Page 7 of Knot Shattered
Ravik snorted softly, flipping another page. “Sounds like your type, Haze.”
I pressed a hand theatrically to my chest. “You wound me. I prefer omegas who don’t leave a blade between my ribs on a first date.”
“No,” Salem replied flatly, “you just like the ones who consider it.”
Micha’s mouth twitched slightly at the corner, something approaching humor flashing briefly across his expression. “Let’s keep the knives away from Haze. If he starts bleeding out at the meeting, it might look bad.”
I chuckled softly. “Please. I know exactly how to charm omegas who want me dead.”
The mood shifted then, the joking slowly giving way to something heavier, more serious. We knew the kind of mess we were walking into. The briefings had painted a grim picture—black-market auctions, missing omegas, underground fights. Kingston Rosetti didn’t call for backup lightly. If he’d reached out, we weren’t just walking into trouble; we were running headlong into a goddamned storm.
The air in the SUV thickened with it. Instinct. Readiness. The scent of adrenaline sharpened our senses. Micha’s dark amber and whiskey scent sharpened, Ravik’s smoke and leather deepened, and Salem’s cool cedarwood grew sharper, clearer. Mine was layered somewhere beneath theirs—warm, comforting bourbon with an undercurrent of something far darker.
“Whatever we walk into tonight,” Micha finally said, voice low and steady, breaking the quiet tension, “keep your eyes open and your instincts sharp. Rosetti doesn’t mess around. Neither do his enemies.”
I smiled faintly, eyes narrowed, heart beating faster in anticipation of whatever chaos waited beyond the warehouse doors. I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, suddenly eager for whatever the night held.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I said softly, knowing full well they heard the excitement beneath my words.
Micha parked the SUV smoothly in front of Rosetti’s warehouse, the building looming large and dark against the fading evening sky. It felt more like stepping into a pit of vipers than a strategy session.
And damn if I wasn’t ready for it.
The moment we stepped into Rosetti’s warehouse, the heavy, sterile bite of scent cancelers hit me like a wall. It was standard procedure in sensitive meetings, especially among powerful alphas who might otherwise dominate a room by scent alone. Still, beneath that clinical haze, faint hints of individual scents occasionally teased the edges of perception.
The large space had been converted into something halfway between an industrial loft and a war room. Long tables covered in maps and photographs, whiteboards crammed with intel and scribbled notes, and the muted hum of serious, low conversations. The Rosetti pack was already there. Kingston stood quietly, imposing at the head of a table, wearing a three-piece grey suit. His brown hair was perfectly styled.
Jace is nearby, offering a silent nod in greeting as he leans against the wall, studying the board. His black jeans and T-shirt stand out in the fluorescent lighting. Voss silently twirling a strand of midnight blue hair on what I assume is Fallon his omega. The red of his shirt stands out stark against her pale skin. Romano pushes up his glasses, already tapping furiously at a keyboard. His grey T-shirt is the same shade as his joggers. He doesn’t even look up when we enter.
Pack frost is already there as well. Fox is sitting at the table poring over what looks like blueprints in front of him. He looks slightly disheveled. A purple-haired woman sits with her legs in his lap as she reads a folder of papers. She's so small it’s startling. Dare is pacing slowly as he listens to something on atape recorder. Jex is leaning against the wall next to Jace. It's weird to see them all dressed the same way in combat pants and T-shirts.
Fallon is smaller than I’d expected, standing tall in heels and a deceptively cheerful floral sundress that belied every rumor I’d ever heard. Her bright eyes narrowed slightly at our entrance, curiosity mingling with a flash of something sharper and protective.
Draped in black lace and velvet, Violet looked like she might summon something dark and vicious if provoked. She watched us silently, eyes cool and appraising.
Fallon is the first to speak to us. She studies each one of us closely. “One of you has a name that starts with an M, right?”
Micha looks confused but introduces himself to her. She points two fingers at her eyes, then at him. “I’ve just about had it with M’s. I’m watching you.”
Voss snorts out a laugh. “They are the good guys, I promise, princess.”
“Either way. I’m watching you.”
“Do I want to know?” Micha mutters, looking just as confused as the rest of us.
Kingston looks over at us. “Every bad guy during this whole mess has a name starting with the letter M. It gets old real quick. I’m glad you guys made it.”
But before I could fully appreciate the omega duo’s intensity, another omega stepped into view, stealing my breath completely.
She moved quietly behind Fallon, lingering near the edge of the table. Her long, wavy hair cascaded down her back in shades of sunset. Orange bleeding gently into goldenblonde, catching softly in the overhead lights. Her curves were accentuated beautifully by the pencil skirt hugging her hips, matched with a cropped vintage tee that looked somehow both casual and perfect. She was shorter taller than both Fallon and Violet, maybe five-six, but something about the way she stood felt larger. Bolder.
She turned, eyes lifting hesitantly, and I felt my pulse spike. Blue eyes met mine, bright and deep, but haunted. For one second, the world tilted.
Even with scent cancelers humming silently in every corner, the faintest whisper of something sweet, rich, and utterly omega slid beneath the antiseptic fog, tugging at the deepest part of my instincts.
Blueberry pancakes.
My body stiffened slightly, eyes widening in shock. I glanced quickly toward my packmates, catching Micha’s subtle intake of breath, Ravik’s sudden tense stillness, and Salem’s barely-there tremble as he held himself carefully composed. They felt it too.
