Page 104 of Knot Like Other Girls

I collapse beside her, careful not to crush her with my weight, maneuvering us so we're lying on our sides, still intimately connected. Bella's face is flushed, her eyes bright, her lips curved in a satisfied smile. She reaches up to touch my face—my scarred face—with such tenderness that my chest aches.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I frown slightly, confused. "For what?"

"For this. For trusting me enough to let me see you. All of you."

The words hit me harder than they should, cracking something open inside me that I've kept carefully sealed. I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair.

She nestles against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine despite our size difference. Her scent has changed subtly, the heat pheromones dampening, replaced by a contentment that wraps around us both like a blanket.

As we lie there, joined together, I allow myself to hope for the first time in years. Hope that this isn't just a fleeting moment of comfort in the midst of chaos. Hope that when the heat wears off completely, she might still look at me the way she is now. Like I'm something precious, something worth wanting, and not a monster in her bed.

It's a dangerous hope, one that could shatter me more completely than any explosion ever could. But as Bella's breathing evens out, her body relaxing into sleep while still locked with mine, I can't bring myself to extinguish it.

It's worth it.

So fucking worth it.

CHAPTER 30

BELLA

Warmth.

That's the first sensation that registers as I drift toward consciousness. Not just any warmth—the heavy, encompassing heat of another body curled protectively around mine. My eyes flutter open to the soft gray light of early morning filtering through curtains I don't recognize.

For a moment, disorientation swirls through me until my body shifts slightly and I feel it. The fullness, the connection, the gentle pressure inside me.

I'm still joined to Cole.

The events of last night flood back in a rush of sensory memory: his hesitant kisses growing bolder, his hands reverent against my skin, the look of wonder in his eyes when I touched him without fear. The intensity when he claimed me, his knot locking us together as we tumbled over the edge.

I remain perfectly still, suddenly worried about waking him. His breathing is deep and even against my neck, his massive arm draped heavily across my waist, holding me securely against the front of his body. We're on our sides, his chest pressed to my back, the position allowing his knot to remain inside me even as we slept.

The intimacy of it squeezes something in my chest. I've never experienced this before. This physical connection, this vulnerability with another person. Braxley and I never shared a bed, let alone anything this intimate. The thought of Braxley feels distant now, like someone I knew—and wish I didn't—in another life.

Cole stirs behind me, his arm tightening almost imperceptibly. His breathing pattern changes, becomes more conscious. He's awake.

"Morning," he murmurs, his voice even rougher than usual with sleep. The sound vibrates through his chest and into my back.

"Morning," I whisper back, uncertain of the protocol here. Do I acknowledge our current state? Pretend it's completely normal to wake up still joined to someone? Maybe it is.

Cole solves my dilemma by shifting slightly, causing a delicious friction where we're connected. "I'm sorry," he says, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "My knot must have swelled again during the night. Especially with..."

"With what?" I prompt when he doesn't continue.

"With a scent match," he finishes gruffly. "Everything's more intense. And I haven't… done this in a while. So it's lasting longer than usual."

I twist my neck to look back at him and notice immediately that his right eye is firmly closed, the damaged side of his face partially buried in the pillow.

"Your eye," I say softly, not a question but an observation.

His expression shutters, the openness from seconds before vanishing. "Had to take the prosthetic out last night," he says stiffly, shifting again, uncomfortably this time. "Can't sleep with it in."

I turn more fully toward him, wincing at the tug where we're still connected. "Can I see?" I ask gently.

The question hangs between us. I'm asking for more than just a look. I'm asking for his trust, for him to reveal yet another layer of vulnerability.

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