Page 149 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

I park in the circular driveway, cutting the engine and sitting motionless for a moment. Finn doesn’t rush me, doesn’t pepper me with questions or reassurances. He just waits, a steady presence that anchors me to the present when memories threaten to drag me into the past.

“Let’s get this over with,” I finally say, pushing open my door before I can change my mind.

The others exit the vehicle, gathering around me in a loose formation that feels protective. Jax catches my eye, a silent question in his gaze. I nod once, confirming that I’m ready—as ready as I’ll ever be—to face what waits inside.

The walk to the front door feels surreal, like treading through someone else’s dream. Five steps up to the stone landing. The same brass knocker gleaming in the afternoon sun. I bypass it in favor of the doorbell, perversely wanting to hear that ridiculous chime one more time.

The Westminster melody echoes through marble halls. I used to mockingly hum it as a teenager, another small rebellion in a childhood filled with them.

We wait, the silence stretching uncomfortably until I hear approaching footsteps—lighter than I expected, not the heavy tread of Father or Dad. A feminine gait, quick and purposeful.

When the door opens, I’m suddenly grateful for Finn’s steadying presence at my side, for Hailey’s gentle handagainst my back, for Jax and Stone’s solid reliability flanking us. Because, despite everything I’ve told myself about being prepared, about having moved on, the sight of my mother hits me like a punch I didn’t see coming.

“Ren,” she says, her voice still that perfect blend of refinement and warmth that she could turn on and off like a switch. Then her gaze shifts, taking in the group behind me, confusion momentarily breaking through her composed façade. “I…we weren’t expecting visitors.”

“Hello, Mother,” I reply. “I need to speak with Father. Is he home?”

She hesitates, her eyes darting between my face and the four people standing with me. I can almost see the calculations running behind her carefully neutral expression.

“Of course,” she finally says, stepping back to open the door wider. “Please, come in. All of you,” she adds, though I detect the faintest note of reluctance.

We enter the marble foyer, and I’m immediately assaulted by memories. The massive crystal chandelier where I once tied a balloon filled with red food coloring, horrifying Mother during a dinner party when it burst. The curved staircase I tumbled down at eight, breaking my arm and earning Father’s lecture about appropriate behavior rather than sympathy. The alcove where I hid the day I presented as alpha, overwhelmed by new instincts and terrified of disappointing them all once again.

“These are my packmates,” I explain, forcing myself back to the present. “If you remember. Jax Ironwood, our alpha. Stone. Finn and Hailey.”

Mother’s expression shifts subtly at the introductions, recognition flickering in her eyes when her gaze lands on Hailey. “The omega from the news,” she says softly. “The one who testified about Veyra Heath.”

Hailey meets her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

Something complex passes across Mother’s features—concern, calculation, and perhaps a flicker of genuine admiration. “That was very brave,” she says after a moment, sounding almost sincere. “And effective…it seems.”

Her response just reminds me they, my parents, are the exact snakes that Hailey has fought to put down. “Where’s Father?” I interrupt, not wanting to get sidetracked. “And Dad?”

“Your father is in his study,” she replies, smoothly resuming her role as household manager. “Your Dad is at the clinic today. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.” She glances again at my companions. “Shall I show your…friends to the sitting room while you speak with your father?”

“No,” I say firmly. “They’re coming with me.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, the only outward sign of her surprise. “Very well. Follow me.”

She leads us through the house, her posture impeccable as always. The halls are lined with the same artwork I remember—expensive, tasteful, and utterly without personality. Not one of them is mine.

We pause outside the heavy oak door of Father’s study, his sanctum that I was only permitted to enter by specific invitation. Mother turns to face us, her expression carefully composed.

“He’s been…under significant strain,” she says quietly. “With the investigation, the legal proceedings. I’m sure you understand.” Her gaze meets mine, and for an instant, I glimpse something like hope in her eyes. “He’s not the man you remember, Ren.”

“I haven’t been the son you remember for a very long time,” I reply.

A flicker of something—pain? Resignation?—crosses her features before she nods once. She knocks twice on the study door.

“Darling,” she calls. “We have visitors. Ren is here.”

There’s a moment of silence, then a familiar voice responds—colder and more subdued than the commanding presence I remember, but unmistakably Father. “Send him in.”

Mother opens the door without further comment, gesturing for us to enter. She doesn’t follow, instead retreating with a quiet, “I’ll bring tea,” that feels like an escape rather than hospitality.

The study is exactly as I remember—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, the massive desk positioned to maximize the psychological advantage over anyone entering the room. But the man behind that desk is nearly unrecognizable.

Father has aged a decade since I last saw him. His once-commanding presence seems diminished, his shoulders slightly stooped, his previously immaculate appearance marred by subtle signs of neglect—hair a touch too long, shirt cuffs fraying slightly. Only his eyes remain unchanged, that same icy blue I see in the mirror every morning, calculating and sharp as they assess our group.

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