Page 110 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“He said I was embarrassing. That I didn’t deserve to be his Omega. That the sight of me made him sick. And then he pushed me under and held me there until I stopped fighting.”
Rage floods through me, hot and violent enough to burn away any remaining cold. If that asshole wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. Slowly. Make him suffer every second of fear he gave her.
“He pulled me up just before I passed out,” she says, voice breaking. “Laughed. Said he was just kidding, that I needed to learn to take a joke. But I never learned to swim after that. The water… every time I’m near deep water, I hear his voice. Feel his hands on my head, pushing me down.”
“He’s gone now,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice level when all I want to do is tear through time and rip his throat out. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
She nods faintly, but then her lips tremble. “I know. But when I went under today…” Her voice cracks. “All I could think was that he was right. That I was going to die alone in the water just like he said I deserved.”
Something sharp splinters inside me. Not rage. But helplessness laced with grief that she ever believedthat. That someone carved those words into her like truth.
“You’re not alone,” I say, stepping between her knees, cupping her face gently. My thumb brushes a tear from her cheek, then another, and still they come. “You’ll never be on your own again. I swear to you, Sophia. Not as long as I’m breathing.”
Her shoulders quake, and she folds into me without warning, pressing her soaked face into my neck. I hold her tighter, closer. I don’t care that we’re both dripping.
Gradually, her breathing evens out. The sobs soften into quiet trembles, then stillness, her fingers curling gently into the fabric of my shirt. She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes red-rimmed but clearing. Her lips twitch, and then a small laugh escapes.
“God,” she says, voice scratchy but lighter. “You must think I’m a total mess.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek, not smiling but not serious either. “I think you nearly drowned. I think you were terrified. And I think you’re still standing, even if it’s with help. That doesn’t make you a mess. That makes you strong.”
Her eyes shimmer again.
She huffs out a breath and looks down, plucking at the wet hem of her shirt. “Guess I should get out of these clothes before I freeze.” Her fingers move to the first button, struggling a little with the tremblestill in her hands.
But she doesn’t get far.
“Help me?” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “I can’t… my fingers won’t work right. Everything’s numb.”
“I’ve got you.”
I ease her gently from the counter like she weighs nothing. She leans into me, half standing, and her hands quiver at the hem of her shirt, fumbling.
So I reach for her hands, cover them with mine, and slowly lift the wet fabric over her head. I try to be clinical. Gentle. Detached. But nothing about her feels clinical to me, not the way her breath hitches, not the way her skin prickles under my touch, not the way she looks at me like I’m the only thing holding her together.
She’s shivering in just her soaked jeans and a thin, white cotton bra now, goose bumps breaking out across skin I’ve only ever imagined touching.
And fuck me, she’s stunning.
The bra clings to her like a second skin, translucent from the water, revealing the soft swell of her breasts and the perfect curve of her cleavage, those delicious pink nipples. My gaze flicks there before I can stop it. I want to bury my face in that softness, kiss my way down every inch, feel her arch under my mouth.
Pale, perfect skin scattered with faint freckles, like stars someone tossed across her shoulders. A soft dip at her waist I want to memorize with my mouth. She’s exquisite. Vulnerable. Mine.
But I don’t let myself linger.
Not now.
Not when she’s trusting me to help, not devour her. Later, maybe. When she’s ready, when she’s begging. But right now, I shove the hunger down deep and try to breathe through it.
She fumbles with the button of her jeans, fingers trembling too badly to get it undone. “Stupid wet denim,” she mutters, cheeks flushed, not just from cold anymore.
“Let me,” I say roughly, kneeling before her.
Her breath hitches as I undo the button and slowly pull down the zipper of her soaked denim jeans. I take my time, careful not to tug too hard, careful not to look too long at the way her hips shift to help me. My knuckles brush her thighs, and she shivers.
I slide the jeans down inch by inch, over her hips, past the curve of her thighs, her soaked panties sticking to the denim and slipping down with them. She doesn’t stop me. Just breathes, slow and shallow, her hands still braced on my shoulders, her legs slightly parted to help me.
By the time I reach her ankles and tug the whole mess off, she’s bare. Somewhere between removing her top and me peeling those jeans and panties away, she must have ditched her bra too.
