Page 118 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

She lowers her arms. “Kind of. I’ve never…never been able to make my own decisions before…”

Her words sting, but she’s right.

“I’m trying to be better,” I admit. “For you. For Finn.”

She smiles, the simple expression warming something in me. “I’ve noticed. It means…it means more than you know.”

By the time my knot reduces, Ren emerges from the locker room, freshly showered and dressed in dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and a sport coat that conceals the gun I know he’s carrying.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says, checking his phone. “The Ashgraves are sending a car.”

“You okay to go alone?” I lift Hailey, making her straddle me.

“Yeah. It’s not them that worry me.” His words make sense, which goes to the next thing on the list for today.

“We’ll meet you at home. I thought I’d take Hailey and Finn to get some proper gear after this—workout clothes, shoes, maybe some personal protection items.”

Hailey perks up at this. “Like pepper spray?” Her cheeks flame, smile getting wider as Ren walks over to press a kiss on her forehead and a whispered, “You did well today. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

I nod. “Pepper spray, personal alarm, proper running shoes. Whatever you feel comfortable using.”

Ren gives a small nod of approval. “Good idea. I’ll text when the meeting’s done.” He hesitates, then walks over to Finn and Jax, pressing a kiss to Finn’s forehead as well. Finn promptly whimpers and pulls him down for a scorching kiss on the lips.

The casual touch, the easy praise—these are signs of the old Ren, the one who existed before guilt and trauma drove him into isolation. Small steps, but it finally feels like we’re getting there.

Chapter 24

Ren

The Ashgraves send a black sedan. Tinted windows and a driver who barely acknowledges me beyond a polite nod when I slide into the backseat. I’m not surprised.

“Mr. Ashgrave asked me to give you this,” the driver says, passing back a sealed envelope without turning around.

Inside is a single sheet of paper with an address written in neat block letters. I pop out my phone, typing it in. It comes up as an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district. Typical.

I slip the paper back into the envelope, settling into the leather seat as the car pulls away from the curb. My ribs ache dully, a persistent reminder of what happened a week ago. Of how close I came to losing it all. The bruising on my face has faded, but I still look like I went ten rounds with a heavyweight.

Which, in a way, I did.

Meeting with Riordan Ashgrave doesn’t settle any nerves in my gut. The Ashgraves have a reputation, even though no one can truly pin any backdoor dealings on their pack. Maybe it’s a good thing. A pack of feral alphas wearing suits. Dealing with them isn’t a choice.

But if they can help us locate Heath, confirm Caldwell’s status…it’s worth the risk.

I watch the city pass by outside the window, familiar streets giving way to the less-maintained roads of the industrial district. Warehouses loom like sleeping giants, many abandoned. It’s the kind of place where people disappear, where questions go unanswered.

The perfect place for a meeting that never officially happened.

The car slows as we approach a sprawling concrete structure, its windows boarded, walls tagged with graffiti. No other vehicles are visible, but that doesn’t mean we’re alone. The Ashgraves are nothing if not thorough in their security measures.

“I’ll wait here,” the driver says as the car comes to a stop. “Mr. Ashgrave is expecting you inside. North entrance.”

I nod, exiting the vehicle without comment. My hand instinctively checks the gun holstered beneath my jacket. The weight of it is reassuring, though I doubt I’ll need it today. The Ashgraves may be many things, but they’ve never been known to betray any deals they make. Which is good for me.

The north entrance is unlocked, the heavy metal door scraping across concrete as I pull it open. Inside, the warehouse is cavernous, dust motes dancing in shafts of light that filter through broken windows high above. Most of the space is empty, save for a few abandoned pieces of machinery and a small table set up in the center of the floor.

At the table sits Riordan Ashgrave.

Dark hair, cut short, frames a face that’s handsome in a severe way. He watches my approach with cool assessment, neither rising nor offering any greeting until I’m standing across from him.

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