Page 113 of Knot Like Other Girls

He snorts. "Private? Without your guard dogs hovering?"

Cole shifts beside me, his massive body going rigid. The protective energy pouring off him makes my skin tingle. But unlike most other alphas, Cole's protection feels like shelter, not a cage.

"Address her with respect," Roman says, his tone deceptively soft but backed with steel. The unmistakable command of a pack leader.

Braxley pales slightly. For all his posturing, he knows what these men can do. More importantly, he knows what he's done, despite the confrontation being cut off by my sudden heat.

The apps.

The lies.

The cheating.

"Fine." He tugs at his designer pajama collar, aiming for indifference. "The solarium, then? It has the best view of the city. Might make this..." he waves his hand vaguely, "… situation... slightly more bearable."

"I'll come with you," Cole says—not asking.

I shake my head, standing. "I need to do this alone."

His mismatched eyes search mine, worry etched into his scarred face. "Bella..."

"I'll be right next door," I assure him, resting my hand on his tense forearm.

Roman clears his throat. "We'll stay close," he says, obviously talking to Braxley more than me. A warning disguised as courtesy.

Braxley turns with an exaggerated sigh and heads toward the solarium without looking back, expecting me to follow like a scolded child. The old me would have hurried after him, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. Instead, I take my time, finishing my tea while five pairs of eyes track my every move.

"Thanks for breakfast," I tell Troy, whose pancakes really were amazing.

His boyish grin breaks through the pressure. "Anytime, sweetheart."

Stifling my reluctance so the alphas—and Braxley—can't tell I'm literally dragging my feet, I follow Braxley to the solarium. This glass-enclosed corner of the penthouse is usually his favorite spot for golden hour selfies, but today, it sits quiet.Braxley stands with his back to me, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline.

I close the door behind me, though I know it won't block alpha hearing. The latch clicks loudly.

"So," Braxley says without turning. "You've been busy."

The bite in his tone slides off me, ineffective where yesterday it might have bothered me. "That's what you want to lead with?"

He turns, his handsome face arranged into wounded dignity. It's a look he practices in mirrors. Head tilted just so, brow creased at the precise angle to seem earnest without risking wrinkles.

"What would you prefer, Bella? Congratulations on breaking our engagement by fucking the help?"

Despite his crude words, his anger seems off. It lacks the narcissistic rage I expect when his ego takes a hit. Under it all runs an odd current of... relief?

"You don't get to play the betrayed fiancé," I say, crossing my arms.

Braxley drops onto the white leather sofa, unusually heavy in his movements. For the first time since I've known him, he looks truly tired, his carefully built mask cracking at the edges.

"Sit down, Bella. Please."

The "please" catches me off guard. I hesitate, then perch on the opposite end of the sofa, very aware of Cole's scent still on my skin. And his clothes.

Braxley leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together. It's his thinking pose—the one he uses in Instagram photos captioned with deep quotes he finds online. But there's no camera here. No audience except me.

"So," he says after a weighted silence. "You and the scarred one."

The dismissive way he refers to Cole makes my blood simmer. "His name is Cole."

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