Page 99 of Knot Like Other Girls

The request lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples of surprise through our group. I feel my own eyebrows rise fractionally before I can control my expression. Cole's head snaps up, his mismatched eyes wide with disbelief.

"Me?" he asks, the word rough and uncertain.

Bella nods, a flush creeping up her neck. "If that's okay with you. I just... I feel safe with you."

The admission clearly stuns Cole, who stands frozen, like a man who's just been handed a priceless artifact and doesn't trust himself not to shatter it. The raw vulnerability on his face is something I've never witnessed before. Not in our years together, not through firefights or hospital stays or the darkest moments of our shared history.

"I don't think..." he starts, then stops. "Are you sure you want me? Not one of the others?"

"Yes," Bella says simply. "I'm sure."

The moment stretches between them, a private exchange we're all witnessing but not truly part of. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for Cole's response. We all are.

Finally, he gives a short, jerky nod. "Okay."

The tension in the room shifts, but doesn't dissipate entirely.

"Well then," I say, stepping into the silence with practiced ease, "we should finalize our security arrangements for the night. Troy, you'll take first watch in the main living area. Liam, Isuggest you monitor the security feeds. Roman and I will handle perimeter checks."

My voice is smooth, professional, betraying none of the complex emotions swirling beneath the surface. This is what I do—provide structure when situations threaten to become chaotic, create order from potential disorder.

"Sounds good," Roman agrees, falling into the familiar rhythm of operational planning. "We'll maintain standard protocols until departure tomorrow. Savva, coordinate with our contacts for the jet and the safe house preparations."

I nod, already mentally composing the necessary messages. "Consider it done."

Bella looks between us, a small smile playing at her lips. "Do you always slip into military mode when things get awkward?"

Troy barks out a laugh, the tension breaking further. "You have no idea."

As we all leave the kitchen—Cole maintaining a careful distance from Bella while still hovering protectively as he leads her to the guest suite—I catch Roman watching them with an unreadable expression.

"Thoughts?" I ask quietly once they're out of earshot.

Roman runs a hand through his dark hair, a rare display of uncertainty. "I don't know. This is... unexpected."

"But not necessarily bad," I point out.

"No," he agrees slowly. "Not bad. Just..."

"Complicated," Troy finishes for him, dropping into a chair with a sigh. "Everything about this situation is fucking complicated."

I study our pack leader, noting the subtle signs of strain around his eyes despite his resolute tone. This can't be easy for him—for any of us. The primal alpha instinct to compete for a mate runs deep, especially with a scent match.

But we're more than just alphas. We're a pack. A family forged in blood and fire.

And now, our most complicated pack member, the one who's always held us at a distance, is finally going to be fully integrated into the bond we all share.

CHAPTER 29

COLE

The walk to the guest suite feels like the longest of my life. Each step down the hallway stretches into infinity, my boots suddenly too heavy, the air too thick. Bella walks beside me. She's close enough that her caramel and coffee scent, now laced with the honeyed notes of her barely suppressed heat, wraps around me like a physical touch.

I keep my distance. Not too far—my alpha instincts won't allow that—but enough that we don't accidentally brush against each other. Every cell in my body screams to touch her, to claim her, to mark her as mine. But I've spent years mastering control. Years burying those instincts beneath layers of discipline and self-loathing.

"This is it," I say, stopping in front of the guest suite door. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough and uncertain.

Bella looks up at me, those green eyes searching my face without flinching away from my scars. It's still jarring, that direct gaze. Most people can't manage it for more than a few seconds before their eyes skitter away, finding something—anything—less disturbing to focus on.

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