Knot Shattered (Bound and Broken #3)

Chapter One

Odette

My scream shattered the suffocating darkness, wrenching me awake in a tangle of damp sheets. Cold sweat clung to my skin, sticking strands of dark hair to my cheeks, as my heart pounded viciously in my chest. My breath came in ragged gasps, desperate and wild.

You’re safe. My mind chanted desperately, grasping at reality, but the nightmare clung stubbornly to my consciousness, refusing to fade into the shadows of sleep.

I pressed trembling fingers against my eyes, trying to erase the visions burned into them. It didn’t work. They lingered, hauntingly vivid, each glimpse more horrifying than the last.

Chains biting into my wrists.

Cold cement pressing against bruised skin.

Echoing laughter twisted by cruelty.

Their faces remained maddeningly blurred, hidden behind a haze my mind desperately shielded me from. Yet, their voices were painfully clear—mocking, sinister whispers that made bile rise in my throat.

“No one’s going to find you, Odette.”

A rough hand gripping my chin, forcing me to meet eyes I couldn’t remember clearly enough to hate. Pain flaring sharp and relentless with every strike, every violation, every twisted caress.

“You’re ours now.”

I jerked forward suddenly, feeling trapped again, the echo of those words tightening around my throat like a noose. Instinctively, my fingers clawed at my neck, desperate to free myself from a chokehold that wasn’t even real.

Reality crashed in slowly. The comforting dimness of my bedroom, the familiar outline of furniture, and my favorite sweater draped over a chair. But it brought no solace. The memories were getting sharper now, shards of my captivity slicing deeper each night.

My breath steadied just enough for the nausea to hit, forcing me upright and staggering toward the bathroom. Barely making it, I leaned heavily over the cool, smooth edge of the toilet, gagging until nothing but bitter emptiness remained.

Staggering to the sink, my reflection mocked me in the dim mirror: hollow-eyed, ghostly pale, fragile enough to shatter.

“They thought you were beyond saving,” I reminded myself bitterly. “Hell, you thought you were dying.”

I rinsed my mouth and splashed icy water onto my heated skin, welcoming the sharp sting. It grounded me, pushing back against the shadows still trying to drag me under.

Months had passed since I’d been found half-dead outside that hospital, yet the wounds, deep beneath the surface, refused to heal. The physical scars were fading slowly, but the trauma lingered stubbornly, haunting every shadowed corner of my mind.

“Never again.” My voice was barely above a whisper, trembling but fierce.

Returning to bed was pointless. Sleep had become a gamble I lost far too often.

Instead, I curled onto my worn leather sofa, wrapped tightly in the heavy quilt Mom had left behind the last time she was here.

My little mother-in-law's suite over Mom's garage had everything I needed, including privacy.

There is nothing more awkward than going into heat at the same time your mom does. Ugh.

I squeezed my eyes shut again, allowing the familiar scent to soothe me.

Henry had warned me about the omegas being taken when I dismissed him.

He never even knew I was being courted. I didn’t want to say anything since so many packs before had passed me by.

Mostly because I’m slightly heavier than society's standard of beauty. I’d been stubborn, hopeful, desperate for something real.

That longing had nearly cost me everything. In some ways, it had.

Now I trusted nothing but the nightmares and my best friends, Fallon and Violet. And of course, Henry, my bodyguard.

The truth was clear enough. They hadn’t just broken my body. They’d broken something deeper, something vital. And as much as I pretended otherwise, I was afraid I might never get it back.

I grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, desperate for anything to distract me from the echoes still clawing at my mind.

Lowering the volume, I let the meaningless noise wash over me, settling my eyes on an infomercial.

Some overly enthusiastic guy with teeth too white and a smile too fake was pitching chef knives like they’d change your life, as if something so trivial could matter now.

This city was spiraling into chaos. Fallon and her pack of psychos had managed to dismantle an omega kidnapping ring that fed directly into Violet’s ghost team of lethal alphas bosses.

Together, they had torn apart the twisted underground auctions where stolen omegas were being sold to the highest bidder.

But it wasn’t enough. It never seemed to be enough.

Violet’s pack recently uncovered information that some kidnapped omegas had been forced into underground fighting rings.

My stomach churned at the thought, imagining terrified omegas forced into brutal violence for sick amusement.

It felt surreal, like some twisted reimagining of the Thunderdome from Mad Max.

Except instead of hardened, apocalypse-worn fighters, they were delicate, frightened omegas who couldn’t even throw a decent punch.

Maybe it was a stereotype to assume all omegas were gentle, or in some cases, straight up bitches.

Outside of Fallon and Violet, I’d rarely encountered anyone who broke that mold.

The very idea of those gentle souls suffering at the hands of ruthless alphas, exploited purely for entertainment, made anger burn deep beneath my fear.

I wrapped the quilt tighter around my trembling frame, swallowing back the bitterness of helplessness.

The infomercial droned on, cheerful and ignorant of the horrors just beyond its artificial glow.

And as much as I wanted to look away, something inside me whispered fiercely that hiding wouldn’t make the darkness vanish.

I wanted to meet a pack like my friends.

Fierce alphas who take pride in having me for a mate.

Who love and protect me like omegas should be.

I won't condemn an entire sub-race for the actions of a few. I just worry they may be gentle souls that would have loved the old me. Not this woman I’ve become.

I’m grateful that my form of PTSD mostly comes with flashbacks and panic attacks. That might be odd, but it could be worse. I’m not triggered by men, or alphas, or anything like that. It’s mostly smells and certain phrases. The jingling of chains is especially hard to move past.

I have to remind myself.

I survived their worst.

Now they get to survive mine.

Salem

August 20th

9:20 A.M

Morning sunlight poured in through the high windows, casting sharp lines across the long obsidian table, fractured by the shadows of moving blinds stirred by the air vents above.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin, my storm-grey eyes lost in thought.

Blackthorne Investigations was built on my pack's back through a lot of blood, sweat, and, unfortunately, tears.

Across from me, Micha sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, scrolling through a report on his tablet with that particular furrow between his brows.

His golden colored eyes flinting back and forth as he read, as his auburn hair fell into his eyes.

His black T-shirt stretched tight across his muscles.

We’ve taken to teasing him about wearing kids' sized clothes. He’s one flex away from hulking out, ripping the seams with one flex.

His black cargo pants are also a little cliché for our business.

Ravik stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, looming like a carved statue while he scanned the wall of names and faces pinned in neat rows, eyes narrowing every so often.

I didn’t need to look to know he was memorizing details.

He always did. His fitted black button-up shirt molds to his big frame.

I never figured out how they made shirts to fit his bulk of muscles.

The jeans he wears are practically the same.

I’m surprised his jeans can withstand his tree trunk-sized thighs.

His jet black is cropped short on the sides, longer and styled neatly on top.

I swear the color is almost the same as his dark obsidian eyes.

Haze, predictably, wasn’t in his chair. Glancing around, I find him lying on the floor with his legs propped up on the wall.

He’s playing with a butterfly knife, making stabbing noises.

His ash blond hair, loose from the bun he usually has it in, is splayed on the floor like some weird halo.

I’m 80% sure he did it on purpose. His mismatched colored eyes are filled with humor.

I can still see the shadows that hide behind them, but I know to look for them.

His left eye is deep green, and his right eye is distinctly different, ice blue, so pale there's almost no color. His jeans are torn at the knees, and a chain is clipped to his belt loop and connected to his wallet. He’s wearing one of his usual funny T-shirts.

This one says, “Would Stab for Snacks. ” If that isn’t his personality to a tee.

I almost snort at the pun I unintentionally made.

“We need to close out the Armitage case by the end of the week,” Micha said, dragging a hand down his face. “If we’re getting pulled into the Rosetti job, I want this babysitting gig wrapped. No more chasing drunk starlets through hotel kitchens.”

Haze didn’t miss a beat. “You mean no more watching Ravik get tackled by a five-foot-two Oscar winner in a champagne-stained robe?” He grinned, leaning back in his chair like he was settling in for a rerun. “Honestly, I think she proposed. Twice.”

Ravik didn’t look up from his folder. “She bit me. That’s not a proposal. I’m just lucky you can’t force bond someone.” He shudders as if terrified of that idea.

“Depends on the teeth-to-tongue ratio,” Haze said, deadpan.

“Enough,” Micha sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.