Page 3 of Knot Broken

I sigh hard, dragging my sleeve across my eyes even though it does little to stop the ache building behind them. “Honestly? I don’t even know. The men who rescued us that night, along with your pack. They were mine, Fallon. Ifeltit. My whole damn soul felt it. But after we left that warehouse... nothing.”

My voice trembles, traitorous and thin. “It’s been a month. A whole fucking month. They could’ve found me through your pack oranyof your alpha connections. But they didn’t. I haven’t heard a word.” I press the heel of my palm to my chest, like that’ll stop the crack forming there. “I think—” The words splinter mid-sentence, and I have to force them out through clenched teeth. “I think they rejected me.”

Fallon gasps, full and furious, and I barely register it before—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell chimes like it doesn’t know it’s interrupting a full-blown emotional meltdown.

I flinch, blinking in disbelief. “Hold that thought,” I mutter, scrambling out of the nest with all the grace of a sleep-deprived opossum. “Someone’s apparently decided it’s a great time to ring my doorbell.”

I trudge down the hallway, muttering curses under my breath, emotionally unravelingandblanket-wrinkled like a true disaster omega. I’m fully prepared to lay into a Jehovah’s Witness, a lost pizza guy, or possibly a neighborhood cat.

But then I yank open the front door—

—and my heart stops.

They’re there.

All three of them.

Dare. Fox. Jex.

Jex, the tallest, massive enough to practically fill the entire doorway, towers over me. His deep chestnut hair is dull and knotted from neglect. His golden-brown eyes—intense and strangely vulnerable—fix onto mine, exhaustion and desperation swirling in their depths. Even slumped and clearly drained, he radiates raw, untamed power that sends chills skittering down my spine.

Beside him stands Dare, his lean, muscular frame tightly coiled despite obvious fatigue. He’s all sharp angles and dangerously graceful movements, obsidian-black hair falling messily over his sharp, defined jawline. His stormy grayeyes search my face cautiously, assessing, wary, yet somehow pleading for something unspoken. Tattoos peek from beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt, shadowy patterns crawling across his forearms, hinting at secrets I’m not yet privy to.

Fox stands slightly behind the other two, the quietest presence yet no less impactful. He’s slimmer than both Jex and Dare, built like a silent predator. Fox’s sandy-blond hair falls wildly across his forehead, framing soulful brown eyes that shimmer with exhaustion and quiet intensity. His handsome, angular face is wary, but his gaze remains steady on mine, silently begging forgiveness for their absence.

I stare openly, my mouth hanging unattractively open. “I...uh—Fallon, I stand corrected. I’ve gotta go.” I barely register Fallon’s shouted protest as I lower my phone and end the call with trembling fingers.

“Hello,” Jex finally murmurs, his voice a soft rumble, deep but strangely hesitant. He sways unsteadily on his feet, eyes hooded as he fights to stay upright.

“Come in,” I whisper, stepping aside without thinking. The three men shuffle past me silently, their powerful auras muted by exhaustion, collapsing onto my couch in an almost synchronized slump of relief.

My instincts kick into gear, and I dart into the kitchen, grabbing three bottles of cold water before rushing back. I hand them out quickly, heart hammering painfully in my chest.

Fox accepts his bottle gratefully, offering me a small, tired smile that warms me despite everything. “Thank you,” he murmurs softly, his voice like velvet wrapped in steel. He studies my anxious face and sighs, eyes gentle. “I know you must have questions—a lot of them. And we will answer every single one.”

I nod numbly, hugging myself tightly as I watch them, relief, confusion, and uncertainty warring in my chest.

This had better be one hell of a good explanation.

Fox

May 17th

10:45 A.M

Violet St. James stands in front of us, barefoot and blinking, like we’ve just shown up in the middle of one of her nightmares—and we might have. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, and I can’t decide if I want to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness, or drop dead from exhaustion right here on her doormat.

Her short purple curls are a chaotic, beautiful mess—tangled in a way that only happens after hours spent buried in a nest. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted in surprise, and her sharp blue eyes flick between us like we might disappear if she blinks too hard.

There’s no mistaking the emotions there—anger, confusion, maybe even fear—but beneath all of that, what cuts the deepest is the glint ofhurt. It wraps around my throat like a noose. She doesn’t say anything. Justlooksat us. And fuck, I think that silence might kill me.

She’s smaller than I remember. Not physically, but something about her posture, the way she’s holding herself. Like she’s had to learn how to brace against things. Like the space we were supposed to fill had been left cold for too long.

She’s wearing tiny sleep shorts that leave way too much bare skin and a loose black T-shirt sliding off one shoulder. I can see the faintest freckles scattered there—hers.A detail I didn’t know I needed until this moment. The shirt readsI like my coffee how I like my magic—dark and bitter, and I let out a breath of a laugh despite the crushing weight in my chest.

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