Page 86 of Down Knot Out
His breathing comes in short, sharp bursts as his panic gains ground. “Every night, I lie awake listening for sounds that don’t belong. Footsteps on the porch. Windows opening. Boats approaching our dock. Because Iknowthe moment I let my guard down, someone will come for you again.”
“Holden.” I reach for him, but he pulls back, shaking his head.
“No, you don’t get it. When Simon was trying to kidnap you, where was I? In the kitchen. Baking muffins. Like some domestic Omega instead of the Alpha who should be?—”
I don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish tearing himself apart with words that hold no truth. Instead, I close the distance between us and wrapmy arms around his shoulders, pulling his head down to rest on my shoulder.
He resists for a heartbeat, tension holding his frame rigid. Then he crumbles, his arms coming up to circle my waist as he buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breathing stutters on my skin.
“I’m right here,” I whisper into his curls, my fingers threading through the golden-brown strands. “I’m safe. We’re all safe.”
His desperate grip tightens, as if I might evaporate if he doesn’t hold on.
“Show me,” I whisper, lips brushing his temple, my fingers still threaded through his curls.
He pulls back, confusion flickering in hazel eyes still bright with tears. “Show you what?”
“How to bake those strawberry scones I love so much.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone, wiping away the salt track his tears left behind. “The ones with the cream that melts on your tongue.”
His brow furrows. “Chloe, it’s two in the morning.”
“Perfect time for baking.” I step back, taking his hands in mine. His fingers, cold despite the kitchen’s warmth, tremble as our palms connect. “Teach me something I’d never be able to do alone.”
A ghost of his real smile flickers across his lips. “You just want to lick the bowl.”
“Obviously.” I squeeze his hands, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “But also, I want you to show me what makes you feel strong. What grounds you when the world gets too loud.”
He studies my face in the under-cabinet lighting, searching for an answer I hope he finds. Then he turns toward the refrigerator with quiet resolve. “Strawberry scones it is.”
The familiar rhythm of preparation begins to work its magic on him. His movements gain purpose as he gathers butter, flour, cream, and eggs, each item placed on the counter with the practice of someone who’s performed this dance countless times.
“First rule of baking.” He washes his hands for baking the same way a doctor preps for surgery, all the way up to his elbows. “Everything has its place.”
I mirror his actions, scrubbing my palms clean while he arranges measuring cups like little soldiers.
“Strawberries first.” He pulls a container from the refrigerator. “They need to be chopped small enough to distribute evenly, but not so small they disappear into the dough.”
He hands me a knife, and I begin slicing the berries. The sweet scent rises between us, summer condensed into small red cubes that stain my fingertips pink.
I pop one into my mouth and moan. “Why are these so good? The ones from the store are never this good.”
“Nathaniel grew them for me in the greenhouse out back.”
Holden measures flour with the precision of a chemist, leveling each cup with a knife edge. His hands have stopped shaking, steadied by the familiar motions requiring no thought, only muscle memory built through years of practice.
“Now the butter.” He cuts cold chunks into the flour mixture. “This is where people usually go wrong. They work it too much, and it turns the pastry tough.”
His fingers work through the mixture with practiced efficiency, rubbing butter and flour together until the texture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. I watch the concentration on his face, the way his brow furrows as he achieves the perfect consistency.
“Your turn.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the bowl.
I bury my hands in the mixture, feeling the coolbutter soften under my touch. The texture shifts as I work.
“Good.” He moves to stand behind me, his chest brushing my back as he reaches around to guide my hands. “Feel how it changes? The butter starts to warm, but you don’t want it to melt.”
His breath tickles my ear as he speaks, vanilla and warmth surrounding me in a secondary embrace. I lean back into him, savoring the solid weight of his body against mine.
“Add the strawberries now.” His voice drops lower, intimate in the kitchen’s quiet. “Fold them in gently. They’ll bleed if you’re too rough.”
