Page 203 of Knot Baked Out For This
"You're talking," Levi points out. "That's the opposite of sleep."
"Maybe I'm sleep-talking."
"You're sleep-avoiding."
"That too."
A warm hand slides under the blankets, finding my ankle, thumb rubbing circles that are both soothing and deliberately distracting.
"We let you power nap for three hours. Any longer and you'll miss your own festival."
"Can't I miss it?" I peek out from the blankets to find three Alphas standing over me wearing matching shirts that say "HOT BUNS BAKERY SECURITY" in glittery letters with cartoon cupcakes flexing tiny frosting biceps on the back.
I burst out laughing so hard I snort, which makes Levi grin triumphantly.
"See? She loves them!"
"I didn't say that!" I'm wheezing now, clutching my stomach. "I'm laughing at you, not with you!"
"Same thing!" He strikes a pose, flexing. "We're officially your bakery security now. Protecting buns and taking names."
"That's not how that phrase works!"
"It is for buns!"
Rowan pinches the bridge of his nose in the universal gesture of 'why did I agree to this?' but he's smiling, and when he catches me looking, something warm and intimate passes between us that makes my chest tight.
"Come on," Luca offers his hand, hauling me up from the nest. "You need to get into costume. The festival starts at seven, and you're the guest of honor."
"I'm what now?"
"Guest of honor," he repeats patiently. "For standing up to your abuser in court this morning and then feeding half the town celebratory pie. You're basically Oakridge royalty now."
"That's not how royalty works!"
"It is in small towns!"
Forty-five minutes later, I'm standing in my bedroom trying to figure out if I made a terrible mistake.
The costume seemed like a good idea three weeks ago when Reverie dragged me to that Halloween store in Riverside. A witch—classic, recognizable, easy. Except the "classic" witch costume she picked out is less "Wizard of Oz" and more "Pinterest fever dream."
The dress is burgundy velvet—because apparently I'm committed to this color now—with a fitted bodice that does things to my curves that should probably be illegal and a skirt that's short enough to show off the striped stockings that match the ones from the photoshoot. There's a cape—crushed velvet, dramatic, definitely a tripping hazard—and a hat that's less pointy cone and more stylish autumn accessory.
"I look ridiculous," I announce to Muffin, who's watching me from her perch with the judgmental energy of a cat who knows she's about to be subjected to costume indignity.
"You look hot!" Reverie bursts through the door in her own witch costume—sugarplum purple, somehow even more extra than mine, complete with glittery makeup that makes her look like a fairy-tale villain in the best way. "Like a sexy witch who bakes cookies and destroys ex-husbands in court!"
"That's a very specific aesthetic!"
"It's YOUR aesthetic now!" She's already adjusting my hat, fluffing my curls, adding some kind of glittery powder to my cheeks that smells like cinnamon and probably costs more than my rent. "The pack's going to lose their minds."
"They're wearing shirts about buns!"
"And they're going to see you in this dress and forget about the shirts entirely!" She steps back, admiring her work. "Perfect. Now for the familiars!"
"The what?"
She produces a tiny cape from her bag—purple velvet to match her costume—and advances on Muffin with the determination of someone who's forgotten that cats have claws and opinions.
