Page 147 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

Her face appears regularly on television screens—carefully selected footage from her press conference, her composed voice describing horrors that leave even hardened journalists silent. Her words have become a rallying cry, her courage a catalyst for change that none of us could have anticipated.

My Hailey.

“It’s incredible,” Stone remarks one evening as we watch yet another news segment about high-profile resignations linked to Heath’s network. “One person’s testimony, and the whole system starts to crumble.”

“Not just any testimony,” I point out, glancing toward Hailey, who sits curled against Jax’s side, watching the coverage with an expression of cautious satisfaction. “Hers.”

The security around our property has been tightened further—not because of threats from Heath’s diminishing network, but to keep out the persistent journalists who congregate at our gates, hoping for a follow-up interview or even just a photograph of Hailey going about her day. The local police have assigned a patrol car to maintain a presence outside our property for Hailey’s protection and to manage the media circus.

Hailey has declined all interview requests, despite increasingly lucrative offers. Her humility in the face of what she’s accomplished only makes me love her more.

Today marks a week since the press conference, and I’m awakened from an afternoon nap in our nest by the subtle shift of weight beside me. I blink sleep from my eyes to find Hailey awake, sitting cross-legged, her attention fixed on the screen opposite the nest.

She’s pulled up a news feed—live coverage of what appears to be the largest protest yet, thousands of people filling the streets, many carrying signs with Hailey’s image or quotes from her testimony. The volume is low, but I can make out the reporter’s excited voice describing the unprecedented turnout,the diversity of the crowd, the intensity of public demand for accountability.

“Hey,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. “How long have you been watching?”

She glances down at me, a small smile playing at her lips. “About an hour. I didn’t want to wake you.”

I shift to sit up beside her, taking in the footage with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. “It’s really happening, isn’t it? Everything you hoped would come from speaking out.”

“More than I hoped,” she whispers. “I thought maybe a few other omegas might come forward, that there might be some additional pressure on Heath. I never imagined…this.”

On screen, the feed cuts to breaking news—the Venezuelan government has just announced cooperation with U.S. authorities regarding the possible extradition of Veyra Heath, whose whereabouts within their borders have been confirmed by intelligence sources. The reporter can barely contain his excitement as he relays the details—international pressure, diplomatic negotiations, the likelihood of Heath facing justice in American courts within weeks rather than months.

“We won,” I say softly, the realization hitting me with sudden clarity. “Youwon.”

Hailey’s eyes widen slightly, as if she, too, is only now fully comprehending the magnitude of what’s been achieved. “She can’t escape this, can she? Not with the whole world watching. Not with so many powerful people already implicated.”

“No,” I agree, reaching to take her hand in mine. “There’s nowhere left for her to hide. No one left who can protect her without destroying themselves in the process.”

Something seems to release in Hailey at my words—a tension she’s carried for so long that neither of us fully recognized its presence until it began to fade. Her shoulders drop, her breathcomes easier, a light returns to her eyes that has nothing to do with the screen’s illumination.

“Come on,” she says suddenly, tugging at my hand. “Let’s go downstairs. I want to tell the others.”

We dress quickly—Hailey in a soft blue sweater and leggings, me in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants—and head downstairs hand in hand. The main floor is quiet as we descend, no sounds from the kitchen or living room to indicate where the alphas might be.

“Maybe they went out?” she suggests, turning toward the living room.

We’re halfway across the threshold when I notice him—Ren, seated motionless on the far end of the sofa, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on something unseen. His stillness is so complete, his presence so subdued, that we nearly missed him entirely.

Something is wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.

I’m moving before conscious thought engages, instinct drawing me to his side, dropping to my knees before him to try to catch his gaze. His eyes are distant, unfocused, the usual arctic blue dulled to something flat and lifeless.

“Ren?” I reach for his hands, which lie limp in his lap. “Ren, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t seem to register my presence until my fingers curl around his. Then his gaze shifts, focusing on me with effort, recognition dawning slowly in his expression.

“Finn,” he says, my name emerging as little more than a whisper.

Behind me, I hear Hailey approach, her scent sharpening with concern. “Ren? Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, he leans forward suddenly, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace so tight it borders on desperate.

My anxiety spikes, heart rate accelerating as worst-case scenarios cascade through my mind. Someone is hurt. Someone is dead. Heath has made a move against us. The press has discovered something damaging. The FBI has found evidence implicating one of us in something illegal.

“Ren, you’re scaring me,” I manage, my voice muffled against his chest. “Please, tell us what’s wrong.”

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