She loops a line around his wrist, then her own. “Don’t get separated.”
Jax grins — chipped tooth, wild eyes.
She ties the knots. He cuts the strings. Knotty Natasha doesn’t wield a blade. She wields rope — hempen, silken, or barbed — each coil whispering secrets older than hangmen’s hymns. Her fingers move like spiders with purpose. One flick, and a smuggler’s fleet tangles in its own anchors. Two loops, and a debt-collector’s spine learns a new geometry. knotty natasha and jax slayher