Page 73 of Knot Made to Break: Part One

I stepped back from the door, my mind racing as I weighed my options. I could stay inside, locked away, letting my fear consume me. Or I could take a chance, a leap of faith, and believe this was truly Enzo and that he meant no harm.

The responsibility of having made a mess in the hallway gnawed at me, urging me to make a decision.

With a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob. I steeled myself, gathering every ounce of courage I possessed, and undid the locks. The door creaked open, revealing Enzo’s surprised face as he looked up from his task. His brown eyes widened with a flicker of surprise as he took in my nervous stance.

“Well, hey there,” he murmured gently. “I’m Enzo. It’s nice to meet you, Kitania.”

He knew my name. It shouldn’t shock me, but it did.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as I forced myself to step forward. “H-hi,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. Trash was scattered along the floor at my feet. “Oh God. I’m sorry about the mess. Seeing you… it startled me. Obviously.”

Enzo shook his head, a kind smile tugging at his lips. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I get it. Lonnie and I don’t exactly exude friendliness.”

Lonnie snorted from where he stood guarding the otherwise empty hallway. “The opposite, actually,” he said, never once glancing in my direction.

He wasn’t wrong. My gaze flickered between Enzo and Lonnie. They both looked intimidating with their muscular frames, dark clothing, and multitude of weapons.

I tried not to let their daunting presence scare me, and instead squatted down to help clean up the mess I’d made.

Once the garbage was gathered, Enzo stood slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle me. He handed the bags to Lonnie, who took them with a nod before tossing them down a nearby trash shoot I hadn’t seen before. Enzo’s gaze met mine with curiosity and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“There we go,” he reassured. “All cleaned up. Now, how about you head back inside? Hopefully, knowing we’re out here will help set you at ease.”

I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans, my heart still racing from the adrenaline rush. “Are you sure?”

He shot me a wink and a crooked grin. “It’s kinda my job.”

My cheeks heated. “Right. Okay. T-Thank you.” I fumbled around my word as I hurried for the door and shut it with one last glance at a smirking Enzo.

God, you’re such a spaz. You’re supposed to impress your Alphas’ friend, not make him think you’re a bumbling idiot.

I sighed and headed for the kitchen, deciding to funnel all my nervous energy into baking. Four hours later and the counters were covered with trays of cooling cookies, an apple pie, and a batch of fresh scones while muffins finished rising in the oven.

At the beep of the timer, I went to take them out, only to startle as Beretta came to inspect the newest tray of goodies. I jumped when his nose grazed the back of my knee, and I lurched forward, burning the base of my thumb on the hot rack.

A pained yelp escaped me as I recoiled, dropping the pot holder and cradling my hand to my chest.

The door burst open, making me scream as a rampaging Enzo came barreling into the penthouse, gun raised. Eyes flying wide, I stopped breathing entirely as my hands flew up in surrender.

“I-It’s just me,” I forced past tight vocal chords that were ready to strangle me alive. “I-I’m sorry!”

Enzo’s chest rose and fell as he did an initial sweep of the main floor and then returned to the kitchen. “I heard you cry out.”

I lowered my arms slowly, trying to explain. “I burned myself.”

Tears were gathering in my eyes as the pain caught up to me. I angled my palm so he could see the angry red skin.

“Goddamn.” Holstering his gun, he shoved a hand through his hair, then looked momentarily conflicted about moving closer. “Your Alphas might kill me,” he muttered to himself, but crossed into the kitchen, anyway. He stopped a respectful distance away, his posture relaxed yet still alert. I noticed the way his eyes scanned the room, constantly watching, constantly vigilant. “Do you want help with that?” His chin jutted toward my injury.

“Could you, um, get the muffins out for me while I take care of this?”

“End drawer on the right. There should be a first-aid kit.” Looking overly domestic, he used the potholders to pull the muffin tin out and set it on the stovetop before kicking the oven door closed.

A few minutes later, I had run the burn under cold water and had applied ointment to it. I was fiddling with getting a bandage open when Enzo inched closer to get a better look.

“How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse.” I shrugged. “It’s not terrible.”

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