Page 9 of Knot Happening

I dismiss it with a wave. "Mrs. Henderson knows about everyone's business, but she gets way more pleasure from talking about it face to face. She wants to see people's reactions, watch them squirm. Lady Inkwell hides behind that app, she gets her information without having to look anyone in the eye. Mrs. Henderson would never give up the satisfaction of seeing someone's face when she drops her bombshells."

"Maybe," Felix agrees. "Or maybe she's nervous about the ball. First-time attendees usually are."

Something is different about this year. Not just our plan to corner Seraphina, though that's definitely going to be satisfying. There's an energy in the air, a sense that things are aligning in ways that are going to require all of my alpha dominance to control.

Maybe it's the increased number of applications, or the fact that we're finally taking direct action about Seraphina's self-destructive isolation. I just wish I knew exactly what kind of chaos I'm going to need to dominate.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of phone calls and negotiations where I remind various people exactly why they should be afraid to disappoint me. Sterling Development Group is in the middle of negotiating a major mixed-use project that would bring affordable housing and commercial space to the outskirts of Willowbrook, my way of improving a community that doesn't appreciate what it has.

It's also the kind of project that requires delicate handling of local politics, environmental concerns, and community input. The irony that I'm working to improve a community that barely tolerates my existence isn't lost on me, but I didn't build amultimillion-dollar company by being petty about other people's stupidity.

I take what I want and make it better. Whether people appreciate it or not is irrelevant.

By three-thirty, I'm ready for action. Ready to focus on something that might actually matter—showing a broken omega that she has alphas willing to fight for her whether she wants them to or not.

I notice that Felix is wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that emphasizes his deceptively lean build, and Theo's khakis and polo shirt can't hide the way he moves like violence is always an option.

Whereas I've opted for jeans and a sweater, he kind of outfit that says "I'm trying to be approachable" while still making it clear that I'm not someone to be trifled with.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Ready," Felix confirms, tucking a small wrapped package under his arm. "Brought her some of those lavender cookies from Murphy's Bakery. I remember her mentioning she liked them, back before..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. None of us like talking about "before"—before the accident that broke Seraphina, before she decided that happiness was something other people deserved but not her, before she started punishing herself for the crime of surviving.

We all head in my truck and drive to the Palace. It means fifteen minutes through winding country roads that give me too much time to think about what we're walking into. The October afternoon is crisp and clear, the kind of day that makes my alpha blood sing with the need for action.

Thornfield Palace isn't a real palace, it’s just what locals have always called it, probably because of its impressive size and Gothic Revival architecture that dominates the landscape like afortress. Built in the 1890s by railroad money, it's a sprawling mansion of gray stone and leaded glass windows, surrounded by grounds that could hide an army.

During ball season, Felix transforms the palace into something from a dark fairy tale with lighting that creates shadows and secrets, flowers arranged to encourage intimate conversations, pathways designed for seduction and discovery.

But today, approaching the smaller groundskeeper's cottage where Seraphina has been hiding for seven years, it just looks like a prison. Beautiful but isolated, like a cage designed to keep something precious locked away from the world.

I park the truck next to the cottage's tiny front garden, noting the way Seraphina has maintained the flower beds with obsessive precision. Everything in perfect rows, nothing out of place, like she's trying to control the only thing in her life that she can.

"Remember," I say as we approach the front door, though my voice comes out harder than I intended, "we're not leaving here without a yes."

Felix nods, clutching his package of cookies like they're weapons. Theo adjusts his posture in a way that makes him look less intimidating while somehow becoming more dangerous.

I knock on the wooden door which is painted sage green and adorned with a simple wreath that probably cost more time than money with just enough force to let her know this isn't a casual visit.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then footsteps, light and hesitant, like she's hoping we'll give up and leave.

Not fucking likely.

The door opens just wide enough for us to see Seraphina's face, pale and drawn but still beautiful in the way that broken things can be when they're worth saving. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she's wearing jeans andan oversized sweater that makes her look even more fragile than she is.

Her scent hits us immediately, because she’s an omega, but it’s muted and careful, like she's learned to keep it contained. There's something sad about it, the way it lacks the warmth and openness that healthy omegas carry. It makes my alpha want to fix whatever broke her.

"Marcus," she says quietly, her voice carrying just a hint of surprise that doesn't quite hide the wariness underneath. "Felix. Theo. Is everything alright with the palace preparations?"

"Everything's fine," I assure her, though my voice carries more command than comfort. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you about something else. We're coming in."

It's not a request, and she knows it. After a moment of hesitation, she steps back and opens the door wider, recognizing alpha authority when she encounters it.

The cottage is exactly what I expected and everything that makes my protective instincts surge. Spotlessly clean, minimally furnished, devoid of the personal touches that make a house feel like a home. It's like she's living in a temporary space, even after seven years of self-imposed exile.

"Tea?" she offers, already moving toward the small kitchen with the kind of automatic politeness that broken omegas use as armor.

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