Page 21 of Knotting else Matters

She stood there, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy, almost bored expression, one hand wrapped around the edge of the door, the other clutching a half-full glass of champagne. Her dark hair was tousled, wild and untamed, like she’d run her fingers through it one too many times. The makeup she’d worn at dinner was gone, leaving her face fresh, bare, and somehow even more striking. Those green eyes—sharp and cutting—now looked glassy, almost vulnerable. A faint redness clung to the edges of her lashes, and my wolf stirred, a low, uneasy growl rippling through me.

She’d been crying.

My wolf didn’t like that.

Didn’t like it one fucking bit.

“What?” she asked, her voice steady but a little rough, the hint of a challenge already curling around the word.

“I… changed my mind about that drink,” I said, a lie I wrapped in a lazy, easy smile.

Her eyebrow arched, and she leaned against the doorframe a little more, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, really? That offer was for the lobby, you know. When I was decent and dressed. We don’t know each other well enough for pajama sleepovers.”

And that was when I noticed—really noticed—what she was wearing.

A black satin nightie, delicate lace tracing the edges, thin straps hugging her shoulders, the smooth fabric draping over her curves and ending just above her thighs, leaving long, toned legs exposed. The moonlight from the window behind her caught the curve of her hip, the soft sheen of the fabric, the bare stretch of her skin.

My wolf’s growl changed, turning low and hungry, a different kind of tension coiling in my chest.

“Oh,” she teased, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Didn’t expect this, did you,Wolfzilla?”

“Did you answer the door like that on purpose?” I shot back, trying—and failing—to keep my gaze firmly on her face.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She leaned in just slightly, the scent of champagne curling between us. “You knocking at my door at midnight wasn’t in my plans either.”

“Regret letting me in already?”

“Who said I’m letting you in?”

I stared at her, a thousand thoughts clawing at my mind, and yet all I could focus on was the way her lips curled into that half-smirk, the hint of a challenge flickering in those green eyes.

“Fine. One drink,” she sighed, stepping back and swinging the door open wider. “But if you start giving me another lecture about respect and pack politics, I’m throwing you out.”

“Fair enough.”

I stepped inside, the scent of sweet vanilla mingling with the faint, cold scent of champagne. A small mountain of ice cream cartons sat abandoned on the room service tray, two spoons sticking out at odd angles. The soft, slow strum of an electric guitar played from a speaker in the corner, the lyrics of Metallica’sNothing Else Mattersfading into silence.

Olivia grabbed another glass from the room service tray, filled it with a generous pour of champagne, and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I murmured, my fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. Warm, soft.

“For what? It’s your champagne,” she replied, flashing that sharp smile again.

She turned away, leaning against the small table, one leg casually crossed over the other, and I tried—gods, I tried—not to stare at the line of her thigh, the soft curve of her calf. But my wolf wasn’t interested in obeying. He was all too aware of her, of the way the black satin hugged her figure, the way those green eyes seemed to catch the light and pull me in.

But beneath all of that—the beauty, the sharp words, the careless confidence—was that emptiness. That void. No scent. No trace of a wolf. Nothing familiar. Nothing I could trust.

And it rattled me.

The song changed, a familiar, slow guitar riff filling the room.Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”The lyrics were a soft, bittersweet whisper, a perfect match for the woman standing before me. Beautiful. Sharp. Dangerous.

“You know,” I said, taking a slow sip of the champagne, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more perfectly described by this song.”

She laughed, a warm, reckless sound that somehow twisted in my chest. “Really? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Beautiful. Confident. Sharp enough to draw blood if someone gets too close.”

“And you think you’ve got me figured out?” she challenged, her voice low, almost daring.

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