Page 212 of Knot Baked Out For This
“Good?” he asks, mouth full of smug.
“Better than your pie crust.”
“Rude.” He’s already prepping another bite, honeycomb glistening in his palm. “This is artisanal. Farm-to-pillow, even. Seven stars on Yelp.”
“Pretty sure you don’t even know what Yelp is.”
“Shh, I’m feeding you.”
The next taste is sweet, a rush of sugar and gold, sticky on my tongue. I lick my lips, accidentally catch Levi’s thumb, and he actually shivers. Payback for the food commentary, I guess.
While he plays snack vendor, Luca’s in full silent caretaker mode. He rises from the nest, moves with zero sound, and disappears to the far side of the barn—then comes back carrying what I recognize as a vintage pitcher and a folded towel. The look on his face is classic Luca: focused, composed, and just a little bit proud.
He sets the pitcher down, checks my temperature with his own hand (rancher habits die hard), and then vanishes again.
The next time I see him, he’s prepping a bath in the little side alcove we converted into a “Omega Recovery Spa,” aka the only clawfoot tub in Oakridge not haunted by plumbing ghosts. He checks the water with his wrist, adds something fragrant—honey and orange and maybe actual vanilla bean?—and sets out candles like he’s auditioning for Bachelor: Alpha Edition.
By the time he comes back, I’m half-draped over Levi, who’s still monologuing about snack presentation.
But there’s something else. A shift in the air. The flicker of a darker shadow at the barn door?—
Rowan.
He’s here, and suddenly my senses overload in a different way, because his scent is instant: cedar smoke and bourbon-vanilla, cinnamon bark and that honeyed warmth that spells Alpha with a capital everything.
“Hey, pumpkin,” Rowan murmurs, crouching at the edge of the nest. His hand brushes my sweat-damp hair back from my forehead, fingers slow and deliberate. “You hanging in there?”
Probably not.
Doesn’t matter.
His thumb stroking my temple is enough to turn my bones to putty.
I mean, he’s not even trying to flex, but the way he looks at me? Like I’m a treasure he almost lost, and now he’s hoarding every second.
“Bath time,” Rowan declares, as if carrying me across a room is a form of national service.
“You gonna haul me like a sack of flour?” I mumble, caught somewhere between sass and pure stoned affection.
“That’s the plan.” He grins—a real one, rare and blinding—and slips his arms under me. Lifts me straight out of the nest, sheets and all, barely jostling the mess of pillows.
I cling to his neck, totally helpless and not hating it. His skin under my hands is warm, slick with just enough sweat to remind me why I lost my mind an hour ago.
“Don’t drop me,” I threaten.
“Never,” he says, and there’s nothing but promise in it.
The bath is perfect. Shocker.
Rowan lowers me into the water, and every muscle sighs. There’s honey and vanilla in the steam, the scent of my own Heat layered with cedar and smoke. The water ripples around me, catching candlelight, scattering it across my chest and thighs,making me look way too glamorous for someone who just did double Alpha Olympics.
I close my eyes, sinking deeper. Rowan kneels at the side, sponging off sweat, muttering small compliments—“so pretty,” “best Omega,” “can’t believe you’re ours”—and the words soak in deeper than the bath.
But the real magic? When he climbs in behind me.
The tub isn’t made for two, not really, but he doesn’t care. He settles me against his chest, wraps both arms around my waist, and tucks his chin against my crown. I feel stupidly, completely safe.
His hands are reverent. He kneads exhausted muscles, works away tension, then just…holds me. Lets the water do its work while his body is a wall of comfort, sheltering me from the last throes of Heat.
