Page 112 of Knot Like Other Girls

"These really are amazing pancakes," she says, changing the subject with gentle deliberateness. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Her question offers an easy shift in conversation. Soon I'm sharing stories about Eleanor, the cook who practically raised me while my parents were busy being corporate royalty. Watching Bella's eyes light up as I describe the elaborate French techniques Eleanor taught me in secret feels surprisingly natural.

"So there I am, ten years old, covered head to toe in flour because I got overexcited with the mixer, and my mother walks in with the board of directors," I say, gesturing wildly. "Eleanor takes one look at me, then at my mother's horrified face, and says 'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Shepherd, but your son has shown such an aptitude for patisserie that I couldn't possibly discourage his natural talents.'"

Bella laughs. "What did your mother do?"

"Fired Eleanor on the spot," I say with a shrug. "Rehired her the next day when she realized none of the other staff could make her precious Earl Grey exactly the way she liked it. But I was banned from the kitchen for a month."

"Did that stop you?"

"Please," I say with a wink. "Eleanor and I just shifted our lessons to midnight. Made the whole thing feel like a spy operation, which was way cooler for a kid my age."

The story earns me another laugh, this one accompanied by a sympathetic shake of her head. "Your parents sound like a piece of work."

"They're a case," I agree, keeping my tone deliberately light. "Dynasty builders, my folks. Everything's about the legacy, the family name, the bottom line. Didn't take too kindly to their heir apparent running off to play soldier instead of taking his rightful place at Shepherd Industries."

I don't miss the understanding softening her eyes. "I know about family expectations," she says quietly.

And she would, wouldn't she? Pushed into an engagement with Braxley by parents more concerned with financial security than their daughter's happiness. We're not so different, really, though she's handled it with a lot more grace than I ever did.

"Well, their loss is our gain," Liam says, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast. "Can't imagine this lot surviving without your cooking."

"Or my winning personality," I add, grinning.

"Mostly the cooking," Savva deadpans, earning a chorus of chuckles that eases the last of the stiffness.

We settle into comfortable conversation after that, swapping stories and sharing food like we've been doing this forever. It feels right, having Bella here among us, her laughter mingling with ours, her eyes bright with genuine interest as we reveal bits and pieces of ourselves. For the first time since we arrived at this overpriced penthouse, the pack feels complete.

Of course, that's when Braxley decides to make his grand entrance.

His timing is impeccable, I'll give him that. Just when we're all relaxed and happy, the living embodiment of everything wrong with trust fund alphas saunters into the kitchen, dressed in designer loungewear like some kind of asshole prince.

He pulls up short when he spots us, his expression cycling through surprise, irritation, and a carefully constructed indifference so fake it practically squeaks. His eyes land on Bella—specifically on her bare legs and oversized shirt—and narrow dangerously.

"Well, isn't this cozy," he mutters, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "The help having a little breakfast party. How quaint."

Cole's growl is low and immediate. "Thought I told you to stay in your room."

The threat in his voice is an unmistakable alpha warning that makes even my hackles rise. Braxley takes an instinctive step back, fear flashing across his face before he masks it with a tight smile.

"Last time I checked, this was my penthouse," he says, though there's a slight tremor in his voice that betrays his bravado. "I can go wherever I please."

"Braxley," Bella says, her tone firm but not unkind. "We need to talk."

He tears his gaze away from Cole with visible effort, focusing on Bella instead. A calculating look crosses his face. "Yes, I suppose we do."

Here we fuckin' go.

CHAPTER 32

BELLA

Braxley's eyes tell the whole story. They linger on Cole's shirt and sweatpants hanging loose on my frame, then flare as he picks up our mixed scents. A muscle in his eyebrow twitches, the one that twitches when he's trying not to lose his perfect composure.

No dramatic confrontation. No theatrical storm through the penthouse while filming for his followers. Just this heavy silence as he takes in the sight of me surrounded by five alphas, wearing one of their shirts, smelling like sex.

"Should we talk privately?" I keep my voice steady even though my gut knots with nerves.

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