Page 8 of Knot Shattered
Mate.
She was ours, and from the faint widening of her eyes, she felt something too. Yet the shadows there sharpened with uncertainty, almost panic, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to ease whatever put that expression on her face.
Odette
August 25th
7:52 P.M
A startled squeak leaves me as I catch my hand on the table next to Fallon. Holy shit. My mates are here. Right here. And they are gorgeous. Something low in my body tightens as I study them. No one has noticed anything amiss yet.
The first one to catch my eye was unmistakably their leader, Micha. Tall, powerful, with an easy authority that seemed to command respect effortlessly. His auburn hair was neatly styled, short but still unruly enough to hint at something untamed beneath that carefully composed exterior. His fitted dark shirt hugged broad shoulders, and every line of his body spoke of quiet strength and hidden intensity. His beautiful golden eyes were full of emotion as he looked back at me.
Beside him stood another alpha, a quiet, brooding giant of a man. Even taller than Micha, with a presence that radiated danger. His black hair was slightly longer on top and shaved on the sides. I have the sudden urge to brush the small lock of hair out of his eyes. Dark eyes met mine, sharp and focused, sending a shiver down my spine that was as unsettling as it was thrilling. He was dressed entirely in black, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms inked with dark tattoos. Something fierce and protective radiated from him, quietly promising safety even as he seemed capable of violence without hesitation.
Chapter Three
Odette
August 26th
6:24 P.M
The bang behind me was sharp and sudden, metal on metal, loud enough to cut straight through the music and rattle in my bones. I flinched hard, body turning before my mind caught up, heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break out.
The music kept blaring, guitars shrieking, bass vibrating through the floor. But even through all of that, I heard him.
“Jesus, Odette! Turn that down before the neighbors call the cops again!”
Henry’s voice cracked through the chaos like a slap. Familiar. Annoyed. Grounding.
My skin felt tight with sweat and grit. I crossed to the speaker, thumbed the volume down, and then hit pause. The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Like someone had dropped a curtain between me and the noise I’d been hiding behind.
The world was too quiet without it. I turned towards the side door of the garage. Henry stood in the garage doorway, arms crossed, wearing that look I knew too well. The one that lived somewhere between exasperated and worried, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shake me or wrap me in a blanket.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me, then flicked his eyes past me. His eyes landed on the sculpture. I saw the change in his face before he said a word. The subtle tightening of his jaw. The way his throat worked like he’d swallowed something bitter. He didn’t like seeing her. He never had. But he didn’t tell me to stop. He never did. It was something I loved about Henry.
“She’s coming along,” he said finally, voice lower now. Gentler. Almost like he was afraid to speak too loud and crack something.
“Yeah,” I murmured, turning back toward the statue. My fingers itched to reach for the chisel again, even though my arms were shaking. “She’s still screaming, though.”
There was a beat of silence behind me. Henry didn’t respond. He never did when I talked like that.
Not because he didn’t care. But because he did. Because he didn’t have words for the kind of ache I kept carving into the marble day after day. He didn’t pretend to fix it. Didn’t feed me platitudes.
He just stood there supporting me. Like he always did.
Henry stepped further into the garage, the door groaning shut behind him like even it was tired of being here. He looked worn, lines deeper around his eyes, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something. Or maybe I just felt young in that moment. Not young in the way people meant when they called you lucky or soft or full of life. But young in the worst possible way. Raw. Bruised. Like something still unfinished.
“You eat today?” he asked, arms crossed, one brow lifting like he already knew I hadn’t.
I gave a one-shouldered shrug and turned my eyes toward the floor. “Does coffee count?”
His sigh was long and worn thin, the exhale from too many years of dealing with bruised hearts wrapped in stubborn bones. He didn’t press. Not yet.
“Not even a little.”
I didn’t answer. My throat had gone tight again, like my body was trying to protect me from my own voice.
