Page 82 of Hot Knot Summer
“You have no idea what you’ve woken up, sweet thing.” He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of myear, his breath ragged. “Next time, I won’t let you finish until you’re shaking… and begging me to stop.”
His grip tightens, and I shudder as a pulse of pleasure pulses across the apex between my thighs.
His words linger and tease me deeply. Not just filthy, but feral. My breath stutters. Heat blooms under my skin, a flush that starts in my chest and spills upward until even the roots of my hair feel warm. My thighs instinctively press together, desperate for friction. My heart pounds, but it’s not fear. It’s want. Raw. Undeniable.
Then he moves even closer, drawing me against him.
“I’m going to make you mine, Emma,” he murmurs, his voice low, reverent, and lethal all at once.
It shouldn’t feel like a vow, but it does. I feel it in the way his fingers grip my waist like I might disappear if he lets go. In the way his gaze burns into me, not just seeing me but claiming me.
I swallow hard, my body thrumming with heat, my brain slow to catch up. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I lean into him instead, my fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt like I need him.
The swan ride glides out of the tunnel, golden light washing over us once more. And just like that, the world feels too bright, too exposed. My cheeks are on fire. I must look wrecked, with everything I felt on my knees between his legs.
People mill around the boardwalk, unaware. But Levi? He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
And I know, without a doubt, he meant every word.
We step out of the boat, and Atlas and River climb off after us. The sudden light is disorienting after the darkness, and I blink rapidly, hoping my appearance doesn’t broadcast what we’ve been doing.
“Enjoy the ride? Didn’t realize there were so many growls in the ride’s audio,” River teases, raising an eyebrow.
I instantly blush, glancing away from him. God, they heard Levi.
“Very educational ride,” Levi replies with remarkable composure, though there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and his normally neat hair is messed.
Atlas’s eyes meet mine, dark and knowing, and the heat in his gaze sends another pulse of need through me. What is happening to me? I’ve never been this wanton, this unable to control my desires.
As we walk away from the ride, Levi’s hand at the small of my back, I catch a glimpse of our reflection in a game booth mirror. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, my eyes bright with lingering arousal. I look... different. Wild, almost.
A terrible suspicion begins to form in my mind, a quiet dread curling at the edges of my thoughts. I’ve been brushing it off all day, blaming the heat, the adrenaline, and the relentless pull I feel toward the three Alphas shadowing my every step, but something’s not right. My skin feels too hot. My scent’s thickening. Every glance, every breath of theirpheromones has my body reacting like it knows something I don’t.
No. It can’t be heat. That’s not possible.
My heat isn’t due for weeks. It’s been regular, every six months like clockwork. I prepare for it. I have to be ready. Other Omegas are different. Some go years before their first heat, while others flare up unpredictably, especially after prolonged exposure to Alphas. But mine? Mine’s always been stable. Predictable. Manageable.
Last time, Chad was there, and even if it was a hollow experience, at least it followed the usual pattern. He’d knotted me, sure, but with all the passion of a routine chore. No intimacy. No tenderness. Just... obligation. And even then, the symptoms had been mild. Controlled.
This, whatever this is, feels entirely different. My body is reacting too fast, too intensely. It has to be something else. The Alphas. Their pheromones. Their constant, overwhelming presence.
My grandmother used to say, “If you spend too long near Alphas, your body will start answering to them whether you want it to or not.”
That must be what this is. A hormonal fluke. Proximity overload. A trick of my body responding to their dominance, not to the cycle.
That’s all it is.
It’s not heat.
It can’t be.
15
EMMA
Irush down the stairs, drawn by a strange flickering light coming from the kitchen. Orange and yellow dance across the walls, casting ominous shadows that seem to reach for me with grasping fingers.
“Hello?” I call out, rounding the corner to find a small fire spreading across the kitchen counter. The flames lick at the cabinets, consuming dish towels and jumping to the wooden spice rack. Smoke reaches my nose, and I cough.
