Page 157 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

I establish a rhythm that’s neither gentle nor rough. Each thrust pulls breathless sounds from him that I capture with my mouth, swallowing his pleasure as if it’s my own.

His nails score my back when I hit that perfect spot inside him. “There,” he gasps. “Right there.”

I comply, angling my hips to strike it with each thrust. His body tightens around me, the pressure building between us like a gathering storm.

“Come for me,” I growl against his ear. “Let me feel you.”

He shatters at my command, body arching off the nest as his release coats our stomachs. The pulsing grip of him around me triggers my own climax, and I bury myself deep inside him with a muffled groan.

Afterward, as our breathing slows, I roll to the side, keeping him tucked against me. His fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, following the lines of sweat cooling on my skin.

“You’re building me a garden,” he murmurs, voice soft with wonder and lingering pleasure.

I press a kiss to his temple. “I’d build you anything you wanted.”

And I would. For both of them, for my pack, I’d do anything.

Chapter 33

Hailey

Spring has fully claimed the Ironwood property. The transformation happened so gradually that I almost missed it—winter’s stark landscape softening day by day until suddenly, the world outside our windows burst with color and life. From my spot on the picnic blanket, I can see the garden Stone has been meticulously expanding, the rose bushes finally cooperating after what Finn described as an “epic battle of wills.”

The afternoon is perfect—warm sunshine, cool breeze, and my pack scattered around me in various states of relaxation. Jax and Stone are debating the merits of different grilling techniques as they prepare lunch, their voices carrying across the lawn in comfortable disagreement. Ren stretches out beside me, eyes closed against the sun, though I know he’s not sleeping—just savoring the moment of peace.

Finn sits cross-legged on the other side of our blanket, arranging a plate of sliced fruits into an absurdly intricate pattern. “Stop stealing the strawberries,” he scolds withoutlooking up as I reach for another piece. “You’re destroying my masterpiece.”

“Your masterpiece is meant to be eaten,” I remind him, deliberately selecting a perfectly placed blueberry just to watch his expression of artistic outrage.

“Barbarian,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches with suppressed amusement. “No appreciation for my culinary aesthetics.”

“I appreciate them in my mouth,” I counter, earning a snort from Ren, who hasn’t bothered to open his eyes.

“Hailey, you shouldn’t say such things. Makes my mind go to other places,” he drawls. “Besides, some of us are trying to enjoy the rare phenomenon of not being in a crisis.”

He has a point. The past months have been a whirlwind of intensity—my rescue and recovery, the press conference, the international manhunt for Heath, the confrontation with Ren’s father. Moments of simple enjoyment like this afternoon have been precious rarities. Islands of calm in a turbulent sea.

The news cycle has continued its relentless coverage of the Heath trafficking network’s dismantling. Each day brings new revelations, new arrests, new pieces of the puzzle falling into place. I’ve been following it all—partly out of the need for closure, partly from a sense of responsibility to the other omegas whose stories connect with mine.

Heath herself remains frustratingly elusive. The promised extradition from Venezuela has stalled amid diplomatic complications and rumors of bribes to local officials. The last confirmed sighting was three weeks ago, then nothing—as if she’d vanished into the network she created.

I should let it go. That’s what my new therapist suggests—focus on healing, on the life I’m building with my pack, on the good we can do for other survivors. Most days, I manage to follow that advice. Today, though, the habit returns as I reach formy phone, scrolling through notifications while the others enjoy the afternoon. Just a quick check, I tell myself. Then I’ll put it away and be present.

“Steaks are almost ready,” Jax calls from the grill, drawing appreciative sounds from everyone except Finn, who maintains his devotion to the fruit plate’s perfection.

“Five more minutes,” he counters without looking up. “True art cannot be rushed.”

“Your art is getting warm in the sun,” Stone observes, approaching with plates and utensils. “And less structurally sound by the minute.”

“Critics everywhere,” Finn sighs dramatically, finally setting aside his tweezers—actual tweezers, which he uses for precise fruit placement, because of course he does. “Fine, I suppose it can be consumed now. But I want everyone to appreciate it visually first.”

I smile at their banter, thumb still absently scrolling through my timeline. Nothing unusual—the same mix of news updates and targeted ads that make up most social media experiences these days. I’m about to set the phone aside when a live video begins auto-playing, the notification indicating it’s trending rapidly.

The face on the screen stops my breath in my throat.

It’s him. Different—haggard, bruised, eyes bloodshot and wild—but unmistakably him. Robert Caldwell. The alpha who bought me.

My body freezes, a rush of ice flooding my veins despite the warm spring sun. Some distant part of my mind registers that I’ve stopped breathing, that my fingers have gone numb around the phone, that my pulse is suddenly pounding in my ears like a trapped animal.

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