Page 133 of Hard Knot

“Wait…so your full name is repeated with ‘ovich’ at the end,” I admit, finally grasping that his name wasn’t simply shortened to Holmes.”

“Mhmm,” he reveals.

Then, after a brief pause:

"May I touch you?"

The question catches me off guard, making me tilt my head in confusion. Not because of his directness, but for him actually asking permission.

Until understanding dawns.

He's asking because of what I revealed last night, because of the trauma I admitted to.

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

"I'm fine with being touched," I say softly. "Though harsh, sudden movements I can't predict can trigger me. But if it's justifiable, I won't go anal about it."

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile as he brings my hand to his mouth. The kiss he presses to my knuckles is feather-light, but his eye remains locked with mine, watching my reaction.

The intensity of his gaze combined with the gentleness of his touch makes my head spin, while my body responds like a firecracker — my core clenching with desire that makes me wet in seconds.

Oh god, calm the fuck down, stupid Omega hormones. It’s just a kiss on your hand!

I find myself tilting backward, my equilibrium deserting me entirely. His arm snakes around my waist before I can fall, steadying me against his chest.

A genuine smirk crosses his features — the first I've seen from him.

His smile is as devious as the devil.

"How intriguing," he murmurs, "to witness you fall for my charm enough to pass out. I'm honored."

A groan escapes me as I push against his chest, trying to create some distance.

"Never mind," I huff. "I'd rather hate you if you're going to pull a Carter but annoyingly cockier."

"Would you prefer my silence?" There's actual amusement in his tone now, something I wouldn't have thought possible days ago.

"Yes," I say firmly, though I can't quite hide my own smile.

He turns to look out the windows, something thoughtful crossing his expression. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take his hand. The gesture surprises him — I can feel it in the slight tension that runs through him — but he doesn't pull away.

"I want to go to a shooting range someday," I say, tugging him toward the door. I have no idea where I'm going, but something about this moment feels too precious to let end. "Will you teach me?"

I feel his gaze on me as I lead him through his own house, probably in entirely the wrong direction. But he doesn't correctmy course, just lets me pull him along as if my destination matters less than the journey itself.

As if he understands that sometimes moving forward is more important than knowing exactly where you're going.

The morning light follows us through the house, casting ever-shifting patterns through the windows. In this moment, with his hand warm in mine, I feel something I haven’t genuinely felt in a long time.

Hope.

Not the desperate kind that kept me going through my darkest days at Hard Knot Academy, but something softer. Something that feels like it might actually last.

Our wandering leads us to what appears to be a reading nook, though calling it that feels like an understatement. The space unfolds like a private library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves and comfortable seating arranged to catch the natural light.

Holmes' scent is stronger here — cedar and winter air mixed with old paper and bound leather. This must be where he spends most of his time, a sanctuary within the sanctuary of his home.

I release his hand so I can take in the space properly, drinking in details that make my heart ache with familiarity.

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