Page 47 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

Enzo returned with beers, passing them around before settling back into his spot. “She out?” he asked, nodding toward Kit.

“Yeah,” I whispered, not wanting to wake her. “Been having trouble sleeping lately.”

“Can’t be easy. After everything she’s been through.” Enzo shook his head, his expression pinched, almost guilty, like he alone was responsible for the break in our security that night. Like he shouldered the responsibility for what happened.

“Yeah. Her nightmares are a bitch.” Gio scrubbed a hand down his face, clearly worried about her. “I’m glad she’s finally resting.”

“I should head out,” Enzo said finally, setting his bottle on the coffee table. “Early day tomorrow.”

Dimitri nodded, his expression unreadable. “Text me updates on the Moretti situation.”

“Will do, boss.” Enzo stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Thanks for dinner. And the company.” His eyes lingered on Kit for a moment before he turned to leave. “Take care of her.”

“Always,” Marco said, steady as ever. Not just because she needed protecting—because she wasoursto protect.

Gio got to his feet and walked Enzo to the door. I stared after them, watching as he laughed at something Gio said. For a moment, everything felt normal.

And then it didn’t.

As Enzo left, a seed of doubt had been planted, and no matter how much I tried to bury it, I knew it was going to grow.

Something was up with Enzo, and if I was right… it was his feelings for Kit.

eighteen

KITANIA

I curled deeperinto the plush blankets of my nest, savoring the warmth of Giovanni’s body curved protectively around mine. His breathing was steady against my neck, and his arm lay draped across my waist, fingers absently tracing patterns on my skin.

These quiet moments had become my sanctuary as renovation chaos consumed the rest of the penthouse. Remodeling would be worth it in the long run, but the process was harder than I’d imagined. There were so many strange people in and out of our home, so many unfamiliar scents that set me on edge. I felt frazzled and uneasy all the time, and the stress of it all was getting to me. My nest had become my haven. My safe space. Here, wrapped in the comforting notes of Giovanni’s scent, I could finally relax.

“Comfortable, Dolcezza?” he rumbled, the vibration as soothing as the words themselves.

“Mmm,” I murmured, sinking deeper into his embrace. “Perfect.”

The only thing that would’ve made itmoreperfect would be if the others were here with us, too. Unfortunately, they were out, working to track down the traitor in our midst with another ruse. Another trap.

And it was just one more reason I needed my nest and all the comfort it provided.

I nuzzled my nose against Gio’s skin, searching for the spot where his scent was the strongest while his fingers trailed lazily up and down my spine. It was so incredibly relaxing, and I breathed him in, letting his signature ease away my anxiety.

But something in his touch changed. His fingers stilled against my skin, and I felt him shift slightly. His touch trailed along my shoulder blade, where I knew one of my deeper scars cut across the skin—courtesy of Rocco. The ridge of damaged tissue had faded from angry red to silvery pink over time, but it would never truly go away.

None of them would.

I tensed as his fingers traced another scar, then another—a roadmap to my shitty life. The mark my foster father left when I dropped a plate, a small round scar from where one of my foster brothers had put out his cigarette on my skin, the criss-crosses along my ribs from Vincent’s blade.

My Alpha’s breathing changed and grew heavier. When I chanced a glance at his face, his expression had darkened, brows drawn together, jaw tight. Hard like stone.

A hollow opened in my chest. Was he disgusted? He’d seen my scars before, told me they were beautiful. That they were an outward sign of how hard I’d fought, how strong I’d become, and how much I’d survived. I’d believed him—but maybe those words had just been comfort in the moment. Maybe he was justnow realizing how many there were, especially since I always did my best to keep the worst of them hidden.

My stomach dipped, that familiar shame washing over me like a cold shower. I shifted, instinctively reaching for the sheet to cover myself.

“I can put something on if they bother you,” I whispered, unable to meet his eyes. All four of them had told me I shouldn’t be ashamed of my scars, but old insecurities rose fast, never far away. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he found them as unsightly as I did.

Giovanni’s hand caught mine—gentle, but unyielding. I glanced up, expecting disgust but finding something deeper, darker. His brows knit. Not in judgment, but in something that looked like pain.

“Dolcezza,” he said roughly, “don’teverhide these from me.” The intensity of his gaze pinned me in place.

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