Page 91 of Knot the Last Chapter

Not just from the steam curling up from the soup bowls—thick, hearty, studded with roasted root vegetables and shreds of tender meat—but from the way the alphas talk, laugh, and move around each other. There’s an ease between them that’s magnetic. An unspoken rhythm, as if they’ve been orbiting each other so long they no longer need to coordinate—just respond.

I sit between Rhys and Corwyn while Tyler finishes buttering slices of thick, rustic bread at the counter. He’s grumbling something about the butter being too cold, but his tone is light and teasing, and when Rhys tosses him a warmer stick from beside the stove, the exchange feels so natural I almost forget to breathe.

Everything smells like comfort. Wood smoke from the fireplace in the main room lingers in the air, braided with the scents of herbs, browned meat, and something spicy I can’t quite name but that makes my belly rumble. Rhys' cooking is as strong and steady as he is—every bite bold, hearty, and impossible not to love.

Corwyn has already set the table, folding napkins into simple triangles and setting out mismatched ceramic bowls that still somehow feel like part of a set. Misty sits curled up in a chair that clearly used to belong to someone important—she’s claimed it with the entitlement only a cat can.

It’s easy, too easy, to let myself be lulled by the domestic hum of it all. The three of them are talking animatedly about the mystery again, passing ideas back and forth like a football in a backyard scrimmage.

“I still say the coordinates are metaphorical,” Corwyn insists, gesturing with his spoon. “Not directions. More like—markers. A moment in time.”

Rhys raises a brow, skeptical. “Coordinates usually are directions.”

“But think about it. A family this steeped in secrets? Hidden treasure and literary riddles? They wouldn’t just put an X on a map.”

Tyler slides into the empty chair across from me, pushing a basket of bread my way with a wink. “And you’re both wrong. What if they represent an important date? Maybe it’s about an event and legacy, not location.”

They all launch into debate again, and for a heartbeat, I sit back and watch them. It’s like witnessing the gears of a beautiful, well-oiled machine. Each of them brings something different: Rhys, steady and grounded; Corwyn, precise and imaginative; Tyler, instinctive and driven. Their dynamic crackles like lightning in a jar, all tempered by love and the kind of long-standing respect that only comes from surviving things together.

And for a moment, I feel it again.

That flicker in my chest. That little whisper: You don’t really belong here, do you?

They’ve known each other for years, decades. They’ve built lives, a home, routines. They’ve hunted treasure and renovated a mansion and grown into something whole.

And me?

I’m the girl who washed up in a storm.

A fluke.

An intruder with a lucky knack for finding clues and kissing the right alpha at the right moment.

My stomach twists, but I mask it with a sip of soup. The flavor is incredible—savory, deep, with a warmth that radiates all the way to my fingertips. It’s food made by someone who knows how to comfort. How to care.

As if reading my thoughts, Corwyn turns his head toward me. “Hey. You’re quiet.”

I lift a shoulder. “Just enjoying the conversation.”

“You should jump in,” Tyler adds, mouth full. “You’re half the reason we’re getting anywhere with this mystery.”

Rhys nods. “More than half. You found the inscription. You’re the one who figured out the coordinates might be a cipher.”

“And don’t think we didn’t notice,” Corwyn adds, grinning. “You’re always seeing things we don’t. Perspective, remember? That’s your superpower.”

Their words hit me like a balm. The knot of unease loosens, unraveling slowly in my chest. I duck my head, but my smile gives me away.

“Well,” I murmur, pretending to study my soup. “You’re not wrong. I am kind of amazing.”

Tyler laughs, rich and warm. “There she is.”

The shift is subtle, but real. The warmth I’d been sitting near now wraps around me. Pulls me in.

Sometimes, a pack is just three alphas and an omega sitting around a table, passing bread and stealing glances, carving out a space where everyone fits.

Where I fit.

We fall into a lull as we eat. The only sounds are the occasional clink of silverware against bowl rims and Misty’s faint purring as she naps in her chair.

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