Page 28 of Knot Like Other Girls

"We were hired to protect your ass, not make you happy," he growls, his voice low and gravelly.

Braxley puffs up, clearly about to launch into one of his trademark tantrums, but Roman smoothly steps between them.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument even as he gives the scarred alpha a wary look. "Now, if you'll allow us inside, we can discuss the details of our arrangement."

I hold my breath, waiting for Braxley's inevitable explosion. But before he can open his mouth, another of the bodyguards—this one with a shock of light hair and an easy smile—steps forward.

"Troy Shepherd," he says, extending a hand to Braxley as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened. "Vanguard Pack explosives expert. Nice to meet ya!"

When Braxley just stares at Troy's hand in shock, the big alpha waltzes past us into the penthouse, whistling appreciatively. "Damn, nice digs you got here. Is that a La Marzocco espresso machine? Sweet!"

But as the rest of the team files into the penthouse apartment, something strange happens.

Their eyes land on me, and they just... stop.

Stare.

Like they're looking at a ghost.

Their eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I shift uncomfortably, fighting the urge to check if there's something on my face or if my dress has somehow come undone. But no, everything's in place. So why are they looking at me like... like that?

It's unnerving, the way their gazes seem to penetrate right through me. Like they can see every secret, every hidden thought I've ever had. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the revealing dress Braxley insisted I wear.

The silence stretches, becoming almost unbearable. I open my mouth, not sure what I'm going to say, when Braxley's voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.

"Hello? Earth to muscle men! I know my fiancée is gorgeous, but try to contain yourselves, yeah?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. Braxley doesn't like not being the center of attention.

His words seem to break whatever spell had fallen over the group. They blink, almost in unison, and I watch as masks of professionalism slide back into place. All except for the scarred alpha with the stark white hair, who continues to stare at me with an intensity that's both thrilling and terrifying.

Roman, the leader, clears his throat. "My apologies, Miss Emerson. We didn't mean to stare. It's just... you remind us of someone."

I nod, not quite believing him but grateful for the explanation all the same. "It's... it's fine. And please, call me Bella."

He inclines his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Bella, then."

There's something in the way he says my name, a warmth that sends a shiver down my spine. I push the feeling aside, reminding myself that these men are here to do a job. Nothing more.

The others begin to introduce themselves, each stepping forward in turn. The blonde one with the easy smile—Troy, I remember—winks at me as he shakes my hand. His grip is firm but gentle, and I can't help but notice the calluses on his palm. These aren't the hands of someone who's lived an easy life.

"Good to meet you, Bella," he says, his voice warm and friendly.

I can't help but smile at that. There's something disarming about Troy, a charm that puts me at ease despite the circumstances.

Next is a mountain of a man with intricate black-and-gray tattoos peeking out from under his collar and sleeves. His handshake is firm, bordering on too tight, but his eyes are kind.

"Liam Rourke," he says with a rich Irish accent. "At your service, lass."

The contrast between his intimidating appearance and the gentleness in his voice is striking. I find myself wondering about the stories behind those tattoos, the experiences that have shaped this man.

The fourth alpha steps forward with a grace that seems at odds with his imposing frame. He's strikingly handsome, with sharp features and long auburn hair that complements his dark bronze skin. It’s tied back in a neat ponytail, but a few strands are loose around his face. When he takes my hand, it's not to shake it but to bring it to his lips in an old-fashioned gesture that would seem ridiculous coming from anyone else.

"Savva Kaschak," he introduces himself, his voice smooth as silk. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bella."

I feel my cheeks heat at the formality of his greeting. There's something almost regal about Savva, like he'd be equally at home in a royal court as he is in this modern penthouse.

The last alpha, the one with the scars, doesn't step forward. He hangs back, his mismatched eyes—one a startling deep blue, the right a paler shade—never leaving my face. The right side of his face is heavily scarred, pulling his mouth into a permanent half-snarl. His white hair partially obscures the worst of the damage on that side, but it does little to soften his striking appearance.

I wait for him to introduce himself, but he remains silent. The others exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

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