Page 11 of Knot Broken

She challenges us. Makes us work for every inch of trust. And gods, Iloveit. Every sharp remark, every arched brow, every time she bites her lip like she’s debating whether or not to let us in—it all makes me want to fight harder. Tobe better.

To prove we’reworth it.

And she’s so fuckingtalented.

The way she talks about her art—it’s not just a job, it’spartof her. She told us about her commissions, how people waitmonthsfor a piece, how her inbox fills faster than she can paint. She sells her work online but has a studio, too. A space ten minutes from her house that’s all hers. Where she disappears for hours. Where she gets quiet and focused andalive.

And the way she lights up when she talks about it…

God.

Her eyes sparkle like she’s seeing things none of us could imagine, her hands moving in the air as she tries to explain her process, even though she doesn’t need to. I could watch her talk about art forhours.That soft, proud smile she wears when she mentions finishing a piece? It wrecks me in the best fucking way.

She loves what she does. You canfeelit radiating off her. Her scent goes stronger—richer—sweet lemon frosting warming the air like sugar on a flame.

And I want toseeit. Not just the art.Her.In her element. In her space. Dressed down and covered in streaks of paint, bare feet on canvas-dotted floors, eyebrows furrowed in that way she does when she’s focused too hard to notice she’s smiling.

That thought sends a wave ofsomethingthrough my chest. Hot. Heavy. Possessive.

I want to know every version of Violet St. James.

The sharp, sarcastic brat who flips us off when we flirt too hard. The shy, sweet omega who softens under praise and leans into touch like she hasn’t had it in years. The artist who loses herself in color and movement and gives the world pieces of her soul and calls it brushwork.

And the version she hides—the one who wants to let us in, even when she’s too afraid to say it.

I shift, glancing toward the other side of the room. Fox is out cold, breathing slow and steady, one arm tucked under his head like he’s been in the same position for hours. Jex is stretched out on the opposite bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, but I can tell from the way his chest rises and falls that he’s awake.

None of us have said it. Not out loud.

But we’regonefor her. Drowning. And I don’t think any of us want to come up for air.

And gods, mydick—it’s been half-hard for three days straight. Doesn’t matter how many cold showers I take or how many times I tell myself to get it together. It’s like my body knows before my brain does.

She’s it. She’sours.

The barely-there sound of shifting glass—soft, delicate, butwrong—has my instincts snapping to attention.

A beat later, the muted creak of a floorboard.

My body moves before my mind fully catches up. I sit up fast, muscles locking into place, breath slowing as my adrenaline kicks in hard. Jex is already moving; his steps are silent and fluid, like smoke and violence wrapped in one. He disappears into the shadows beside the dresser without a sound.

Fox rolls smoothly off the mattress, landing in a crouch. His pistol is already in hand, aimed at the door, steady and sure.

I don’t hesitate.

My fingers close around the hilt of the knife I keep stashed between the mattress and frame—cool steel grounding me as a lifetime of training takes over. My heartbeat slows, and everything narrows down to focus, threat, and defense.

If Violet were awake… we’d know.

She mutters when she moves around. Grumbles about cold floors. Yells at her socks. Sometimes narrates entire imaginary conversations with her coffee maker.

But this? This silence?

It doesn’t belong to her.

A faint, deliberate tap against the bedroom door makes every muscle in my body tense. Fox shifts his weight, steadying his aim, finger hovering just above the trigger.

And then the door opens.

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