Page 32 of Knot the Last Chapter

Lila

The fire crackles softly behind us, casting the living room in a sleepy amber glow. My plate is empty, my belly full, and the buzz of good food and laughter lingers in the space between the three of us like perfume. The storm caresses the windows, wind curling like a lullaby around the house.

Corwyn leans back in the armchair, sipping something warm from a chipped mug. Rhys is finishing the last of the washing up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms damp. I’ve draped a blanket over my lap, and Misty has taken up permanent residence beside me, her little body purring like a motor.

It’s a perfect moment, until it’s interrupted by the muffled thud of boots on the front steps. The creak of the door opening. A gust of cool, pine-laced air sneaking in from the hall.

Then a voice.

Low. Rough.

“Towels are still crap.”

I turn my head, just as he steps into the room.

Tyler.

I know him instantly.

Not from now. From then.

From back when I was fifteen and writing secret mystery stories in the margins of my science homework. From when I’d had a crush on one alpha boy in town who was too tall, too confident, too handsome—and who had laughed when I’d nervously read from my notebook during an open mic night at the high school fall fest.

“Mysteries don’t have room for princesses, sweetheart.”

It had been a throwaway comment. He’d provided more the next day, I’m still not sure why. I’d thrown away my notebook two days later, and run from Starling Grove the first chance I got.

And now he’s standing in front of me.

Broad shoulders soaked from the rain. T-shirt clinging to a chest that looks like it could splinter doorframes. That same dark, messy hair. The same sharp cheekbones, fuller now. A jaw that could cut glass. His scent is everything I’ve been pretending not to want for the last two days.

Earthy. Storm-washed. Clean and male and devastating.

Tyler Carver.

My heart skips.

He doesn’t recognize me. Not yet. But I recognize him.

My stomach twists, tight and hot.

I keep my face neutral. My expression easy.

I am ice. I am steel. I am a rom-com heroine whose life is not actively being set on fire from the inside.

“Hey,” he says, nodding at Rhys and Corwyn. “You said the storm brought someone in?”

“She’s drying out,” Rhys replies casually, nodding toward me. “Lila Quinn. Boat wrecked near the cove.”

Tyler’s eyes shift to me.

We lock eyes. And the air changes.

I feel it ripple through the room, like a guitar string pulled too tight.

His nostrils flare slightly. Something in his posture stiffens.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Neither does mine.

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