Page 34 of Knot Broken

The door swings halfway shut behind him.

Fallon lunges—she almost makes it—but it slips from her fingers, the heavy steel door slamming shut with a deafeningclangand a mocking hiss as the lock re-engages.

“Shit!” I hiss, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear.

We freeze, breathing hard, then glance down at the bastard writhing on the floor between us. He’s groaning, spitting curses, trying to crawl backward despite the deep gash in his leg.

Fallon raises her brows and shrugs. “Oops.”

I laugh, breathless, every nerve lit up like fireworks. “Well… at least now we have a guest.”

“Hospitality’s about to get real cozy,” she mutters, already reaching for the bedsheets.

I drop beside her, grabbing the guy by his arms as he struggles and curses, trying to land a blow. He catches me across the cheek with a wild elbow—and that’s it. I slam my fist into his nose, the wet crunch and spray of blood instantly satisfying.

He howls. Fallon knees him in the gut for good measure.

“Shut the fuckup,” she growls, ripping the sheet in brutal, angry jerks. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t shove this blade somewhere creative.”

He tries to spit at her.

She grabs him by the jaw, leans in close, andsmiles—the terrifying kind. “Do it again. Give me a reason.”

His mouth snaps shut.

We wrestle him into one of the chairs, tying him down with layers of shredded sheets, ankles and wrists bound tight, shoulders pinned to the back. The bleeding from his thigh has slowed to a sluggish ooze, which is almost a shame—I would’ve liked him a little more panicked.

He looks like a half-mummified crash test dummy by the time we're done.

Fallon wipes blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and steps back to admire our work. “Not bad. Think we should add throw pillows?”

“Only if they’re filled with his dignity,” I mutter, standing to cross my arms and glare down at him.

His face is twisted in rage and pain, chest heaving, a little green around the edges from blood loss.

I lean forward, voice low and calm, almost conversational. “Now listen closely, because you’ve got one chance before Fallon starts getting creative. Who the fuck sent you?”

He glares at me in defiance.

Fallon kneels, drags the flat of her blade up his chest with agonizing slowness. “I’ll start with your toes,” she purrs. “Nice and slow. See how long it takes before you scream.”

He swallows hard.

“I’m serious,” I add, stepping closer. “You want to be a tough guy? Fine. But I’ve been through worse, and so has she. You don’t scare us. In fact, you’ve pissed us off.”

Fallon glances up at me, eyes alight with barely contained fury. “You wanted helpless omegas?”

I lean in, blood-splattered cheek to his. “Too fucking bad.”

Fox

May 26th

12:40 P.M

The tension in Rosetti’s living room is thick enough to choke on. We’re all gathered around Romano’s computer and tablet, which he has set up. The place usually has an air of easy-going chaos—comfortable leather furniture, Fallon’s plants tucked into corners, and pictures scattered around—but right now, it feels more like a command center ready for war.

Romano, usually annoyingly cheerful, is hunched forward in his chair, eyes glued to one of his screens. Dark circles beneath his eyes make it clear he hasn’t rested since Fallon’s distress signal went off. He adjusts his wire-framed glasses, blowing out a frustrated breath as his messy black hair falls into his face.

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