Page 26 of Knot Baked Out For This
Reverie grins, eating muffin crumbs. "Mean it. You're the main event, Hazel. Prime time." Her voice drops, genuine. "It's good. Don't let them win."
I want to believe that. Want it more than air.
But even as I hustle through the next round, the chatter never stops.
Three Alphas in a room and somehow I'm the dangerous one.
The night unravels like a wound—messy, painful, impossible to ignore.
Book clubbers chatter. The twins work the room like they're running for office. The air reeks of competing pheromones, spiced candles, and whatever chemical keeps fake cobwebs from spontaneous combustion. The pressure never drops, but when I meet Rowan's eyes one last time, it feels less like judgment and more like a promise.
Maybe I want the attention. Maybe I want to burn.
But three years of conditioning scream louder.
Tonight, I grip the table, brace against the heat in my chest, and hope someday I'll remember how to want things without them destroying me. How to be seen without feeling flayed. How to exist in a room with Alphas without calculating exits.
My hands finally stop shaking.
That has to mean something.
Even if it's just exhaustion.
Outside, the October wind howls like it knows secrets.
Inside, I'm still standing.
We'll call that survival.
For now.
CHAPTER 4
Ovens And Old Wounds
~HAZEL~
October in Oakridge has teeth.
The afternoon air bites through my flour-dusted cardigan as I step outside Holloway Bakery, needing a moment away from the suffocating heat of my dying oven. The sun sits low and mean, painting Main Street in shades of amber and rust that make everything look like it's bleeding.
I squint against the light, and that's when I see it—a banner stretched across the firehouse entrance like a declaration of war:
"OAKRIDGE FIRE & MADDOX RANCH CHARITY PARTNERSHIP"
Of course. Of fucking course.
Workers swarm the firehouse lawn like industrious ants, erecting white tents that'll probably smell like testosterone and good intentions by tomorrow. Tables materialize from truck beds. Someone's stringing lights between poles, creating a constellation of future humiliation opportunities.
A charity event. With both the fire department AND the ranch. Because the universe isn't satisfied with my current level of suffering.
My fingers find the edge of my apron, twisting the fabric until it might tear. The cinnamon and vanilla that perpetually clingsto my skin can't mask the sudden spike of anxiety-sweat.They're planning something. Alphas don't partner up unless they're hunting.
The bakery bell chimes behind me like a funeral toll.
I don't need to turn around. My body knows before my brain catches up—every hair standing at attention, spine going rigid, that sick-sweet drop in my stomach that sayspredator.
Cedar smoke and bourbon vanilla flood the doorway before he even speaks.
