Page 38 of Knot Like Other Girls

The alphas that live here now, too.

I groan, burying my face in my pillow. God, what is wrong with me? I shouldn't be having dreams like that about anyone but my husband-to-be, let alone a group of alphas I just met.

However much he wants to "open the relationship" so he can party without consequences.

But as I lie there, trying to shake off the lingering effects of my subconscious wanderings, a delicious smell wafts through the air. My stomach growls, reminding me that I barely ate anything yesterday. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I sit up, running a hand through my tangled hair.

Tangled is an understatement.

The living room is empty, but I hear movement and low voices coming from the kitchen. I wrap my blanket around my shoulders like a shield and pad quietly across the cold marble floor.

The scene that greets me in the kitchen is so unexpected, so utterly domestic, that for a moment I think I might still be dreaming.

Liam, the tattooed mountain of a man, is standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other. He's wearing a charcoal tank top that shows off his impressive muscled arms, which are covered in intricate designs that stop at his wrists like shirt sleeves. The blackletter script tattoo on the side of his head is more visible now, and I can finally make out the words.

Memento Mori.

Savva is perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his auburn hair loose and flowing down his broad shoulders instead of in its usual ponytail. He's bent over a laptop, long fingers flying across the keyboard. Every now and then, he pauses to jot something down in a notebook beside him.

Roman leans against the counter, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. His golden-hazel eyes are alert, scanning the room in a way that seems almost unconscious. When his gaze lands on me, I feel a jolt of recognition. He offers me a stiff smile before glancing back at Savva's screen like it physically hurts him to tear his eyes away from me.

Why?

I look like a freaking mess.

"Oh man," Troy says, his voice filled with reverence. He's on the other side of the sprawling kitchen at Braxley's ridiculously expensive espresso machine, a look of pure joy on his face as he fiddles with the settings. "This thing is amazing. I think I'm in love."

"Don't let Worthington hear you say that," Liam says dryly, flipping what looks like a pancake. "He might get jealous."

Troy snorts. "Please. That guy's only true love is his own reflection."

Maybe I should defend Braxley, but... well, they're not wrong. Instead, I clear my throat softly, announcing my presence.

All the alphas turn to me, and I resist the urge to shrink back. "Good morning," I say, my voice still rough with sleep. "Um... what's all this?"

"Breakfast," Liam says simply, as if it's the most normal thing in the world for a team of ex-military alphas to be cooking in their client's kitchen.

"I... see that," I say, still feeling a bit off-balance. "But why?"

Roman sets his coffee mug down. "We're early risers. Braxley did some skincare thing and mentioned sleeping in today. But that you'd grab a protein shake if you were hungry." He doesn't bother to hide his annoyance at that. "We figured you could use a proper meal."

"Liam's a good cook, I promise," Troy says, turning toward us with a cup of espresso in his hand. He takes a sip and lets out an obscene moan. "Holy shit, this is better than sex."

I feel my cheeks flush. I'm not sure what to say. It's been so long since anyone's cooked for me. Since anyone's really taken care of me at all. And alphas really don't cook for omegas. Especially not hardened ex-military alphas.

Yet here they are.

"Thanks," I murmur, glancing around the room. "Where's Cole?"

Roman and Savva exchange a look. Troy just shrugs. "He just disappears sometimes. Probably went outside. There's a nice rooftop area, and Cole loves brooding on roofs." He pauses, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Or is it rooves?"

"Roofs," Savva says flatly.

"Are you sure?" Troy asks. "Because I feel like I've heard?—"

"It's roofs, Troy," Roman interrupts, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Now, Miss Emerson, would you like some coffee?"

I nod gratefully, accepting the mug he offers me. The warmth seeps into my hands, grounding me. "Thank you," I say softly. "And please, you can just call me Bella."

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