Page 32 of Knot Broken

And then we’re moving—Fox and I, tearing across the lot toward our truck. I barely register slamming the door behind me, my focus razor-sharp and trembling with rage.

I see her in my head. Violet. Her purple curls. The way her smile curves slightly to the side when she’s holding back a laugh. The way she looks when she lets herself be soft, for us.

And the fear that someone could take that away from me and us twists something deep in my chest.

We’vealreadylost her once.

Not again.

“Floor it,” Dare snaps, his voice low and brutal from the back seat. He grips the headrest so tightly his knuckles bleach bone-white.

I don’t even answer. I slam my foot down, the engine roaring beneath us as the tires screech against the pavement.

Kingston’s SUV is already a blur ahead of us, tearing through the night like it’s chasing vengeance.

We follow—hard and fast.

Streetlights whip past, casting flashes of gold across Fox’s grim face. He’s staring ahead with that same dangerous calm he always gets when the mission matters most. But even he can’t hide the tension coiled in his jaw, the silent desperation in his eyes.

I don’t say it out loud, but it’s pounding in my chest, echoing in every breath I take.

Please, gods, let us be on time.

Because if anyone touches her—if anyonehurtsher—

I will make the Pit look like a vacation.

Chapter Eight

Violet

May 26th

10:36 A.M

“I’m so fucking bored,” Fallon groans, flopping back on the bed like she’s auditioning for a tragic stage play. Her midnight-blue hair spills in a dark wave across the dingy green comforter as she throws an arm over her eyes and kicks one leg restlessly. “This is honestly offensive. If you’re going to kidnap someone, at least have the decency to provide a little entertainment. A movie. Snacks. A hostage menu.”

From my spot at the edge of the mattress—where I’ve been hanging halfway upside-down like a sulking bat—I let out a snort. Blood rushes back into my skull as I roll upright with a dramatic sigh. “Excuse me? Is my sparkling presence not enough for you? I’ve been providing premium company content forhours.”

She peeks at me from beneath her arm, eyes narrowed with mock betrayal. “Vi, I love you, but even your sass has a shelf life. After hour two, I need snacks or someone to punch.”

“Fair,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my curls and glaring at the humming fluorescent light above us. “Still better than the last place we were locked up. At least this one doesn’t smell like mold and existential dread.”

She props herself up on her elbows, giving the room a long, unimpressed once-over. “Yeah, well, beige walls and thrift-store chic decor doesn’t exactly scream ‘hostage glam,’ either.”

She’s not wrong. The room is… weirdly clean. Like someone tried to make it cozy but gave up halfway. The queen bed is old but solid, covered in a faded comforter that feels like it was washed with industrial-grade sandpaper. Two battered wooden chairs sit in the corner like they’re waiting for an awkward interrogation, and there’s a dusty lamp that flickers whenever the AC kicks on. A chipped ceramic mug sits abandoned on the side table, half-full of something that may have once been coffee or poison. Honestly, who knows?

What’s more unsettling is the silence. No yelling. No threats. Just the quiet hum of overhead lighting and the muted echo of our own breathing. It’s the kind of silence that makes you start imagining all the ways it could break.

The door, of course, is reinforced steel. Electronic lock. Keypad. I saw them punch in a code earlier when they shoved us in here like inconvenient luggage. Fallon tried to watch the pattern, but one of them blocked her view. Not amateurs, then. And they’ve been wearing scent blockers—cowards. I haven’t been able to get a whiff of anything useful since they grabbed us.

I hate this. The not knowing. The stillness. The waiting.

I glance at Fallon, who’s now using one of the pillows to stage a mock execution with her bare hands. Her face is calm, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch. She’s pissed. I am too.

But underneath the anger is something sharper. Colder.

Worry.

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