Page 139 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

As I leave the center, my emotions are a tangled knot of grief, hope, determination, and lingering worry about Vi. Jax and Stone are waiting exactly where I left them, their posture relaxing visibly when they see me emerge.

“How was it?” Jax asks as they walk on either side of me like my personal bodyguards.

I consider my answer. “Hard,” I admit. “But good, I think. For them and for me.”

He nods, accepting my assessment without pushing for details I’m not ready to share. As we drive home, I stare out the window, processing the morning’s experiences, the stories I heard, the faces that in many ways mirror my own journey.

By the time we reach the house, I’m emotionally exhausted but also strangely energized, filled with a sense of purpose I haven’t felt since before my parents sold me. Connecting with other survivors has reminded me that what happened to me—to all of us—is bigger than me. It’s a systemic evil.

And Heath, the architect of that evil, is still free.

The thought follows me through the remainder of the day, lingering as I go through the motions of normal life—dinner with the pack, a movie in the living room, casual conversation about everything except the weight pressing on my mind. I participate, but part of me remains distant, preoccupied with thoughts of the omegas I met, of Vi, who is still missing, of Heath, who has yet to face justice.

That night, sleep comes, but it’s haunted by familiar nightmares—the sterile facility rooms, the clinical touch of indifferent handlers, the desperate faces of other captives. I wake with a silent scream trapped in my throat, sweat cooling on my skin in the darkness of the nest.

Beside me, the others sleep on, undisturbed by my quiet terror. All except Ren, who is absent—likely checking the security feed in Jax’s space.

Rather than wake them, rather than seek the comfort I know they would willingly provide, I carefully extract myself from the nest. Some nights, not even their presence can calm the storm inside me. Some nights, I need to wrestle my demons alone.

I pad silently through the darkened house, not entirely certain where I’m heading until I find myself standing outside one specific door—a large space with excellent natural light that Finn told me was once Ren’s studio. I’ve never seen him paint since I joined them.

To my surprise, the door is slightly ajar, a faint light spilling from within. I hesitate, then push it open further. The dust covers have been removed from the furniture, the blinds opened to reveal the night sky. A single lamp burns on a side table, casting warm light over the space.

And in the center of the room stands Ren, his back to me, staring at an empty easel.

I must make some sound, because he turns, unsurprised to find me there. “Nightmare?” he asks simply.

I nod, not needing to elaborate. He understands nightmares better than most.

He extends a hand in silent invitation, and I cross the room to join him, allowing myself to be gathered into his arms, both of us facing the blank canvas. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that grounds me in the present.

“I didn’t know you still came here,” I say softly, not wanting to break the peaceful quiet of the room.

“I don’t, usually,” he admits, his breath warm against my hair. “But sometimes, on nights when sleep won’t come…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to.

We stand in comfortable silence for a long moment, both contemplating the empty easel. Then, in a voice so small I barely recognize it as my own, I make a request: “Paint something for me.”

I feel him tense slightly. “I don’t think I have the gift anymore, baby,” he whispers, face dipping into my hair. “It’s been too long.”

I shake my head, turning in his arms until my ear presses against his chest, the steady thump of his heart filling my senses. “No. It’s in here.” My hand splays over his sternum, feeling the life pulsing beneath my palm. “It’s always been in here.”

His arms tighten around me, a subtle tremor running through his frame—whether from emotion or trepidation, I can’t tell. Then, with gentle hands, he guides me to a comfortable chair positioned near the easel.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead before moving to gather supplies—a canvas, paints, brushes sorted by size and type. His movements are practiced despite the years of disuse, muscle memory guiding his hands as he prepares his workspace.

When he returns to the easel, he surveys me with an artist’s eye, his gaze analytical yet intimate in a way that makes my skin warm. “The light isn’t ideal,” he comments, adjusting the lamp to cast softer shadows.

“Does it matter?” I ask, curious about his process.

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “For a good artist? Always. For me, after so long? Probably not.”

He hesitates before the blank canvas, brush poised but not yet touching the surface. I can see the moment of doubt, the fear of failure after years away from his art. Then he glances at me, something in my expression giving him courage, and begins.

The transformation is remarkable. The hesitant, uncertain energy that surrounded him moments ago gives way to focused precision. His brush moves with growing confidence, laying down initial shapes in broad strokes before refining with smaller brushes, building layers of color and texture that gradually coalesce into recognizable form.

Me. He’s painting me, but not as I am in this moment, curled in the chair, watching him work. Instead, he captures something ephemeral, a version of me I’ve only glimpsed in rare moments of peace or joy. My eyes are bright with purpose, my posture straight but not rigid.

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