revealing everything hidden beneath.

Dimitri joined us, moving with his usual predatory grace despite the fatigue evident in the tight lines around his mouth. His hand automatically found the nape of Kitania’s neck, thumb stroking gently over the spot I knew he intended to place his bond mark. The caress was possessive, instinctual—an Alpha reassuring himself of his mate’s presence.

“Doctor says he’s improving,” he reported, his deep voice pitched low. “Infection risk is down.”

The clinical update was delivered with his usual precision, but his touch betrayed his concern—not just for Tommy, but for our Omega who’d been running herself ragged. Dimitri had never been a man of flowery words or emotional declarations. He spoke through action—through the way he’d personally threatened the hospital administrator to get Tommy the best care, through the security detail positioned discreetly throughout the floor, through the gentle stroke of his thumb against Kitania’s skin.

Kit nodded, leaning into his touch like a plant seeking sunlight. Her body recognized what her mind was too exhausted to fully process—that she needed the contact, the connection to stay grounded.

“Did you update Emilio?” she asked Dimitri, ever mindful of family obligations even now.

Dimitri grunted an affirmative. “Just sent him a text. Father sends his regards. Said to tell you he’s proud of how you’re handling yourself.”

A faint blush colored her pale cheeks at the praise. She still wasn’t used to being valued, to being seen as strong rather than broken. Old habits from her past died hard. I’d noticed her flinchat compliments before, as if expecting the other shoe to drop, the kindness to transform into cruelty.

I opened the takeout containers, releasing more of those tantalizing aromas. The smell of garlic and herbs made my stomach rumble, but I wouldn’t take a single bite until my Omega had her fill. “Eat,” I urged, pressing a plastic fork into her free hand. “You need something besides caffeine in your system.”

She started to protest, but I fixed her with a look that said I wasn’t taking no for an answer. With a sigh that spoke volumes, she obeyed and took a small bite of the pasta.

“That’s my good girl,” I murmured, satisfaction warming my chest.

For the first time in days, a light pink flush colored Kit’s cheeks. I nearly did a fist pump after seeing that small glimpse of life return to my weary mate.

I caught Gio watching the exchange, his expression a complex mix of gratitude and something else—maybe envy? I knew my brother well enough to read between the lines. Gio excelled at strategy, at violence, at dismantling enemies with calculated, practiced precision. But these small acts of care sometimes eluded him, though he felt them no less deeply.

We were different that way. I’d always been physical—in affection, in combat, in how I learned and processed the world. Touch came naturally to me. For Gio, touch was deliberate, measured, each gesture carrying the weight of careful consideration.

A soft groan from the bed drew everyone’s attention at once. Tommy’s eyelids fluttered, then opened halfway, unfocused at first before finding Kitania. His cracked lips curved into a lopsided smile that made him look more like himself despite the pallor and tubes.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he rasped, barely audible over the machines.

The effect on Kitania was immediate and profound—she transformed, fatigue momentarily forgotten as she leaned forward, food abandoned. One hand squeezed Tommy’s while the other gently touched his face, fingertips tracing his cheekbone with such tenderness it made my throat tight.

“Hey yourself,” she whispered thickly. “You planning on sleeping all day again?”

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