Page 69 of Knot the Last Chapter

Rhys’s mouth. Corwyn’s hands. Tyler’s eyes.

Gods, those eyes.

The page stays blank. I can’t force it anymore. My thoughts are too loud, my skin too hot. I thought the bath might help, soothe the ache pooling low in my belly, ease the fluttering tension that coils tighter with each breath I take.

But the bath only wound me tighter, and seeking the spa Rhys had told me about…well, that hadn’t help unwind me at all, either.

Tyler.

My skin tingles, over-sensitive. I feel it in my thighs, my chest, even my fingertips. Like I’ve swallowed lightning and can’t quitekeep it in. My heat suppressants are faltering. I can feel it—the rise in temperature, the flush in my cheeks, the way every sound and scent in this house makes my body thrum.

And it all smells like them.

Cinnamon, fresh-cut pine, spice, smoke, warm wood after rain. Alpha. Them.

I want to be strong. I want to be rational. But when I saw Tyler as I clutched my towel close, the floor cool beneath my feet—I wasn’t thinking with my mind.

I was thinking with need.

Tyler.

I smelled him before I saw him, his scent wrapped around my lungs, too rich to ignore.

I should have turned around. I knew I should have. But then—

“Lila...”

His voice. Low. Shaken.

My name, whispered like a prayer.

The steam parting like a veil, revealing tanned skin and taut muscle, the angles of his body gleaming beneath the candlelight. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, mouth parted. His hand moves beneath the water, rhythm steady, and it was clear what he’s doing. The other hand gripping the edge of the stone tub like he was trying to stay anchored.

He hadn’t startled. He hadn’t hidden.

Instead, he’d invited me to join him, his gaze trailing my damp curves of me while I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the broad shoulders, the strength coiled in every line of him, the raw, unguarded need.

I almost joined him, too, imagining those hands stroking me, instead, and straddling his large cock, him doing everything he’d texted me that he’d do.

if I’d stayed in that room one second longer—I wouldn’t have walked away.

I shift again, and Misty merps in annoyance. Her silver eyes watch me like she knows.

I bury my face in the pillow and groan. The storm outside isn’t my biggest problem anymore. The storm brewing in here might be my undoing.

Chapter forty-one

Rhys

It’s past midnight, but I can’t sleep.

The house is quiet in that heavy, weighted way that settles in after a storm—thick with memory and the scent of rain-soaked pine. The only light comes from the stove’s soft glow and the warm amber sconces tucked into the corners of the kitchen. I’ve kneaded the dough three times now—too long, too distracted—and shaped it into something that barely resembles cinnamon bread.

I’m not baking to eat.

I’m baking to breathe.

Because otherwise, I’ll just be sitting here, spinning in my head, thinking about her lips on mine. The way her mouth tasted like heat and sugar and the soft gasp she gave when I deepened the kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a mark. A scar on my soul, burning beneath the surface.

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