Page 54 of Chain Me Knot

I howl with joy on the inside. Deny the urge to draw her sweet face to mine and kiss her doubts away. I will get there with her. For now, I’ll content myself with the fact her small body is burrowing against me, seeking comfort in my arms, letting her instincts guide her to what her body knowsis right.

Her sweet honeysuckle rises, pure and sweet, untainted by fear. It mingles with my coffee, creating something new. Something perfect. Something awakening to life with possibilities.

I want to gather her closer. Never let go. I want to protect her from everything that's ever hurt her, but I keep my arms loose, my hold gentle. Let her set the pace, control the contact. This moment is too precious, too fragile, to risk shattering with demands.

Asher and Soren's matching awe flood our pack bond. They hardly dare to breathe as Emma burrows deeper into my embrace. None of us expected this level of trust. Then she makes a tiny sound—something between a sigh and a purr—and my world narrows to that single point of contact where her face presses against my heart.

My hand strokes her arm, tracing over the sharp edges of her bones that shouldn't be so prominent. That's why we raided the fully stocked refrigerator Cole somehow managed to fill in the few hours since our call. The pile of tech he left in the discreet box proves he's moving faster than we'd hoped. It means we can start our own investigation into this mess.

None of us dare make a sound, afraid to break this spell while Emma lets her instincts guide her. Every second she allows this contact is a gift. I hope her defenses are finally starting to crack but even if they aren't, we'll give her all the time in the world. Years, decades, whatever she needs. I’ll gladly give it all.

But reality crashes back in when her shoulders tighten and she stiffens against me, as though she remembers she’s afraid of alphas. She peers up at me, eyes wide and lips tense. She steps away from me, apology already forming on those glossed lips and holy hell, she's wearing makeup. As starved, battered and bruised as she is, she’s absolutely stunning.

An angel.

I have an angel in my arms.

“I…” She starts to speak, but I cut her off before she can apologize for something soperfect.

“You're just in time to help us eat this feast, Tough Girl. These two couldn't control their stomachs, and now we've got enough food for an army,” I say.

I aim for lightness, for humor, wanting to ease the tension from her shoulders. Wanting, more than anything, to see her smile. I haven't witnessed that yet. A real smile. I'd give anything to be the one who puts it there.

Her gaze flows over the food-laden counter, but then her brows knit as she stills and listens. “What's that sound?”

The sound? It takes me a moment to understand what she’s hearing and then it makes perfect sense. Soren opened the window while cooking bacon, letting in the distant rush of waves against the shore. A sound so familiar to me, but Emma…

She told us last night she’d never been to the beach. She’s been locked away for too many years and I realize…I realize she doesn't know what the beach sounds like.

Cracks web through my chest because she’s never been to the safe place she made up in her head to survive hell. And now here she is, standing in a kitchen with the real thing just beyond our windows.

How do I tell her? How do I explain that the soundtrack to her dreams is right outside? That her sanctuary isn't just imagination anymore? That, by pure chance, this house is the place of her dreams.

I catch her chin between my fingers, careful to telegraph every movement. Her blue eyes meet mine, lines forming on her forehead as she turns too-large eyes up to meet mine.

“That's the ocean, Tough Girl,” I say softly. “We're right on the beach.”

“We're...at thebeach?” Her voice cracks on the question, something vulnerable and young flickering across her features. She sounds so small, so unsure, like she's afraid to believe anything good could be real.

Her gaze moves to the window, but she won't see the beach from here. We surveyed the property last night before we barricaded ourselves into the bedroom. All she can see from here is the manicured garden and the ten-foot high securityfence that frames the property. Cole wasn’t wrong when he told us this property was secure.

I catalogue every micro-expression that crosses her pale face. The way her fingers twist in the hem of her oversized sweater. The slight tremble in her lower lip that she sucks between her teeth. The rapid rise and fall of her chest as she processes this information.

“Just on the other side of that fence,” I tell her, something fierce and protective swelling in that place that’s been empty all my life. Her pupils dilate and her scent shifts with… hope? Fear? Both? I want to be the first to show her what a real beach looks like. Want to witness her experiencing something pure and untainted by trauma. Want to see joy light up those beautiful eyes.

Asher catches my emotion through our pack bond because I’m broadcasting pretty loud. I don’t care. Let them feel how much I’m longing to do this for our omega. They’re feeling exactly the same way.

“Would you like a picnic?” Asher asks, setting down his spatula. Emma tracks the movement of his hands.

“A picnic?” She shifts her weight, an unconscious movement toward the door, her sweet honey deepening. Her gaze darts back to our prime. She wants to believe him. So badly, but I don’t think she knows how.

“The beach is private. No one for miles. Phoenix and Soren can take you out. I’ll finish up breakfast, pack everything up and then bring it out to you...” He lets the offer hang in the air, giving her space to process. To choose what she wants.

The moment draws out, the fragility threatening to snap us all.

Her fingers stop twisting her sweater, and she presses her palms flat against her thighs. Controlling trembles? Restraining the urge to run? Or maybe fighting the desire to say yes?

Every instinct screams to gather her close again, to protect her from having to make any decisions after so long being denied choices, but that would defeat the purpose.

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