Page 134 of Knot Like Other Girls

Not in unfamiliar places. Not with other people around me. And definitely not with my prosthetic eye removed.

The weight of my prosthesis sits heavy in my palm beneath the pillow, smooth and foreign against my scarred skin. I'd taken it out after the lights went off, when the darkness gave me enough cover to slip it free without anyone noticing. Old habits. Always sleeping with the fake eye out but close enough to grab if needed.

Roman's soft snores fill the room, almost in rhythm with Troy's deeper ones. Even the ever-vigilant Savva and constantly-alert Liam have surrendered to exhaustion. The mission, the travel, the emotional weight of finding Bella—it's taken a toll on everyone.

Everyone but me.

Bella shifts against my chest, her warm breath tickling the scarred skin of my throat. One small hand rests over my heart, fingers splayed like she's making sure I'm still here. As if I'd beanywhere else. As if I could tear myself away from her now even if I wanted to.

The darkness of the room doesn't hide much from my remaining eye, long adjusted to night vision. I can see the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. The way her auburn hair spills across the pillow we share. The curve of her cheek visible in profile.

The sight of her, peaceful and trusting against me, sends a rush of possessiveness through my veins.

Mine.

Ours.

The concept still doesn't feel real.

A breeze from the cracked window carries the scent of pine and lake water. Behind that, the unmistakable notes of five alphas and one omega, all tangled together in a scent that's becoming familiar.

My fingers tighten around my prosthesis. The smooth surface against my palm grounds me, keeps me from spiraling too far down that familiar path of self-loathing. My thumb traces the iris of the artificial eye, a blue that never quite matched my real one.

I don't even know who I am anymore. The man I was died years ago. What's left is just... fragments. A collection of scars and trauma held together by spite and the stubborn refusal to give the universe the satisfaction of finishing what it started.

Then Bella's fingers curl slightly against my chest, her body seeking mine even in sleep, and the doubts creeping in evaporate like smoke. I nuzzle into her soft hair, my chest rumbling with what might be a busted purr.

The weight of Troy shifts on the far side of the bed—the guy can't stay still even in sleep—and Roman grumbles something unintelligible. I freeze, letting my breathing slow until I'm surethey're still asleep. The last shit I need is one of them catching me awake and deciding it's time for a heart-to-heart.

Outside, a night bird calls—a lonely, echoing sound that resonates with something inside me. I've spent so long existing in isolation, even when surrounded by my pack. Holding myself apart because it was safer. Because getting close to people means giving them the power to hurt you.

And I've been hurt enough.

Bella stirs again, her body pressing closer to mine as if seeking warmth. Instinctively, my arm tightens around her, careful not to wake her but unwilling to let her go. She settles with a soft sigh, her lips curving slightly in a smile that makes my chest ache.

I don't deserve this.

Don't deserve her.

But I want to.

God help me, I want to.

The first time I held a piece of wood and a carving knife after the explosion, I'd been in a VA hospital outside DC. Physical therapy, they called it. "Good for fine motor skills and focus," the therapist had said, handing me a block of basswood and a basic knife.

I remember staring at the wood, seeing nothing but an object I could destroy. My anger had been a living thing then, roaring through my veins every waking moment. I'd gripped the knife wrong, too hard, the way you hold a weapon instead of a tool. The first cut had been too deep, too aggressive. The wood had split along a grain line I hadn't noticed.

Failure. Just like everything else in my life then.

But the therapist hadn't taken the wood away. "Try again," she'd said, placing another block in front of me. "Gentler this time. You're trying to reveal what's already in there, not force it into being."

Something about those words had penetrated the fog of rage and despair. I'd tried again, and again, and again. Each attempt less violent than the last, until finally my hands remembered what my mind had forgotten. How to create instead of destroy.

I glance toward the window, where the small wooden duck I carved for Bella sits on the sill, catching moonlight on its polished surface. Not my best work, rushed as it was, but she'd treated it like a precious gift. Had run her fingers over the curves and textures with such care that I'd felt exposed. Like she was touching me instead of the figurine.

Maybe she was.

The silence of the cabin wraps around us, broken only by the rhythmic breathing of my packmates and the occasional call of nocturnal creatures outside. In this moment, with everyone asleep but me, I feel a strange sense of responsibility.

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