Page 3 of Knot Shattered
From the corner, Haze flipped his knife once more, then called out, “If we ever find him, dibs on asking what alias he picked. I’m betting on something dramatic. Like ‘Sebastian Falcon.’”
Ravik didn’t look up. “That’s a stripper name.”
“That’s an aspiration,” Haze shot back, deadly serious.
I just rubbed my temple and went back to typing. Gods help that bastard we were hunting next, because this was the team coming for them.
I sat back and let the silence hold, piecing through the threads in my head. We’d been watching the patterns shift. More movement underground, missing persons, and names that didn’t appear in any system. The kind of things that pointed to a black ops operation that either went sideways… or was never supposed to be tracked in the first place.
Then Rosetti called. And Rosetti doesn’t call unless there’s something that needs tearing down.
We’d worked with Kingston before. Rosetti Grey didn’t call unless something was bleeding—or about to.
“Any word from Rosetti yet?” I asked, not really expecting anything new.
Micha barely glanced up from his tablet. “Nothing direct. Adrienne sent a message through the formal channel. Wants to schedule a sit-down once we’re clear.”
“Sounds like a party,” Haze drawled from his spot on the floor. Knife flipping between his fingers. We’ve learned over time together. He didn’t know how to sit still without a weapon. “Bet it comes with champagne and a body count.”
“Depends who’s hosting,” Ravik said without looking up.
“This is the kind of job that will leave a mess behind,” Haze continued, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam. “I can smell the blood already.”
“Means it’s real,” I said, tapping the edge of my tablet. “Someone’s trying hard to keep it quiet.”
“It also means we will be a target and they will try to stop us,” Micha added, almost like he was hoping they’d try.
I let out a slow breath and leaned back in my chair, letting the quiet settle for a moment. We’d been circling the same puzzle for months, whispers about auction rings, omega disappearances, black ops ghosts that didn’t officially exist. Most of it sounded like the usual paranoid garbage until Rosetti reached out.
It felt like something was shifting. The kind of shift you felt in your gut before everything broke open. And underneath all that, something low and sharp and thrumming in the blood. It almost feels like bloodlust.
Odette
August 20th
4:43 P.M
The music was too loud, but I needed it that way.
It slammed through the garage, vibrating in my ribs and rattling the tools on the workbench. Something harsh and wordless, guitars screaming, bass snarling, drums pounding like fists on a locked door.
It filled the space like armor. Poured into every corner and wrapped itself around me, louder than the silence that usually lived here. Louder than the memory still clawing at the edges of my mind.
I didn’t want to hear my thoughts. I didn’t want to hear myself.
The heat outside was suffocating, thick with late-summer humidity, but I didn’t feel it. The sweat on my skin had nothing to do with the temperature. I kept working, stone dust clinging to my arms and my chest, streaking the curve of my neck like ash. I didn’t wipe it away. Let it settle. Let it cover me.
Dust drifted through the sunbeams slicing in from the open garage door, soft and slow. It made everything look almost gentle, like the world was holding its breath. Like I wasn’t splintering behind my ribs.
The garage had become my whole world, the only place where my skin didn’t feel too tight, where the ghosts were quieter. Where I could carve the pain out of me, one strike at a time. Steel beams above me, concrete beneath my boots, and marble everywhere in between. There were chunks of it, broken and waiting to be shaped into something that made sense.
My hands ached from how hard I was gripping the chisel. My boots were scuffed and stained with old pigment. My tank top clung to me, damp with sweat and effort. My old cutoffs were streaked with red from the iron dust, and my thighs burned from crouching too long, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Because stopping meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering.
And remembering...
