Page 77 of Knot Gonna Lie
“When was the last time you felt like you belonged?” Seth added. “Maybe the problem isn’t her. Maybe it’s you finally seeing what you’ve been missing.”
Xavier’s face twisted—anger, pain, longing, then hard rejection.
“I don’t need what she’s offering. And I won’t watch this clan fall apart because of it.”
He turned, strides sharp. “I’ll be on the bridge. Someone should remember we have a ship to fly.”
The silence afterward pressed heavy. Through our bond, Luca’s fury coiled—protective, burning. His arms tightened around me.
“Don’t,” I whispered, covering his hand. “He’s not wrong.”
“He’s completely wrong,” Stella snapped, fierce. “You’re exactly what we needed.”
“She’s right,” Sylas said, steady. “I’ve seen more genuine happiness since you’ve been with us than in the previous year combined.”
“Xavier will come around,” Maia murmured, though doubt edged her tone. “He just needs time to adjust.”
But I wasn’t sure time would be enough. He’d made his choice—isolation over integration, distancing himself from the clan dynamics.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” I said, exhaustion dragging at me.
“Not yet.” Jaxom’s voice was quiet but sure. “Could I... would you mind if we talked? Privately?”
Tension rippled. Luca bristled but stayed silent. Seth looked uncertain. But Jaxom’s eyes held mine, honest, pleading.
“Of course,” I said, sliding off Luca’s lap.
“Lead the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ELARA
Jaxom’s cabin wrapped around me like borrowed clothes—functional, worn at the edges, honest in its simplicity. I traced a seam in the metal wall, feeling the faint vibration of the ship’s systems beneath my fingers. Everything here spoke of restraint, of making do. The narrow fold-down bunk, the single viewport, the recycled air with its faint metallic tang—this was the life of someone who wasn’t rare, who carved meaning out of limits.
But his scent… it lingered everywhere. Cedar smoke. Distant storms. Wild and untamed, pulling at something deep in my omega instincts.
“Homey.” The word slipped out awkward, clumsy on my tongue. His face flickered with hurt before he masked it, and guilt clawed at me. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—what “home” meant when luxury was only a gilded cage.
“It’s not much.” His voice carried an apology I wanted to erase with my hands, my mouth, my whole being.
“But it’syours.”
I stepped farther inside, breath catching at how he’d shaped scarcity into art. Surfaces folded into each other with practical grace: a desk that became a table, storage sunk into walls, a bed that vanished to make space. Above, holographic 3D displays drifted in layered constellations—streams of numbers, glowing lines bending to his touch.
“You’re still working.” The timestamp glowed past midnight, and exhaustion shadowed his hazel eyes. The bed dipped as I sat, the fabric practical and durable, nothing like the silk sheets the Matron insisted would keep our skin soft for our future alphas. As if our worth lived in the texture of our flesh.
“Someone has to hold the threads.” He moved to the displays like a conductor taking his place, hands sweeping through glowing data that bent to his will. “Luca spins deals from nothing, Seth dreams medical inventions. This—” he gestured, data shifting at his command—”this is how I care for the clan. By making sure we never go without.”
The certainty in his movements was its own seduction. Not duty. Devotion, written in the language of numbers and preparation.
“Show me your universe.” The words emerged soft as prayer.
Surprise softened his features, vulnerability shining through. “You want to understand my systems?”
I drifted closer, until our edges blurred. “I want to understand how you transform anxiety and fear into armor, how you weave protection from numbers and projections.”
The displays shifted at his command, peeling back layers like flower petals opening to moonlight. Color bloomed through the data—crimson warnings for supplies running low like blood through veins, emerald rivers marked abundance, golden threads connecting possibility to possibility in a web that spoke of profound, unspoken care.
