Page 109 of Knot Baked Out For This
This is what I wanted. Not just Hazel, but all of this—the too-small apartment, the chaotic dinners, the candy rings and renovation conspiracies. Pack.
Real pack. Not the political alliances or territorial agreements of traditional packs, but chosen family. People who show up, who build instead of break, who love without conditions or contracts.
"Rowan?" Hazel calls. "Can you reach the tall shelf? Why did I put containers up there? Why am I so short? These are important questions."
"Coming," I call back, then pause. "Thank you. Both of you. For this. For her."
"Thank yourself," Luca says. "You're the one who waited years."
"We all waited," I correct. "Just for different amounts of time for the one who’s finally lighting a flame under our asses."
"Philosophical bullshit before eight PM should be illegal," Levi declares. "Go help our omega reach things. It's what you're tall for."
Our omega.
The words settle in my chest like coming home.
I head inside to help Hazel wage war against tall shelves, leaving my brothers to plan fairy light installations, and think maybe—just maybe—everything we've broken and built and become has led to exactly this moment.
Four people. Three Alphas. One omega. One pack.
And a seventy-pound dog is currently being sat on by a twenty-pound cat while Hazel laughs bright enough to light the whole town.
Worth the wait. Worth the work. Worth any fight that comes our way to challenge this blooming fruition.
CHAPTER 19
Gingerbread And Goodnight Kisses
~LUCA~
Levi burned scones. Commercial scones. For a paying client. Because apparently leaving him alone with an oven is like giving a toddler a flamethrower and hoping for the best.
The October evening bites with teeth that promise November's coming,whether we're ready or not. I balance the firewood against my hip, the basket of homemade gingerbread in my other hand, and knock on Hazel's door with my elbow because my brother is an idiot who costs us money and reputation in equal measure.
The door opens, and she's there—hair piled in what she probably calls a bun but looks more like a bird's nest that got ambitious, wearing an oversized sweater that's slipping off one shoulder, revealing skin that makes my brain short-circuit for half a second.
Focus, Maddox. You're here for business. Apology business. Not to stare at the curve of her shoulder like some Victorian pervert.
"Luca?" Her hazel eyes widen, taking in the firewood, the basket. "What?—"
"Levi burned your client's scones," I say without preamble. "Two dozen. For the Henderson wedding shower. That's tomorrow."
Her face cycles through several expressions—horror, resignation, murderous intent—before landing on exhausted acceptance.
"Of course he did."
"He was trying to 'help.'" I make air quotes with the basket, which is awkward but necessary. "Apparently, helping means setting the timer for minutes instead of hours."
"How do you set a timer for—never mind. I don't want to know."
"I brought replacements." I lift the basket. "Gingerbread. My recipe. And firewood, because your heating bill must be astronomical with that window."
She blinks. "What window?"
"The one that's been leaking cold air since probably last winter. Northwest corner of your living room. The caulking's failed and the frame's warped."
"How did you?—"
