Page 29 of Knot Like Other Girls

Finally, Roman speaks up. “And that's Cole. He's not much for small talk.”

Cole gives a curt nod, but still says nothing. I offer him a soft smile and say, “Hi,” but he flinches like I’ve just shot at him.

Braxley, who's been uncharacteristically quiet during the introductions, suddenly claps his hands together. I jolt at the sound instinctively. Guess loud, sharp noises are a trigger now. "Well! Now that we all know each other, let's get down to business, shall we? I've got a video to film in an hour, and I need to know you boys can keep a low profile. Can't have you muscle-ing in on my shots, you know?"

I wince at his choice of words, but the alphas don't react. They're professionals, I remind myself. They've probably dealt with far worse than Braxley's casual rudeness.

As Braxley leads them further into the penthouse, chattering away about his filming schedule and social media presence, I hang back. I need a moment to collect myself, to process the whirlwind of emotions their arrival has stirred up.

That's when I notice it. A scent cutting through the mildly offensive mix of Braxley's expensive cologne and the equally expensive artificial scents he insists on pumping through the ventilation system. It's faint, barely there, but unmistakable. The usual warm, woodsy scent of alpha, but... different. Layered with something else. Something dangerous and strangely enticing.

Gunpowder. Smoke.

I breathe deeply, trying to separate the individual scents, but they blend together in a heady mix that makes my head spin. All except for one. Troy’s scent stands out, reminiscent of fireworks on a summer night. It's oddly comforting, a spark of joy in the midst of so much intensity.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. What am I doing, standing here sniffing the air like some lovesick teenager? These alphas are here to protect us, nothing more.

I trail behind the group as Braxley leads them on a tour of the penthouse, his voice echoing off the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. He's in full showman mode now, gesturing grandly at each overpriced piece of furniture, each carefully curated art piece.

"And this," he announces, throwing open a set of double doors, "is my content creation studio. State of the art equipment, perfect lighting... everything an influencer needs to stay on top of his game."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The "studio" as Braxley calls it, is really just a room filled with ring lights, cameras, and an obscene number of mirrors. It's where he spends most of his time, crafting the perfect image of a life that bears little resemblance to reality.

The alphas take in the room with varying degrees of interest. Troy whistles, low and appreciative, but I can't tell if he's genuinely impressed or just being polite. Savva's eyebrows rise slightly, a look of mild amusement crossing his face. Liam and Cole remain impassive, while Roman's expression is unreadable.

"Impressive," Roman says, his tone neutral. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to discuss the security measures we'll be implementing."

Braxley waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, sure, sure. Knock yourselves out. Just remember, nothing too obtrusive. Can't have you guys ruining my aesthetic, you know?"

Braxley’s eyes land on Cole with a nervous grimace. I narrow my eyes in response, hoping Braxley can somehow hear my irritated thoughts even though I know that’s impossible and he’d clutch his pearls at my language.

Stop being such an asshole.

I watch as Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He seems pretty good at hiding his reactions, but I'm starting to pick up on the little tells. The slight hardening of his eyes, the way his fingers flex at his sides. He's not used to clients like Braxley, that much is clear.

"Of course," Roman says smoothly. "We'll do our best to remain... unobtrusive. Now, about the recent incident?—"

"Oh, that?" Braxley interrupts, his voice suddenly high and brittle. “Ancient history, my friend. Probably just some crazed fan who was upset I didn’t respond when she slid into my DMs.” He makes a shimmying sliding motion with one hand on top of the other. “I’ll figure out who it was.”

I watch as the alphas exchange glances. They're not buying Braxley's nonchalant act any more than I am. He’s clearly still freaked out, and for once, he has a right to be. But they say nothing, letting him continue his grand tour.

As we move from room to room, I find my attention drifting. My eyes keep being drawn to the alphas, studying them when I think they're not looking. They move with a fluid grace that speaks of years of training, always positioning themselves strategically. Roman takes point, his eyes constantly scanning for potential threats. Liam and Troy flank the group, while Savva seems to float between positions, his keen gaze missing nothing.

And Cole is a shadow. Always there, but never quite part of the group. He moves silently, his scarred face a mask of concentration. More than once, I catch him looking at me, his mismatched eyes intense and unreadable.

It's during one of these moments that I realize something odd. Despite the alphas' imposing presence, their scents are still remarkably faint. In such close quarters, I should be overwhelmed by the mix of alpha pheromones. But instead, I have to concentrate to pick up even a hint of their unique blend of woodsy notes and gunpowder.

It's Troy's scent that stands out the most—that spark of summer fireworks cutting through the artificial smells of the penthouse. But even that is muted.

No wonder I’ve been getting headaches since moving in with Braxley. Then again, it’s also how I’ve managed to avoid goingto bed with him. I lie and tell him the air is better in the living room, where I can sleep on the couch that’s still bigger and more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever had. Truthfully, it’s just as pungent as anywhere else in the penthouse. Sure, I got freaked out last night by the wide open space and ended up in a guest room with my alarm on my phone so I could get back to the couch before Braxley woke up, but it’s still better than my other options.

My musings are interrupted as we reach the final stop on Braxley's grand tour—the master bedroom. He throws open the doors with a flourish, revealing a space that's more showroom than bedroom. Everything is white and chrome, sleek and modern and utterly soulless.

"And this," Braxley announces, "is where the magic happens!"

I cringe internally at his words, hating the implication. The alphas' faces remain impassive, but I swear I see a flicker of disgust in Roman’s eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. I'm not sure, but it flashes there when he makes eye contact with me, and it's gone as quickly as it appeared.

What was that about?

---