Page 50 of Knot Like Other Girls

But it's too late. Quick as lightning, the duck darts forward and nips at Troy's fingers. He yelps, yanking his hand back and cradling it to his chest like he's been mortally wounded.

"Son of a—" he cuts himself off, glaring at the offending duck. "I was trying to be nice, you feathered asshole!"

A sound I've never heard before cuts through the air, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is.

Cole is laughing.

Well, not laughing exactly—it's more of a dry snort, barely audible. But when I glance over at him, I swear I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Serves you right," Cole mutters, his voice gruff but lacking its usual edge. "You're not supposed to feed wild animals, dumbass."

Troy pouts, still nursing his "wounded" hand. "I wasn't going to feed it! I just wanted to pet it."

"Because that's so much better," Savva chimes in, rolling his eyes. But there's fondness in his voice, a warmth that speaks of years of friendship and shared experiences.

“Don’t you eat ducks?” Troy fires back.

I can't help but giggle, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside me. When was the last time I laughed like this? Genuinely, without worrying about how it might look on camera or if it would mess up my makeup?

"You okay there, Troy?" I ask, trying to keep a straight face. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Troy's eyes widen comically, and for a split second, I worry that I've overstepped. But then a slow grin spreads across his face. "Well, if you're offering..."

I feel my cheeks heat up, but before I can stammer out a response, Savva reaches over and smacks Troy upside the head.

"Behave," he admonishes, but there's no real heat behind it.

"What?" Troy protests, rubbing the back of his head. "She offered!"

I laugh again, shaking my head.

The ducks, apparently deciding we're more trouble than we're worth, waddle back toward the lake. We watch themgo in companionable silence, the tension from earlier all but dissipated.

I sneak another glance at Cole. He's still tense, still guarded, but there's something different about him now. The hard edges of his glare have softened slightly, and he's not actively trying to disappear into the shadows anymore.

Progress.

"So, Bella," Troy says, breaking the comfortable silence. "Tell us something about yourself. Something that's not in your official bio or whatever bullshit Braxley's PR team cooked up."

I blink, caught off guard by Troy's request. What can I tell them that won't sound pathetic or boring compared to their lives of danger and excitement? These men have probably seen and done things I can't even imagine. My small-town upbringing and sheltered life seem laughably mundane in comparison.

But as I look at their expectant faces, I realize they're genuinely interested. They want to know me. The real me, not the carefully curated image Braxley's PR team has crafted. It's been so long since anyone cared about who I really am beneath the glossy veneer of "future Mrs. Worthington."

I take a deep breath, wracking my brain for something—anything—that might give them a glimpse of the person I used to be. Before Braxley, before this gilded cage of a life.

"I... used to paint," I say finally, the words feeling strange on my tongue. It's been so long since I've talked about this. "Nothing good, but it was mine."

Troy's eyebrows shoot up. "No shit? That's awesome! You got any pics you can share?"

I feel my cheeks flush. "Oh, God no. I was terrible."

"I'm sure that isn't true," Savva says, his voice gentle. "Do you still paint?"

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. Do I still paint? When was the last time I even picked up a pen that wasn't to sign some document Braxley shoved in front of me?

"No," I admit, the word tasting bitter. "I... I don't have time anymore. With all the events and appearances and..."

I trail off, suddenly aware of how pathetic it sounds. I don't have time? What a cop-out. The truth is, I've let that part of myself wither away, buried under the weight of expectations and the constant pressure to be the perfect omega.

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