Page 55 of Knot Broken
I chuckle, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She hums and settles again, her hand resting over my heart. I hold her close, not in a possessive way—... like I never want to let her go. Because I don’t.
My chest tightens, but not in a bad way. It’s that kind of ache that demands to be said aloud, even if it feels too soon or too big. I clear my throat quietly, fingers still tracing her spine.
“Violet,” I say, voice low. She tilts her head up, eyes meeting mine, still hazy but curious.
“I know it hasn’t been long. I wasn’t planning to say this—not yet—but... It’s true. I love you.”
Her lips part, but I keep going, needing her to hear it all.
“It’s not just about the way you look at me, or the way we fit like this. It’s everything. The way you laugh, the way you make the world feel less heavy. The way I can breathe easier when you’re near. You make shit make sense, even when nothing else does.”
She blinks, like she’s not sure she heard me right.
“I love you,” I repeat, softer this time, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “And I don’t care if it’s fast. I’m not going anywhere.”
She stares at me for a second, lips trembling like she’s fighting something back. Then she kisses me—deep and slow and full of feeling. Like she’s pouring all the words she can’t quite say into me instead.
When she finally pulls back, her voice is barely a whisper.
“I love you too.”
And just like that, everything settles. The heat, the rush, the fear fade into something tangible. Something solid.
I hold her tighter, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Violet
June 19th
7:42 P.M
The war room—our library turned ops center—smells like coffee, printer ink, and tension.
The fireplace crackles gently, throwing flickers of orange across the spines of old books lining the walls, but it’s not warm. Not really. Not with the storm brewing inside me.
I sit at the far end of the table, one leg tucked under me, wearing a faded black hoodie and a pair of Dare’s joggers I stole this morning. Rolled up a hundred time to fit but I like having his scent on me. My curls are pulled into a messy bun, and I’ve got a half-empty mug of tea cooling at my elbow. I haven’t touched it in a while.
Across from me, Fox leans forward in one of the heavy leather chairs, elbows on his knees, dressed in a plain black tee and dark jeans, a scowl fixed on his face. He’s been eerily quiet all night, eyes bouncing between the screen and the floor, like he’s waiting for something awful to drop.
Dare stands by the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle hooked over the other. He’s wearing grey sweats and a worn white tank that clings to his chest and shoulders. His eyeshaven’t left Romano in over ten minutes. Tension rolls off him in waves.
Jex is perched on the edge of the table, dark cargo pants tucked into his boots, and a lightweight tactical hoodie unzipped halfway down his chest. He leans over Romano’s laptop, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. He hasn’t blinked in a while.
I’m trying not to lose it.
Romano’s typing again, fingers flying over the keyboard. His glasses are slightly crooked—he keeps pushing them up with the back of his wrist—but he’s locked in. A soft, metallic ding breaks the silence, and he leans back slowly.
“I found something,” he says.
Everyone stills.
He clicks, and a spreadsheet full of numbered accounts fills the wall monitor. I squint, leaning forward as he highlights a section—wire transfers, high-level account routing, seals I don’t recognize.
“This one right here,” Romano says, tapping the screen. “It’s not a shell company. It’s a black-budget clearance account. Department of Specialized Intelligence—Internal Ops.”
My stomach drops like I’ve been sucker-punched.
