Page 66 of Knotting With A Stranger

LILY

Ican’t sleep.

My skin feels too tight, as if it’s containing something ready to burst. The sheets tangle around my legs as I toss and turn, my body refusing to cool down despite the cold air seeping through the cabin windows. It’s 2 a.m., according to the glowing clock on the nightstand, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Hunter and Archer’s faces inches from mine, feel the ghost of their lips against mine, hands on my waist. Then the image shifts, and it’s James’s dark, possessive stare as he watches me kiss another man.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, kicking off the covers. “What is wrong with me?”

I pad across to the window and wrestle it open, immediately regretting the decision as icy wind and snow blast into my face. The storm hasn’t let up at all; if anything, it’s intensified. The trees beyond the glass bend and sway like dancers caught in some frenzied ritual, snow swirling in hypnotic patterns.

I battle against the wind to close the window again, finally managing to slam it shut. I lean my forehead against the frigid glass, hoping it will cool my burning skin.

“Why am I so hot?” I whisper to the empty room. It’s like my internal thermostat is broken. This has to be more than just the lingering effects of Hunter’s kiss or the alcohol from earlier. It’s like something inside me is awakening, something primal and hungry I’m not sure I can control.

Not heat. I refuse to consider that possibility. I’m on suppressants until I find the right Alpha. So, it’s impossible.

My stomach growls, giving me a perfect excuse to leave the confinement of my room. Food. That’s what I need—something cold from the fridge to cool me down and satisfy the gnawing emptiness inside.

Pulling on an oversized sweater over my sleep shorts and tank top, I quietly open my door. The hallway is dark and silent, everyone presumably asleep after our eventful evening. I tiptoe down the stairs, wincing at every creak of the wooden steps.

The living room is cast in deep shadows, the dying embers in the fireplace providing just enough light to make out shapes but not details. The howling wind outside masks my movements as I feel my way along the wall toward the kitchen.

When I reach it, I head straight for the fridge, squinting against the sudden brightness as I pull it open. The cool air is a blessing against my heated skin, and I take a moment just to stand there, letting it wash over me before scanning the contents.

Strawberry yogurt. Perfect. I grab a container and turn around to see I’m not alone—and I freeze in place, nearly dropping the container.

A figure sits at the kitchen table in the dark, perfectly still, watching me. I blink, my sight slowly adjusting to see James slouched in a chair with a half-empty whiskey glass in front ofhim. The faint glow from the fridge highlights the sharp planes of his face, his eyes like dark pools reflecting tiny pinpricks of light.

“Fuck!” I gasp, clutching the yogurt to my chest. “You scared me. Creepy much? Do you often sit in the dark watching people?”

His lips curl into that infuriating half-smile. “Only the interesting ones.”

I roll my eyes, trying to mask how his voice—low and rough with late-night whiskey—affects me. “And what makes me so interesting? The fact that I like midnight snacks?”

“Among other things.” He takes a slow sip of his drink.

I go to grab a spoon from a drawer. “Couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, aiming for casual.

“How could I?” There’s something dangerous in his tone that makes me glance his way.

He stands in one smooth motion, setting down his glass with a soft clink against the wooden table. His movements are deliberate as he approaches, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.

“It’s been killing me,” he says. “Watching you kiss him.”

Before I can respond, his hand slams against the refrigerator door, closing it and plunging us into deeper darkness. I’m caught between his body and the counter near the fridge, his arms caging me in. I set the yogurt and spoon on the counter behind me.

“You did that to punish me, didn’t you?” he asks, his face now inches from mine.

I can smell the whiskey on his breath, mingling with something darker, more primal—cedar and smoke and male. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I refuse to show fear.

“Maybe I did,” I challenge. “You lied to me.”

“I’m not the one who couldn’t wait,” he growls. “I was supposed to be your first kiss.”

The crazy in his voice should alarm me, but instead, it has me intrigued. Which is insane. I barely know this man—except I do know him, don’t I? All those late-night text conversations, those whispered confessions. The man who made me laugh when I couldn’t sleep, who listened when I talked about my mother, who shared bits of his soul in the safety of digital distance.

“You’ve been mine since that wrong number message,” he whispers. “You know it.”

---