Page 15 of Knot Broken

Their house is nothing like I thought it would be.

Not even close.

If you'd asked me to guess, I would've painted something sleek and cold—a modern fortress of steel and glass perched on a cliffside, all straight lines, chrome, and the kind of tight-lipped security that made you feel like eventhinkingabout touching something would get you detained. I imagined a sterile interior with polished floors, with no warmth, the kind of place designed to intimidate and impress, but never actually feel like I lived in it.

Instead… this.

We’re parked at the end of a winding dirt road, the world around us swallowed by a dense forest of towering trees. The scent of earth is thick in the air—wet moss, fallen leaves, and cool wind cutting through the branches like a whispered warning. It’s wild out here. Remote. Untouched. Like something out of a dream or an old forgotten memory.

I didn’t even know Chicagohadplaces like this. We must be on the outskirts.

It feels like we’ve slipped through some invisible curtain—left the noise and chaos behind and stepped into a world wherenothing and no one can reach us: a sanctuary or a trap. I haven’t decided which yet.

The gravel crunches under my boots as I step out of the truck, a quiet sound swallowed by the stillness of the woods. My eyes lift slowly, tracing the full height of the structure in front of me.

Calling it a house feels wrong.

It’s too solid, toointentional.This isn’t a house. It’s a home built tokeep people safe.

The exterior is a mixture of dark gray stone and aged wood, the kind that looks like it’s survived storms and time and maybe even war. It’s beautiful in a rugged, unapologetic way. The wraparound porch wraps wide around the front, heavy wooden beams supporting the roof like old sentinels. There’s a pair of rocking chairs near the front door, both worn and faded from use. One has a soft throw blanket folded neatly over the back. The sight of it knocks something loose in my chest. It’s not just the structure. It’s theintention.

Someoneliveshere.

Someone rocks in those chairs and watches the trees move with the wind. Someone folds that blanket and sets it out for when the air turns cold. It’s a place meant to be returned to, not just locked up when the job is done.

Warm yellow light spills out from behind the thick front windows, muted by heavy curtains pulled halfway open. It gives the illusion of a flickering fireplace or soft lamps—nothing too harsh. Nothing is designed for appearances.

I cross my arms over my chest, trying to quiet the sudden ache building low in my stomach. I’ve never wanted tobelongto a place the way I suddenly want to belong tothisone.

But wanting something doesn’t mean you’ll get it.

So I swallow the lump forming in my throat, shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my purple shorts. I steel myself against the warmth that’s already threatening to pull me under.

This house may feel like safety.

But safety has never come without a cost.

Fox, Jex, and Dare move around me with the kind of fluid ease that only comes from repetition—like they’ve done this before, unpacked and relocated a thousand times. And maybe they have. But this time… It’smystuff they’re carrying. My life in bags. My chaos in boxes. My future, hanging somewhere between hope and hesitation.

Fox is the first to hop down from the truck bed, landing light on his feet despite his size. His brown eyes sweep across the tree line, a habit, I think, before flicking toward me. Normally, his gaze carries the sharp edge of someone constantly assessing threats. But out here, surrounded by towering pines and open sky, something in him has softened. He’s still dangerous—but now he looks like hechoosesto be.

He reaches in and pulls out my suitcase with barely a grunt, followed by my duffel. “Your stuff isn’t heavy,” he calls over his shoulder, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips, “but I swear you’ve packed more paint than actual clothes.”

I roll my eyes but can’t hold back the smile that sneaks through. “An artist’s gotta be prepared. You never know when inspiration might strike.” I hesitate, just a beat. “Especially since I’m not sure my studio is… safe anymore.”

Something flickers behind his eyes, but he doesn’t press.

Jex is next, sliding out of the truck with that slow, deliberate grace that shouldn’t belong to a man his size. Hisblack hair is pulled back into a low tie, exposing the sharp angles of his jaw and the dark stubble lining it. His amber eyes sweep over the bags like he’s calculating their weight and dimensions. Then he grabs two of them in one hand like they’re paper light and turns to me.

“Need anything special set up for your studio space?” His voice is smooth, low—like velvet wrapped around stone. It rolls over me and sinks deep, like it’s not just a question, but a promise.

My mouth opens… but wordsfailme. “Uh, what?”

He raises a brow, the barest curve of his lips letting me know he heard the edge of panic in my voice. “Studio,” he repeats. “Violet, we want this to be your home as much as it is ours. You need a studio, we’ll make one. Simple.”

Gods above.

If my legs weren’t already trembling, that might’ve done it. I blink at him, then manage, “Just a room with decent lighting and space. And, um… hopefully not carpeted. Paint and carpet are mortal enemies.”

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