Page 49 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

Warehouse. The word triggered some suspicion, but I followed without question. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into a gated lot behind an old brick building. Peter parked the van, and Mia jumped out like she knew exactly what she was doing.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked up to a steelstorage unit and unlocked the padlock.

“Alright,” she said, a little too calmly. “Look, I know you’re not the type to ask. And I know the pride thing runs deep—alpha and all that. But…”

She pushed the door open.

And the scent hit me.

Her.

Ada.

The sweetness of her omega scent, soft and restrained, but unmistakablyhers, poured out of the storage unit like a punch straight to my instincts. My spine went stiff. My jaw locked.

Mia kept talking, unaware of the chaos unraveling under my skin.

“Ada mentioned you moved into a place with, let’s say, less-than-ideal amenities. And she had a bunch of old furniture in storage. So—if you want anything, it’s yours. There’s a sofa bed in the back that’s in good condition. Much better than whatever glorified yoga mat you’re currently sleeping on.”

I couldn’t speak.

My wolf was damn near clawing at my chest, because this wasn’t just furniture. This was hers. Her energy, her scent, her touch still clung to the fabric like a brand. The elegant coffee table. The pale green armchair. The neatly wrapped boxes of kitchen supplies. All of it screamedAda.

And I hated how much it rattled me.

Because the man in me wanted to say thank you. To swallow the pride and take what was offered.

But the alpha?

The alpha was raging.

I didn’t need fucking charity. I didn’t need pity. I had built my life back from ash, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be the man Ada de la Vega saw as a case of secondhand sympathy.

“Sebastian?” Mia asked, finally turning to me. “You okay?”

I nodded stiffly, forcing breath into my lungs. “Yeah. Just… it’s a lot.”

“You don’t have to take it,” she said gently. “No one’s judging you if you do, and no one’s thinking less of you if you don’t. Ada’s just—she noticed. That’s all.”

I hated that some part of me, the one buried under the instinct, the pride, the heat of resentment,

was grateful.

Peter and I loaded the sofa bed into the back of the van, with only minor cursing and a few near-death experiences involving metal corners and a slippery ramp. He was stronger than he looked, thank the gods, and didn’t ask questions when I threw in a few extra pieces—an end table, a set of mismatched but beautiful ceramic mugs, a lamp with a slightly crooked shade that for some reason made my chest ache.

Mia waited near the van, arms crossed, giving me space but watching like a hawk. She knew. Not everything, but enough.

Inside the unit, the air was warmer now, stirred by movement and memory. I bent down to close a small box that had tipped over—and paused.

A photograph had slipped free from its wrapping and lay face-up on the floor.

I reached for it.

It was a picture of her.

Ada.

Years younger—softer somehow. Brighter. Her hair longer, pulled into a braid over one shoulder, a quiet joy lighting up her entire face. She was laughing at someone just off-camera, body leaned into the man beside her.

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