Page 53 of Knotting With A Stranger

“If that’s your way of asking if we have Omega mates, the answer’s no.” His voice drops lower, rumbling in his chest. I can feel the vibration in the scant space between us. “We’re not with anyone right now. Well, I know about me and can only assume for the other two based on conversations we’ve had.”

My attention is drawn to the strong muscles of his throat and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “Not even James? He never spoke of anyone?”

Hunter raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Should he have?”

I shrug, trying for nonchalance. “Just curious about the dynamic between you three. You seem close.”

“We are.” He doesn’t elaborate. “James has a darker past, but he means well. Even he doesn’t tell us everything, especially in his love life.”

“And what about your private life?” I ask, surprising myself with my boldness.

His lips quirk up at one corner. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, I think, but instead, say, “For starters, are you going to let me out of this pantry so I can actually bake something?”

He chuckles, low and deep, but doesn’t move immediately. “I kind of like you right where you are.”

His attention drops to my lips for a heartbeat before he finally steps aside, allowing me to slip past him. As I do, I’m aware of every point where our bodies nearly touch, the sensation of contact making my skin tingle.

I hurry into the kitchen, where I set everything down on the counter. My heart pounds as I arrange ingredients in the order I’ll need them—a small attempt to create order in the chaos of my emotions.

“What are you making?” Hunter asks, setting down his armload and taking a seat at the island counter across from me.

“Chocolate chip cookies,” I reply, finding comfort in the familiar routine. “I need to keep my hands busy, and when I’m nervous or anxious, they’re what I drown in.” I offer him a tight smile.

He sets his massive forearms on the granite countertop. In the bright kitchen light, I can fully appreciate his rugged beauty—sandy brown hair that falls just past his ears, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and eyes the color of a dusty sunset. He wears a simple Henley, pushed up to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms crossed with old scars. Unlike James’s sleek, dangerous vibe or Archer’s intense energy, Hunter radiates a steady, earthy strength.

Those hands—large, capable with thick fingers that could probably do some amazing things… I imagine those hands on my skin and quickly look away, focusing intently on measuring flour.

“Can I help?” he offers.

“Keep me company?” I counter, reaching for a mixing bowl. “Tell me more about yourself. When did you start doing search and rescue?”

I begin measuring flour.

“After my parents passed,” he says, a shadow crossing his features as I glance up. “Avalanche took them when I was young. Grandfather raised me after that.”

I pause in my measuring, recognizing the familiar pain of early loss. “God, I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, but I can see the old wound still aches in his eyes.

“It shaped me. Made me want to save others from similar fates.” His stare meets mine, deep and sincere. “What about you? What shaped Lily into who she is today?”

The way he says my name—soft, almost reverent—sends a shiver through me.

“My mother died when I was young, too.” I crack eggs into the bowl, focusing on the task to keep my response steady. “My dad did his best, but raising two girls alone wasn’t easy for him. Mom loved flowers, so every weekend, I get a fresh bunch for my home, which always makes me feel like she’s still with us. We normally take a bunch of flowers to my grandmother, who is in a nursery just out of town too. She loves flowers.” I pause for a long moment, lost in trying to bat away the tears that always come when thinking of my family. “I barely remember her some days. Just fragments—the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh. And I don’t want to forget her.”

“You never will. She is always with you.” He watches me measure vanilla extract with careful precision. “What’s your favorite scent?”

The question catches me off guard. “Hmmm.”

“Everyone has one. A smell that makes them feel instantly at home or happy.”

I think about it as I add brown sugar to the bowl. “The smell of cookies. It’s sweet, comforting, and inviting,” I decide. “You?”

“Pine forest in early morning,” he answers without hesitation. “When dew is still clinging to everything, and the sun hasn’t quite burned through the mist.”

I can picture it perfectly—Hunter in his element, moving silently through misty trees at dawn, tracking, hunting.

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