Page 31 of Knot Broken

Cheating? Maybe.

Brilliant? Absolutely.

And bless Fallon’s paranoid, dramatic, hyper-violent alphas for thinking of it.

I resist the urge to laugh, tightening my jaw instead as I school my features into something blank and bored. Wouldn’t want them realizing just how screwed they are.

I glance at the men again—three strangers with big guns and bigger egos, acting like they’ve already won.

Oh, boys.

If you thinkthiskidnapping is going to go according to plan… You are tragically mistaken.

Honestly? I almost feel bad for them.

Almost.

At least this time I’m not high on tranquilizers, waking up in a filthy building. Look at me—personal growth.

Jex

May 25th

7:45 P.M

The sharp chorus of phones pinging at once slices through the charged silence like a blade. Voss pauses mid-sentence, his knife glinting under the industrial lights, the tip still hovering dangerously close to the bloodied man hanging limply from the chains in front of him.

The warehouse is sterile, pristine—concrete floors polished to an unsettling shine, walls insulated against sound, heat, and mercy. The Rosetti pack calls itThe Pit, a place meant to break secrets out of the worst kind of people. And tonight, it’s too quiet.

Until now.

I pull my phone out thinking it's mine. Kingston pulls his next to me, staring at his screen. Whatever he sees turns his expression to steel.

“Fuck!” he roars, spinning sharply on his heel. “Marco!”

The man in question doesn’t flinch. Marco sits perched like a lion at rest—immaculate black suit, polished shoes, a bowl of peanuts in hand as if we’re not surrounded by chains and bloodstains. His eyes lift lazily, unimpressed.

“Watch him,” Kingston snaps, already storming for the exit. Romano and Jace are right behind him, both men moving with precision that only ever comes from panic cloaked in control.

Voss drops his blade without a word and takes off, the slap of his boots echoing across concrete.

Marco sighs, brushing peanut dust from his lap. “Got it.”

Fox is already moving, brows furrowed in alarm as he closes in on Kingston’s crew. His normally calm demeanor is cracking, a rare flicker of fear creeping in beneath his usual stone face.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

“Fallon hit the panic button,” Jace barks, shoving the SUV door open hard enough to rattle the hinges. “Something’s happening at the house.”

My stomach drops. The blood drains from my face.

“Violet was with her,” I say, voice hoarse, urgency tearing through me like shrapnel. My heart lurches against my ribs, pounding in time with the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins. “We’re coming.”

Kingston doesn’t argue—nods tightly, his face carved from granite as he slides into the driver’s seat. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel, eyes glowing with fury that could level cities.

Dare curses under his breath, so low it’s nearly a growl. His fists flex at his sides, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack. He moves like a storm—shoulders taut, his black T-shirt stretched tight over his chest as he bolts for our truck.

Voss snarls something savage as he slams the SUV door shut beside Kingston. The look on his face is pure violence, like he’s seconds away from ripping the world apart.

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