Page 29 of Knot the Last Chapter

It’s a turning point, and I don’t know yet what it’s turning into.

Chapter sixteen

Lila

The kitchen looks like it was carved from a dream. Soft pendant lights hang from dark beams overhead, throwing golden light over a long, worn butcher block island. The stone hearth at the back wall is fitted with a cast-iron stove that’s clearly seen generations of meals. Copper pans hang from a rack above the counter, catching the warm glow of the fire. Every drawer has the kind of handcrafted pull that makes you wonder if they were forged by some ancient blacksmith with excellent taste.

I linger just past the threshold, still in borrowed leggings and an oversized shirt, barefoot on cool tile, dark damp hair curling at my shoulders. Misty trails me like a fuzzy shadow and hops up onto the nearest windowsill to keep watch.

Corwyn is already pulling ingredients from the massive walk-in pantry like he’s shopping in his own private market.

Rhys is barefoot too, sleeves rolled to his forearms, already chopping something with steady precision.

The scent of rain is fading, replaced by garlic, onions, and some kind of rich, savory broth already bubbling on the backburner. It smells like home and comfort and everything I’ve been missing.

“This feels suspiciously like a trap,” I murmur.

Corwyn glances over one shoulder. “Why? Because we cook?”

“Because I’m in a mansion with two alphas who are casually preparing dinner during a thunderstorm like it’s a meet-cute in an indie film.”

Rhys doesn’t even look up. “You don’t trust alphas who sauté?”

“I don’t trust men who sauté with that much confidence,” I shoot back, but I’m smiling.

“You’re welcome to supervise,” Corwyn says, grinning as he tosses a handful of herbs onto the counter. “Or help. You strike me as someone with opinions about garlic.”

“I have strong feelings about garlic,” I say, stepping forward.

“I knew it.”

I wash my hands in the wide farmhouse sink and grab a towel from the rack. The space between us is easy. Fluid. They move around each other like they’ve done this a hundred times. It’s not just instinct, it’s history. And I find myself falling into rhythm with them, learning the unspoken choreography of the Carver kitchen.

Rhys handles the prep. He slices with practiced, methodical precision. His hands are steady, his knife work clean. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s with quiet humor and dry quips that catch me off guard.

Corwyn handles the flair. He seasons like an artist, with pinches and dashes and dramatic flourishes. He narrates steps aloud as if someone invisible is filming him for a cooking show.

I’m somewhere in the middle, peeling potatoes to avoid looking too long at either of them.

But it's hard not to look. They’re both intensely distracting.

Get yourself together, Lila. Why am I acting like this?

But I know why. It’s obvious in every stolen glance between potato peels.

Rhys, with his calm strength and occasional glances that linger a second too long.

Corwyn, with his teasing charm and eyes that track me like I’m part of the recipe.

The air in the kitchen is thick with steam, heat, and something else. Something electric.

My body hums in the background of it all, like a distant echo waiting to rise. My scent’s stable—barely—but I know they can feel it, because I can. That tug beneath my ribs, the way my skin feels too sensitive, the way the space between us keeps getting smaller.

“You guys do this often?” I ask, peeling the last potato.

“Cook together?” Corwyn replies, flipping something in the pan. “All the time.”

“Family tradition,” Rhys adds. “Mom taught us early.”

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