Page 138 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

I squeeze Jax’s hands again. “I’ll be fine.” Reaching up on tippy toes, I press a kiss to his lips, a flutter going through me before I shift my gaze to Stone. He’s frowning too. I brush a laugh through my nose. They’re like two pit bulls. Tipping, I press a kiss to his lips as well.

“I have the panic button on the phone you bought me, remember?” I keep my voice low. “And the GPS tracker.”

Jax growls slightly, as if that much protection isn’t enough.

“Jax…” I frown at him, unable to hold back my pout.

“Fine,” he acquiesces begrudgingly. “We’ll be waiting here.”

I grin, turning to face the omega. “Ready.”

“Great,” she says. “This way.”

“I’m not sure what I can offer them,” I admit, nerves fluttering in my stomach. “I’m still processing everything myself.”

The omega smiles, gaze shifting between me and Jax. “Would you like me to introduce you, or would you prefer to enter on your own?” she asks.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “On my own, I think. But first—” I hesitate, then force myself to ask the question that’s been burning in me for days. “Is there an omega named Vi here? Purple hair, about my height, about twenty years old? She was at the facility with me.”

The omega’s expression tells me the answer before she speaks. “I’m sorry, no. We don’t have anyone matching that description. But we’re still identifying some of the omegas from the most recent raids. Many were too traumatized to provide names immediately.”

Disappointment settles heavily in my chest, but I nod my understanding.

With one more encouraging smile, she opens the door for me. I stand there for a moment, gathering my courage before stepping into the room. Conversations pause as heads turn in my direction, eyes widening with recognition. I feel suddenly exposed, uncertain—but then a young female omega with cropped blonde hair stands up from her place by the window.

“You’re her,” she says, her voice soft with wonder. “You’re Hailey Ironwood. The one who escaped. The one whom the papers are talking about.”

I swallow hard, nodding. “Yes. I’m Hailey.”

A ripple of whispers moves through the room, and then the blonde omega approaches, stopping a respectful distance away. “We heard about you. How you got away, how you helped bring them down.”

“I had help,” I clarify, not wanting to take credit that belongs to my pack as well. “A lot of help.”

“But you survived,” says another omega, a young male with haunted eyes. “And you fought back. That’s…that’s everything.”

Something breaks open inside me at those words—the realization that to these people, I’m not just a victim. I’m proof that survival is possible, that fighting back is possible, that there can be life after what we’ve endured.

I spend the next hour listening more than speaking, hearing abbreviated versions of their stories, answering their questions about how I’ve coped, how I’ve healed, and how I’ve built a life that doesn’t revolve entirely around being trafficked. I don’t sugarcoat the challenges—the nightmares, the panic attacks, the moments when the past feels more real than the present—but I also share the progress, the support, the gradual reclaiming of joy and connection.

“You found a pack,” one omega says, her expression carefully neutral but hope evident in her scent.

I nod, unable to suppress a small smile. “Yes.”

“I can’t imagine letting alphas near me again,” confesses another omega, a woman, perhaps in her thirties, whose name I didn’t catch. “Not after…”

“I understand,” I tell her, meeting her gaze directly. “And that’s completely fine. Healing…takes time.”

“But you did,” another presses. “You bonded with alphas. You trust them.”

“Not immediately,” I clarify. “And not easily. It took time. It took them proving, over and over, that they were different from the alphas who hurt us. That they valued me. As a person.”

As I speak, I realize how true this is—how my pack has given me space to process, to recover, to find my strength without rushing or pressuring me. Even Jax, with his protective instincts constantly on high alert, has been learning to step back, to let me set boundaries, to respect my need for independence alongside security.

Eventually, the director returns, gently reminding us of the time. As I prepare to leave, one omega approaches me, her expression more determined than before.

“Will you come back?” she asks. “Maybe next week? There are others who couldn’t join today but would like to meet you.”

I hesitate, weighing my own needs against the clear desire for connection I see in her eyes. “I’ll try,” I promise.

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