Page 60 of Knot Ruined

Dare stands beside him, all muscle and restrained chaos, his sharp features twisted into something almost gleeful. The bastard enjoys this. Enjoys the hunt. And right now, that thrill is aimed at the same target as ours.

Jex stands behind them, massive and menacing, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the building with an expression of pure destruction waiting to be unleashed. He’s like Jace; he's only meaner and more ruthless. And right now, he looks like he’d tear through a fucking wall just to get inside.

I breathe deep, inhaling the night air, the distant scent of cigarette smoke from the guards posted outside, the oil and sweat that cling to this place. But beneath it, beneath all of it, there’s something else.

A whisper of honeyed peaches.

My entire body locks up. It’s faint—so fucking faint—but it’s there. Fallon is here.

And she’s alive.

The coil of rage inside me winds tighter, snapping and baring its fangs.

“We go in silent,” Kingston murmurs, low and controlled, but there’s a lethal promise in his tone. “Guards first. Take them out before they can make a sound.”

“Then we gut the rest,” Jace adds, his voice flat, as if we’re discussing nothing more than the weather.

Fox smirks. “We’ll sweep the perimeter first. If there’s an escape route, we need to block it.”

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, feeling the shift in my muscles, the need for violence clawing at my skin.

My mate is in that fucking building.

And I will kill every last one of them to get her back.

Kingston lifts his hand, signaling silence as we watch the guard rotation. These bastards think they’re untouchable—think their walls, their locked doors, and their pathetic little security system make them safe. Arrogance is a fatal disease, and tonight, we’re the cure.

I count their movements, track their habits, watching how they shift lazily in place, oblivious to the predators lurking just beyond the shadows. They’ve gotten comfortable. Cocky. They won’t even see it coming.

Kingston’s fist closes.

Move.

We surge forward in perfect sync, a deadly force swallowing the night. Footsteps silent. No whispers. No unnecessary breaths. We don’t exist in this moment—we are ghosts, reapers slipping through the dark with vengeance laced in our bones.

Dare strikes first, his knife flashing in the dim light before the first guard crumbles, a lifeless heap dragged swiftly into the bushes. Fox neutralizes another in a seamless, practiced movement—silent, efficient, leaving nothing but a corpse cooling on the pavement. Jex and Jace dismantle the team guarding the perimeter, not a single sound escaping as bodies drop one after the other, their deaths fast, methodical.

I don’t even register the lives I take along the way. They’re insignificant. Background noise. Nothing but obstacles between me and what’s mine.

I slip inside first, blade in hand, my vision honed on nothing but destruction. The interior is a strange contrast—part warehouse, part opulent estate. The walls are lined with sleek, modern furnishings and expensive art that doesn’t belong in a place like this. But the polished floors and curated décor don’t matter.

What matters is that she’s here.

That she’s breathing.

That I can find her before these bastards get the chance to realize their mistake.

The scent of blood clings to the air, mixing with the faintest trace of something sweeter—honeyed peaches. It’s distant, diluted by filth and fear, but it’s enough to tighten every muscle in my body.

They took her.

They’ll suffer.

We slip through the corridors like death itself, the silence only broken by the occasional grunt as another body collapses under our hands. My blade sings, dipping in and out of flesh, slicing through tendons, spilling warm blood against my gloves, my arms, and my chest. I don’t flinch. I don’t slow. I don’t blink.

I barely even fucking breathe.

The blood pools around my boots, slick and warm, but I don’t stop. Jace and Kingston move beside me like phantoms—quiet, lethal, a promise of carnage in their every movement. Romano’s usual lightness has been swallowed by the same thing that’s consuming all of us—rage, fury, the kind of cold, calculated violence that doesn’t end until there’s nothing left standing.

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