Page 58 of Knotting else Matters

“Just… don’t let me run into Adrian,” I whispered, a faint, desperate plea slipping out as I stepped onto the winding path, the soft glow of the lanterns fading behind me. “Please. Just let me get through one night without… without all of this.”

But even as I walked, the night air turning cool, sharp against my skin, the memories clawed at me. Memories I didn’t want. Memories I thought I’d buried.

Flashes of childhood—of running through the playground in kindergarten, the other pups laughing, their voices sharp, cruel.“Zeta!”they’d jeered, their claws scratching at my arms, their teeth nipping at my ears. “Zeta freak!”

My mother’s sharp, biting voice, her disappointment twisting in every word. “Stand up straight, Olivia. Don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t embarrass me.”Her smile was for Sophie, her perfect Omega daughter. Her scowl was for me.

But my father… his warm, gentle smile, his rough, calloused hands brushing the dirt from my scraped knees.“Don’t listen to them, Liv. They don’t understand. They’re just scared of what they don’t know.”But even he couldn’t protect me forever. Even he couldn’t stop the whispers, the sharp, cutting words that twisted around me like chains.

And then high school—me, desperate, reckless, searching for anything, anyone who could make me feel… wanted. The first wolf I’d slept with—a tall, cocky Beta with a lazy smile and a cheap cologne that made my nose twitch. Only later did I hear the whispers, the cruel laughter.“He only did it because he lost a bet. Who else would touch a Zeta?”

My chest tightened, the cool night air burning against my skin, the sharp ache twisting, fierce and relentless.

I was so tired of it. So tired of the whispers, the stares, the constant, suffocating weight of never being enough. Of always being too much and not enough all at once.

And yet here I was—back in this perfect, polished little pack, surrounded by the same whispers, the same stares, the same suffocating expectations. Back where I didn’t belong. Back where I was a walking disappointment, a reminder of everything they wanted to forget.

The city lights stretched out below me, a soft, golden glow against the dark, rolling hills. The cab was gone, the winding road stretching out before me, empty and quiet.

I wrapped my arms around myself, my fingers gripping the worn, soft fabric of my shirt, the chill seeping into my bones. I didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to feel his dark, intense gaze burning against my skin. Didn’t want to see Sophie’s wide, hurt eyes or hear her desperate pleas.

But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

So I walked. The winding path twisted beneath the silver light of the moon, the cool breeze brushing against my cheeks, feeling the sharp, electric ache in my chest with every step.

By the time I reached the hotel, the night had grown colder, the sharp, crisp air biting against my cheeks, the quiet, empty streets stretching out beneath the pale, silvery glow of the moon. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, my breath coming in slow, shaky bursts, my mind still a tangled, desperate mess.

But the moment I stepped into the lobby, I froze.

My jaw dropped.

Yellow roses.

Everywhere.

The polished, sleek bar—usually a cold, minimalistic expanse of black marble—was now lined with vases filled with bright, golden yellow roses, their delicate petals blooming like bursts of sunshine against the dark, glossy surface. The small tables scattered around the lobby were the same, each one crowned with a vase overflowing with those vibrant, warm blooms.

I stood there, staring, my heart pounding against my ribs, the sharp, aching tension in my chest twisting, crashing into something else—something warm, something wild, something terrifyingly perfect.

I’d told him that. Joked about it, really. That the lobby looked too dark, too grave-like, and that a few yellow roses would give it a touch of life, a hint of warmth. I hadn’t thought he’d actually listen.

But he had. He’d done it.

And no wonder he’d gone to load the truck by himself. No wonder he’d been covered in dirt, that faint, wicked grin tugging at his lips when he walked into the breakfast room this morning.

“Unbelievable,” I whispered, a faint, breathless laugh slipping out, my fingers brushing against the soft, velvety petals of one of the roses, their sweet, subtle fragrance drifting around me.

He did this. For me. Because I made a stupid, careless joke. Because he listened.

My chest tightened, a fierce, desperate ache twisting through me, the wild, electric heat crashing against the sharp, suffocating fear.

What the hell was I supposed to do with this? What the hell was I supposed to do with him?

I reached into my purse, fingers fumbling for the small, plastic card key to my room, but when I pulled it out, it wasn’t mine. It was his.

The card to Adrian’s penthouse. The one he’d given me. The one I never returned.

I stared at it, the sharp, sleek edge catching the warm, golden light of the lobby. The faint, polished emblem of the hotel glittered against the dark plastic, a quiet, mocking reminder of the choice I didn’t know how to make.

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