Page 165 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

It won’t work. I’m not that frightened girl anymore.

“Remember the plan,” Jax says, turning in the driver’s seat to meet my eyes. “We go in first, take a booth on the far side. You wait five minutes, then enter and sit where they can see youbut not us. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you use the signal and we’re there immediately.”

The signal—a simple tug on my left earlobe—feels melodramatic, like something from a spy movie rather than a family confrontation. But I appreciate the structure, the contingency planning, the certainty that I’m not truly alone in this moment.

“I remember,” I assure him. “It’s going to be fine. They’re just people. Unpleasant, selfish people who happen to share my DNA. Nothing more.”

Ren lets out a breath. “Trust me, I know exactly how that feels.”

Stone reaches from the back seat to squeeze my shoulder. Finn has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the drive, his usual cheerfulness replaced by concerned focus.

“Time to move,” Ren announces, checking his watch. “It’s 6:45. We should get positioned before they arrive.”

The alphas exit the car calmly, heading across the street and into the diner as planned. Finn lingers a moment longer, his hand finding mine in a tight squeeze.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he says simply. “And we’re right there with you, even if they can’t see us.”

His words fortify me more than he could know. “Thank you. Now go before we mess up the careful timeline.”

He flashes a quick smile, the brief reemergence of his usual brightness like a glimpse of sun through clouds, then slips from the car to join the others inside. I watch him go, using the five-minute wait to center myself, to organize my thoughts, to prepare for whatever emotional manipulation or demands my parents might present.

By the time I cross the street and push open the diner’s door, I’m calm. Not the false calm of suppressed panic, but the genuine steadiness that comes from knowing exactly who Iam and what I want. The bell above the door jingles, drawing a few glances from the sparse evening crowd, but no one pays particular attention as I scan the room.

They’re already here, seated at a booth near the windows. They look…smaller, somehow. Older and more worn than I remember. But it’s been almost seven years since I saw them last. My mother’s dyed blonde hair shows graying roots, my father’s perpetual five o’clock shadow now more unkempt than rakish.

The moment they look up and realize I’m approaching them, the look in their eyes would have broken me. But that was before. Not now. The cold detachment in their gazes does nothing to me.

“You look expensive now,” Ma observes as I slide into the booth across from them, her gaze moving critically over my outfit—the designer jacket Finn gifted me, the silk scarf from our shopping trip, the subtle makeup. “Guess they trained you well after all.”

The comment washes over me without finding purchase. I’ve anticipated this.

“Why am I here?” I ask directly, ignoring her attempt to bait me.

Pa leans forward, his voice dropping. “We’ve been following the news. That whole business with the trafficking ring, your…testimony.” He manages to make the word sound vaguely dirty, as if public speaking were somehow shameful. “Quite the story you’ve been telling.”

“Not a story,” I correct him. “The truth.”

“Sure, sure,” he agrees easily, though his expression suggests otherwise. “Point is, you’ve landed on your feet. Better than on your feet—looks like you found yourself a real cushy situation with those alphas of yours.”

Across the diner, too far to hear but close enough to observe, my pack maintains their vigilance, pretending to focus on menus while keeping us in peripheral vision. Their presence steadies me against the subtle nausea my father’s insinuation provokes.

“What do you want?” I ask again, voice flat and uninviting. “Your note mentioned debts. What debts do you imagine I owe you?”

Ma’s lips thin in displeasure at my directness. “We raised you,” she points out, as if this basic parental responsibility represented some extraordinary sacrifice. “Fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over your head for sixteen years. That counts for something.”

“And then sold me to traffickers,” I finish for her. “Does that count for something too?”

My bluntness clearly surprises them. They exchange glances, a familiar silent communication that once signaled approaching trouble in our household. Pa recovers first, leaning back with forced casualness.

“That was a misunderstanding,” he claims. “We were told it was a special designation program. For omegas with your…particular makeup. How were we supposed to know what it really was?”

The lie is so transparent, so pathetically inadequate, that a laugh escapes me before I can suppress it. “Really? That’s the story you’re going with? You didn’t know what you were doing when you acceptedfive thousand dollars in cashand signed paperwork giving strangers complete custody of your daughter?”

Ma shifts uncomfortably, avoiding my direct gaze. “It wasn’t like that. They said you’d have opportunities. Education. Training.”

“Training,” I repeat flatly. “Yes, I received plenty of that. Would you like the details? The forced nudity while I crawledon my knees? The ‘behavior modification’ sessions? The preparation for ‘service’ to whatever alpha purchased me?”

Pa pales slightly, though whether from genuine remorse or fear of where this conversation is heading, I can’t tell. “Look, we made a mistake, okay? We admit that. But you’re fine now, aren’t you? Better than fine, from the looks of things. All we’re asking for is a little help, a little compensation for the trouble this has all caused us.”

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