Page 43 of Knot Beneath the Mistletoe

“Sentinel...” The name clicks, and something cold slides down my spine. Everyone knows about Sentinel Security—the ones you call when traditional security isn’t enough. When things need to... disappear. “Nice to meet you. And you run a very well-known company.”

“Oh, yeah?” That wicked almost-smile again. He leans in slightly, and his scent hits me—cedar and smoke and something darker, something that makes me want to crawl across the bar and bury my face in his chest.

“I’ve heard of your company’s great reputation.”

“Always good to hear. Though we try to keep a low profile. And speaking of reputation...” His smile turns wider. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about this place. Thanks again for taking us on such short notice. You have no idea how often people can let you down.”

“Oh, I think I might.” A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Trust me, I wrote the book on disappointment.”

“You did?” he asks sarcastically, yet his head tilts slightly, and I notice how his hair falls perfectly to frame his face. It’s unfair how effortlessly gorgeous he is.

“It’s why I try to surround myself with only those I trust.”

His eyes darken with interest. “Doesn’t that worry you? That you might miss out on meeting... new, interesting people?”

I shrug, thinking of Knox and Garrett and how they crashed into my carefully ordered life. “Impossible not to meet people in this town, but being super close?” My fingers find my pendant again. “You only need a few good ones.”

“And how do you decide?” He leans in closer, and I catch another wave of his intoxicating scent. “Who’s worth letting in?”

The way he’s looking at me makes my skin tingle. His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting mine again, holding them with an intensity that makes the rest of the bar fade away. The Christmas music, the chatter, the clink of glasses—it all becomes distant background noise. There’s just him, the heat of his gaze, the slight curl of his lips, the way his fingers have stilled on the bar top mere inches from mine.

I realize with a start how easily I’m talking to him, how natural it is, despite every instinct screaming that he’s a stranger.

When I don’t answer, he says, “Well. I better join the party. Which direction was it again?”

“Let me show you.” I gesture for him to follow me, and as we walk, I’m hyperaware of his presence behind me. The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, too intimate, and my body is screaming at me to slow down, to let him catch up, to let him...

“Beautiful place,” he says, his voice closer than I expected.

“Thanks. I try.”

We reach the party room door, music and voices pouring out, and I gesture inside. “Well, here you are. Ash will take care of anything you need. Enjoy the night.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” The endearment rolls off his tongue like a caress, and I practically swoon. His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away.

He strides into the room, and my heart’s racing. Three Alphas—all impossibly attractive and dangerous—have suddenly entered my life after years of terrible luck in that department. It reminds me of Lily and Hannah’s insistence that they planned to set me up with three Alphas... Surely, these couldn’t be the ones they meant?

Mom’s warnings echo in my head. “They’ll draw you in with their scent, their strength, and make you feel safe right before they show their teeth.”

As I head back to the main bar, I focus on pushing those memories away, not wanting to be controlled by my past anymore.

Hours blur together in a haze of pouring drinks and making small talk with the regulars. Every time I check on Ash in the party room, he’s in his element, effortlessly keeping glasses full while charming the corporate crowd. The platters of appetizers are down to crumbs, so I replace them, but Ash handles the party easily.

And each time—though I try to convince myself I’m just being helpful—my eyes search for Dominic. He’s always in the thick of things. Sometimes, he’s leaning against the wall, nodding as people cluster around him. Other times, he’s seated at one of the tables, saying something that makes the whole group laugh. Not once does he look my way, and I tell myself the tight feeling in my chest is relief, not disappointment.

You’re being ridiculous. I wipe down the main bar for the hundredth time. My heat’s coming; that’s all this is. Any Alpha would have my hormones doing backflips right now.

The main bar has quieted some, just the usual evening crowd nursing their drinks. Bob’s telling his fishing stories again, and the Henderson sisters are debating about the best pie recipe. It’s almost peaceful.

Then the door bangs open, letting in a blast of cold air and snow.

A man stumbles in, shoulders off his coat, and hangs near the door, revealing a rumpled dress shirt. He’s maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of face that probably looks friendly when it’s not twisted into a sneer. Right now, though, his eyes are glazed, and his movements are loose in that dangerous way that means he’s well past his drinking limit.

He lurches toward the bar, bumping off tables as he goes. I’m already reaching for the landline phone under the counter when he clips the corner of Bob’s table hard enough to send his nearly-full beer sloshing over the rim.

“What the fuck?” Bob stands, his cheeks flushing. “Watch where you’re going!”

The drunk whirls around, swaying. “Fuck you, old man. Get out of my fucking way.”

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