Page 57 of Knot the Last Chapter

“It is a competition!” I snap. “You think I don’t see the way you and Rhys look at her? Like she’s already yours?”

“She could be all of ours,” he says quietly. “She’s not a prize, Tyler. She’s a person. And if she chooses us—all of us—then we make it work. Like we said we would. Like we always have.”

I laugh bitterly, alpha instincts getting the better of me. “That’s easy for you to say when she’s still soft around you. When she lets you in. She looks at me and sees a mistake. A ghost. The guy who shut down her dreams when she was just a kid.”

“And you think storming into her room’s going to fix that?” Corwyn raises a brow. “You think claiming her without letting her choose is going to make her forgive you?”

I growl. “I would never do that. But that doesn’t make it any easier seeing you come out of her room, smelling of her.”

I’ve been trying to be the better man. To give her space. Let her breathe. But the truth is, every time she’s near, every time her scent thickens the air, every time I hear her voice from down the hall, my control shreds a little more.

I’ve imagined her fingers in my hair. Her voice moaning my name. Her body pressed to mine, heat rising with every breath.

And none of it fades. None of it burns off with time. It intensifies.

Even now, when I know she’s furious with me—maybe hates me—I want her more. It’s like something ancient has locked onto her, decided she’s mine whether she knows it or not.

But I won’t take what isn’t given freely.

“I don’t care what you think,” I say tightly. “I need to talk to her. Face to face.”

Corwyn shrugs. “Then go. I’m not standing in your way.”

He turns, walking off like we didn’t just nearly come to blows. His scent still clings to the hallway like smoke. Mine rises under it, hot and sharp.

I stride down the hall toward her door. It’s time she heard everything.

Time I laid myself bare. No more hiding. No more ghost stories.

Just me. And the truth.

And whatever comes after.

Chapter thirty-two

Lila

The knock never comes.

The door opens instead, slow and sure, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is. His scent crashes into me like a tidal wave that makes my nerves stand on edge in the best possible way.

Tyler.

He fills the doorway, his shirt sticking to broad shoulders and a chest that looks like it’s carved from tension. His eyes lock on me immediately, and something inside me twists.

I force myself to stand, my legs still a little weak from rest, and turn to face him fully.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.

His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming or swallowing too many words.

I nod, suddenly unsure what to say. We’ve had dozens of conversations on text—some silly, some intimate—but never like this. Never with his presence flooding the room, never with his scent curling through me like smoke curling from a spark.

“Tyler—”

“I need to say this,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “Before I lose the nerve again.”

He’s only a foot away now, the tension between us sharp and crackling.

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