Page 133 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

Ren watches our exchange with uncharacteristic patience, no longer the first to escalate situations with his sharp words and sharper temper. When he finally speaks, his tone is measured, reasonable.

“What if we compromise?” he suggests. “Hailey stays in the SUV with one of us at all times. Close enough to be involved, far enough to maintain a safety buffer.”

It’s a sensible solution. The old me would have rejected it outright, insisting on complete control. The new me is trying—struggling, but trying—to find balance.

Fuck.

“And Finn?” I ask, already knowing what the answer will be.

“Where Hailey goes, I go,” comes Finn’s voice from the doorway, confirming my expectation. He’s standing there with flour on his nose, clearly having overheard at least part of our conversation. “Someone has to keep you alphas from doing something unnecessarily heroic and stupid.”

The mild joke eases some of the tension in my shoulders. Even I manage a small smile.

“Fine,” I concede, knowing when I’m outnumbered. “But no unnecessary risks. And at the first sign of serious danger, you both return to the house immediately.”

Hailey nods, a triumphant gleam in her eye that suggests she knew she’d win this argument all along. “Agreed.”

The next three days pass in a tense holding pattern. We establish a rotation for the surveillance of the tabloid’s offices. True to our agreement, Hailey and Finn join us but remain in the vehicle.

The tabloid’s offices are located in a converted warehouse in the city’s arts district, surrounded by galleries and small design firms that empty out after business hours.

By Sunday evening, there’s still been no sign of anyone suspicious approaching the building. The journalist who took our planted drive has been in and out several times, working late as they prepare Monday’s “exclusive,” but otherwise, the situation has remained frustratingly quiet.

“Maybe they’re not taking the bait,” Stone suggests. “The tabloid might not seem credible enough to warrant intervention.”

I check my watch—11:37 PM. Less than twelve hours until the story is scheduled to go live. “Or they’re waiting until the last possible moment. When there’s less chance of witnesses.”

Stone nods, acknowledging the possibility. “Either way, we should consider our next move if nothing happens tonight.”

I’m about to respond when movement near the entrance of the tabloid catches my attention. A figure approaches the building, moving with the purposeful stride of someone who doesn’t want to linger in the open too long. Male, average height, wearing a dark jacket with the collar turned up despite the mild evening, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

“We’ve got company,” I murmur, nodding toward the entrance.

Stone shifts, his posture instantly alert. “Looks like our patience is finally paying off.”

We watch as the figure pauses at the door, glancing around before producing what appears to be a key card. Not breaking in, then—using authorized access. Interesting.

“Is there security footage in that building?” I wonder aloud.

Stone scoffs quietly. “Doubtful. It’s a tabloid operating on a shoestring budget. Most of these converted warehouses have minimal security beyond basic alarm systems.”

The figure disappears inside, the door closing behind him. I start the car, moving it to a position with a clearer view of both the front entrance and the alley that runs along the side of the building, offering a potential secondary exit.

“Should we go in after him?” Stone asks, his hand already moving to the door handle.

I consider our options, weighing the risk of confrontation against the need to identify Heath’s inside person. “Let’s wait. See what he does, how long he stays. If we spook him too early, we might not get what we need.”

Stone nods, settling back to wait with the practiced patience of a predator. Minutes tick by—five, ten, fifteen. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve missed something, the side door to the building opens, and the same figure emerges, moving more quickly now, something clutched in his hand.

“He’s got something,” I observe. “Time to move.”

We exit the vehicle silently, splitting up to approach from different angles. I take the more direct route, crossing the street at an angle that will intercept the figure before he reaches the main road. Stone circles wide, positioning himself to cut off any retreat toward the alley.

The figure spots me just as I close to within twenty feet. Now that we’re on level ground, I realize it’s a beta. He’s a small frail guy who looks as vulnerable as an omega would. I almost feel sorry for what we’re about to do.

The moment he spots me, he freezes momentarily, then turns to run—directly into Stone’s imposing form, which has materialized at the entrance to the alley.

“Evening,” Stone says, his deep voice deceptively casual. “Bit late for a visit to the newspaper, isn’t it?”

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