Page 125 of Knot Like Other Girls

He hesitates, his hands stilling on the napkins. "Carve. There's a workshop in the back. Has good light."

The image forms easily in my mind. Cole hunched over a workbench, those large, scarred hands carefully shaping wood into beautiful forms, flakes curling away beneath his knife.

"Will you show me sometime?"

He glances up, surprise evident in his good eye. "If you want."

"I do," I say simply.

Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a small surrender. He nods once, then returns to setting the table.

I will keep this feral cat of an alpha from closing himself off again, whether he likes it or not.

By the time we finish, Troy is sliding the mac and cheese out of the oven, the crispy top layer sizzling perfectly. Liam appears with a large bowl of salad, and Savva brings over a basket filled with warm steaming bread sliced into hearty chunks.

"Dinner is served," Troy announces, setting the bubbling casserole on the table.

"It looks amazing," I say honestly. Bits of smoked salmon peek through the cheesy surface, and the fresh herbs I chopped are sprinkled liberally on top. We really outdid ourselves on this.

We settle around the table, the alphas naturally arranging themselves so I'm at the center of their formation. Roman sits to my left at the head of the table, Cole to my right—another careful seating arrangement, I notice—with Savva, Liam, and Troy taking the other seats around the table.

"Dig in," Troy encourages, passing the serving spoon to Roman. "Chief gets first serve."

Roman accepts the utensil, but instead of serving himself, he offers it to me. "Omegas first."

"Oh. Thank you." I take the spoon, oddly touched by the gesture. It strikes me that these hardened, battle-scarred alphas have impeccable manners when they choose to use them.

I help myself to a generous portion of the mac and cheese, then pass the spoon to Roman. The ritual continues around the table—the serving of food, the passing of bread, the refilling of wine glasses. It's choreographed yet relaxed, everyone knowing their part without needing direction.

My first bite is a revelation that feels like it rewires my freaking brain chemistry. Rich, creamy cheese sauce coats perfectly cooked pasta, the smoky salmon adding sparks of flavor along with the herbs I chopped.

"Oh my god," I moan, swallowing. "This is incredible."

His face lights up at the compliment. "Thanks! It's all about the cheese blend. Three different kinds, plus a little mustard powder for kick."

"Your grandmother would be proud," Liam says to him, tearing into a piece of bread.

"Eleanor wasn't my grandmother," Troy corrects, though there's fondness in his voice. "She was our cook. But she was more of a parent to me than my actual parents most days."

"Rich kid," Cole explains to me in his typically succinct way.

Troy doesn't deny it. "Trust fund baby," he confirms with a self-deprecating grin. "Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, rebelled by enlisting. The classic tale of privilege and disappointment."

"You're selling yourself short," Roman interjects. His tone is casual, but his eyes are serious. "Troy may have started with certain… advantages, but he's earned his place among us. No one works harder."

Troy's expression shifts briefly, a flash of vulnerability quickly covered by his trademark smile. "Aw, boss, careful. People might think you like me or something."

"A temporary lapse in judgment," Roman deadpans, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

I watch their interaction with fascination. The dynamic between these men is complex—there's clear hierarchy, with Roman at the top, but also deep mutual respect and genuine affection. They know each other's strengths and weaknesses, histories and habits. True bonds, forged through shared experiences I can only begin to imagine.

Liam raises his glass, taking a healthy swallow of wine before turning to me. "So, lass. How are you finding our humble abode compared to the penthouse?"

"There's no comparison," I say honestly. "This place feels... real. Lived in. The penthouse was like a hotel suite. Nothing personal allowed unless it matched the aesthetic."

"Sounds suffocating," Savva comments.

I hadn't thought of it in those terms before, but he's right. "It was. Everything had to be perfect for the camera. The wrong book on a coffee table could ruin a shot. God forbid there be actual signs of life anywhere."

---