Page 94 of Knot the Last Chapter

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“You’re smart, Lila. Fierce. You don’t need anyone telling you who to be. Not even charming alphas with old mansions and dangerous smiles.”

A smile tugs at my mouth, even through the ache in my throat. “You make it sound like I’m living in a romance novel.”

She chuckles. “A mystery with too many alphas is still a mystery, my girl. Don’t forget to turn the page before you get swept away.”

“Always,” I whisper.

“Get some rest. Your brother’ll be there first light. And tell those boys to save me a scone if they’re baking.”

I hang up with a breathless laugh. The line clicks silent.

And just like that… the real world starts creeping in.

My fairy tale, my storm-born dream, has a sunrise deadline.

I set the phone down on the hook with fingers that suddenly feel cold. The mug in my other hand is still warm, but the heat doesn’t reach the hollow in my chest. I stare at the window for a long time, Misty still curled beside the glass, tail swishing slowly.

Part of me is glad. I missed them—my mom, my brother, the ones who’ve always looked out for me.

But part of me aches. Because I know what’s coming.

And I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave this place… or these alphas.

Because what started as an accident is beginning to feel like fate.

And my mystery? It’s no longer just a puzzle in the mansion walls.

It’s the one unfolding in my heart.

Chapter fifty-five

Rhys

The kitchen smells like lemon oil and cinnamon, warm bread crusts and the faintest trace of her. I’ve been wiping down the counters in slow circles, not because they need it—they’re already clean—but because I don’t want to leave the room where she last smiled at me.

The storm has settled, and with it, a hush has fallen over the island. But inside me, things are anything but calm.

Lila steps into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing another oversized flannel shirts that’s swallowed up by a pair of soft leggings. Her hair is a little tousled, lips still pink from her heat—or maybe memory. She’s quiet, but not withdrawn. Just… thoughtful.

Her scent is subtle now, heat winding down to a slow simmer, but it still curls into my lungs and settles like something permanent. Like something I never want to exhale.

“You don’t have to help,” I say, watching her out of the corner of my eye. “You should be resting.”

She walks over to the sink, grabs a clean towel, and bumps my hip with hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I like helping. And I’m not made of glass.”

I smile. That defiant streak gets me every time. It’s not loud or brash—it’s steady, like stone. Stronger than most people.

We clean side by side, the comfortable rhythm of shared chores making the kitchen feel less like a space and more like a memory in the making. The clink of dishes, the gentle hush of cloth against porcelain, the occasional scrape of a chair being nudged back into place.

I want to bottle this moment. Hold it in my palm and never let it go.

I glance at her when she’s not looking. There’s a tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before. Not quite anxiety. Just… something weighted. Heavier than before.

“Did you get through to your family?” I ask quietly.

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