Page 65 of Knot on the Market

Every time the male lead does something particularly swoony, I feel an answering heat low in my belly. Dean's hands steadying me. Callum's quiet certainty. Julian's dark gaze holding mine.

By the time the credits roll, I'm uncomfortably aware of the slick that's been building between my thighs all afternoon. My underwear is damp, and I can feel my scent warming in ways that probably aren't appropriate for public spaces.

"Good choice," I tell Sadie as we're walking back to her car, hoping I sound more composed than I feel.

"I thought you could use some uncomplicated male attractiveness," she says with a grin. "Sometimes you need to remember that wanting someone doesn't have to be terrifying."

The observation hits closer to home than I'm comfortable with. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only because I know what it's like when you care about someone and you're terrified that wanting more might ruin everything you already have," Sadie says gently. "Sometimes the scariest thing isn't that they might not want you back—it's that they might, and then everything changes."

"What if I'm not ready to stop fighting it?"

"Then you're not ready," she says simply. "But honey, at some point you might want to ask yourself what you're actually fighting. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're fighting something good instead of something dangerous."

The drive back to Honeyridge Falls gives me time to think about that. About what I'm actually afraid of, beyond the general terror of pack dynamics and all the ways relationships can go wrong.

I'm afraid of wanting something this much, I realize as we turn onto my street. I'm afraid of needing people who might decide I'm not worth the effort.

But as Sadie pulls into my driveway, I see evidence that maybe that fear isn't grounded in reality. The mailbox stands straight and solid where Julian fixed it. The porch beams look sturdy and new where Callum reinforced them. The door knob that works like new because Dean fixed it.

They haven't taken anything back. They're just... waiting. Letting me figure things out at my own pace while making sure I know they're interested.

"Thank you," I tell Sadie as I'm getting out of her car. "For today, for the distraction, for..." I gesture helplessly.

"For being a friend," she says warmly. "And Lila? Whatever you decide about those three, make sure it's what you actually want, not what you think you should want. You deserve to choose what makes you happy."

As she drives away, I stand in my front yard looking at the house that's become more home in just over a week than anywhere I lived in LA for years. The evening light hits the windows just right, making everything glow golden and welcoming.

Inside, the stolen shirts wait in my nest. Evidence of three alphas who want to be part of whatever I'm building, who've been patient while I figure out whether I'm brave enough to let them.

Maybe Sadie's right, I think as I walk up my front steps. Maybe the question isn't whether I'm ready to stop fighting this. Maybe the question is what I'm actually fighting for.

And as I unlock my front door and step into the space that smells like green apple and white musk and the faintest traces of cedar, bergamot, and toasted marshmallow, I think I might finally be ready to find out.

Chapter 20

Callum

Istare at the computer screen, trying to focus on timber orders. Numbers blur together. My fingers feel clumsy on the keyboard, but that's not what's bothering me.

Can't stop thinking about Sunday night. How Lila's scent had gone warm and sweet at Maeve's table. How scared she'd looked after we told her how we felt.

How quickly she'd left.

I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. Four days since that dinner, and I still can't shake the feeling that I fucked it up somehow. She deserves someone better, I think. Someone smoother. Someone who knows what to say.

My phone buzzes against the desk. Lila's name appears on the screen, and my pulse kicks up before I even read the message.

Help.

One word. No explanation, no context. Just that single, simple plea that sends every protective instinct I have into overdrive.

I'm on my feet before I've fully processed what I'm doing, grabbing my toolbox and keys. Could be anything, leakingtap, broken shelf, that temperamental oven acting up again. Whatever it is, she texted me. Out of everyone she could have asked, she chose me.

The drive to her house takes ten minutes that feel like hours. I knock on the front door, calling her name, but there's no answer. When I try the handle, it turns easily.

Unlocked. She never leaves it unlocked.

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