Page 30 of Knot Broken

My grip tightens subtly around my cup, anger mixing dangerously with the adrenaline in my veins. I exchange a quick, pointed glance with Fallon, silently communicating our next move. Whatever these bastards think is going to happen here—they’re about to learn just how badly they’ve underestimated me.

I tilt my head slightly, eyeing the trio of men in full tactical gear standing in Fallon’s living room, my heart pounding furiously beneath a mask of absolute calm. A sudden realization hits me like a slap—the room is missing something crucial. They have no scents. None. Just the subtle sweetness of Fallon’s honey peach scent mixing with my lemon frosting aroma. My instincts immediately scream danger. Scent blockers will make it harder for our packs to figure out who was in Fallon's home.

Fantastic.

“Wait.” I raise a finger, interrupting whatever ridiculous speech the leader was about to make. “Are you here for me, or her? Like her pack or mine? Because, honestly—no offense, Fallon—it could genuinely be either at this point.”

Fallon huffs out a laugh, giving the intruders a look of casual amusement. “Right? Did my pack piss you off? Was itVoss? Did he kill someone you love? That really sounds like something he’d do.”

I snort softly, rolling my eyes. “She’s not wrong. But it honestly might be my guys. A few weeks ago, some jackasses in tactical gear broke into my house and tried to kill me. My alphas took them out, though, so fair warning—I wouldn’t try that again if I were you.”

I notice the leader’s eyes narrow sharply at that little tidbit. Good. Let them know we aren’t easy prey.

“Get up,” he snaps suddenly, clearly irritated by our casual disregard of his intimidation tactics.

I sigh dramatically, standing up slowly and reaching for my boots beside the couch. “Leave them,” he growls impatiently.

“Dude,” I say slowly, shooting him a look of pure disbelief. “No. Just no. Do you even know how filthy the ground is out there? This is Chicago. I’m putting my shoes on.”

Without waiting for a reply, I shove my feet quickly into my boots, subtly checking that my knife is still secure in its hidden sheath. Fallon rolls her eyes and stands too, effortlessly casual despite the tense situation. I didn’t see where exactly she hid her knife, but knowing her, it’s somewhere incredibly dangerous and discreet. Thankfully, our kidnappers are too distracted—or maybe too arrogant—to notice.

“I’m really getting tired of being kidnapped,” I say to Fallon conversationally, like I’m complaining about a late pizza delivery instead of, you know,active hostage-taking. My tone is bright, almost chipper, which is probably more unsettling than if I’d started screaming.

Fallon doesn’t miss a beat. Her lips curl into a feral grin, all teeth and barely contained violence. “Want to make a bet on which pack gets here first? Ten bucks on mine.”

The man standing closest to her jolts slightly, clearly thrown off by her casual death-pool vibe. His eyes widen, like he just realized we’re not your standard-issue, swoon-and-sob omegas. Poor guy. Rookie mistake.

I hum, tapping my chin like this is a perfectly logical time for a wager. “Hmm. Tempting. Your packisnuts—especially Voss. That man gives off ‘might stab you or kiss you, and he hasn’t decided which’ energy.”

Fallon nods sagely. “He’s a wildcard. Keeps things spicy.”

“But,” I continue, leveling a look at the man with the rifle—who now seems deeply unsure about every life choice that brought him here—“my guys met me in the middle of a kidnapping rescue,thengot themselves detained for a month,thenbusted out and found me again. So yeah... they’ve got alotof pent-up murder energy.”

Fallon snorts.

I flash her a grin. “I’ll see your ten and raise you twenty on mine.”

We both shift a little closer toward the men, who suddenly seem less cocky and more... concerned.

And somewhere under all the bravado, the banter, and the stubborn refusal to look scared—I feel it: the quiet, simmering rage. Not fear. Not this time.

Because I’m done being stolen.

And I amsoready for someone to regret underestimating me.

“Shut up and move,” the leader barks again, his voice sharp and commanding—the kind of bark that slams into mybones and hijacks my body before I can stop it. My limbs jerk forward on instinct, traitorous and automatic.

Gods, sometimes I reallyhatebeing an omega.

But at least this time, the submissive pull doesn’t come with terror laced through my veins. No. This time? My omega isfurious. She wants blood, not mercy.

Fallon moves with that deceptively lazy grace of hers, circling the couch like a cat sizing up prey—or pretending to, anyway. Then she stumbles. Just a little. Just enough to make it believable. Her hand shoots out, palm slapping hard against the fireplace mantle with a loudcrack.

It echoes through the room, and the men barely blink.

But I catch the flicker in her eyes. That split-second glance she throws my way. I nearly sag with relief.

That wasn’t just a stumble. That was the panic trigger—the one hardwired into her fireplace that silently alerts her pack.

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