Page 100 of Knot Like Other Girls

"Thank you," she says softly.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. My hand hovers over the doorknob, suddenly unsure of the protocol here. Do I open it for her? Follow her in? Stand guard outside until I'm invited?

She solves my dilemma by reaching past me and opening the door herself. "Are you coming in?" she asks, pausing in the doorway.

The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I'm not sure either of us is ready to face. But she asked for me specifically. Asked me to stay with her tonight. And despite every frayed nerve used to rejection and disdain screaming at me to run, I find myself nodding.

"If you want me to."

Her smile is small but genuine. "I do."

I follow her into the suite, closing the door behind us with a soft click that feels oddly final. Part of me screams that this is a mistake, that she'll regret this in the morning. Heat hormones can make even monsters look appealing to omegas. I've seen it before.

Bella moves to the center of the room, then turns to face me. In the soft lamplight, she looks both vulnerable and determined, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her green eyes steady on mine.

"Cole," she says my name like it's something precious, something worth savoring.

I remain by the door, my back pressed against it like I might need a quick escape. "You should rest," I say, the words coming out more gruffly than I intended. "The suppressants will make you tired."

She tilts her head slightly, studying me. "Is that why you agreed to stay with me? To make sure I rest?"

"I agreed because you asked," I answer honestly.

Her expression softens. "Thank you for that. For respecting my choice."

I shift uncomfortably under her gratitude. I don't deserve it. Don't deserve any of this—her trust, her attention, certainly not her desire. I'm a monster, inside and out. The scars are just the visible manifestation of the damage that runs bone-deep.

"You should take the bed," I say, nodding toward it. "I'll take the chair."

Bella frowns slightly. "That wasn't what I had in mind when I asked you to stay with me."

My heart rate kicks up, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "What did you have in mind?"

She takes a step toward me, then another. I press myself harder against the door, as if I could somehow melt through it if I tried hard enough. But there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide as she approaches.

"I want you to hold me," she says, her voice quiet but steady. "I want to feel safe tonight. And I feel safe with you, Cole."

"You shouldn't," I manage to say.

"But I do." She's close enough now that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, close enough that her scent envelops me completely. "I know you won't hurt me."

"You don't know that," I argue, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You don't know me."

"I know enough," she counters. "I know you're gentle when you think no one's watching. I know you create beautiful things with your hands." She reaches for my right hand—my scarred hand—and I flinch but don't pull away as she takes it in both of hers. "I know these hands can be gentle."

I stare down at our joined hands. At her small, perfect fingers wrapped around my rough, scarred ones. The contrast stings. Beauty and the beast, played out in flesh and bone.

"Bella," her name feels foreign on my tongue, too sweet for my rough voice. "You might not feel the same way when the heat wears off."

She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "It's clearing my head, not clouding it. For the first time in days, I can think straight. And what I'm thinking," she says, reaching up and brushing some of my white hair away from the scarred side of my face, "is that I want you to kiss me."

The words hang in the air between us like a physical thing. I don't know how to respond to that. Don't know what to say. Does she really want that? My damaged mouth on hers?

"You don't have to," she adds quickly, misinterpreting my silence. "I just thought?—"

I cup her face with my left hand—my good hand. My scarred right hand stays at my side, a constant reminder of what she'd be subjecting herself to. How could anyone want these mangled lips against theirs? The right side of my mouth and cheek is twisted into a permanent snarl that makes me look like something from a nightmare, not a fantasy.

But she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Her skin is soft beneath my calloused palm, warm and alive.

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