Page 61 of Knot Baked Out For This
But the teenagers are already cheering, interpreting his medical distress as enthusiasm.
"Water," Luca gasps.
I shove my glass at him, and he drinks it desperately, then makes the mistake of looking at me with those storm-gray eyes full of gratitude and pain, and something in my chest does a stupid little flip.
Do not develop feelings because he sacrificed himself to the pie. That's Stockholm syndrome or something adjacent.
"My turn," I say, because I'm an idiot who makes bad decisions.
I take the tiniest possible bite.
It tastes like someone mixed grape cough syrup with mayonnaise and regret. My entire soul leaves my body. I see the afterlife. It's disappointing.
"Jesus Christ," I wheeze.
"Language," Bea scolds, but she's grinning.
Rowan and Levi, in a moment of synchronized stupidity, both take bites at the same time.
Their faces are a Renaissance painting of regret.
"What," Rowan says slowly, "the fuck."
"Did someone," Levi pauses to suppress a gag, "did someone put FISH in this?"
"It's grape and tuna!" the teenagers announce proudly. "We call it Gruna!"
"You should call it a war crime," Luca mutters, still drinking water.
The crowd is loving this. Phones flash, videos record, and I'm pretty sure I hear someone taking bets on which Alpha will vomit first.
"We need milk," Rowan declares.
"I need an exorcist," Levi counters.
"I need a new tongue," Luca adds.
"I need witness protection," I say, and all three of them look at me with something that might be solidarity or might be trauma bonding.
Probably both.
More pies arrive—thank god, normal pies—and we soldier through them with the determination of people who've seen the worst and lived to tell about it. But the damage is done. The Gruna has united us in suffering.
"Almost done!" Bea announces cheerfully. "Just one more!"
The last pie arrives, carried by none other than my mortal enemy: Korrin's new girlfriend, Alexis.
Of fucking course.
She saunters up in a dress that costs more than my monthly rent, her perfect blonde hair catching the light like she's got a personal lighting crew. Her apple pie looks like it was made by angels and blessed by Martha Stewart.
"Well, well," she says, eyes sliding over our group with calculating coldness. "How cozy. The town's newest... whatever this is."
"Alexis," Rowan says flatly.
She ignores him, focusing on me. "Hazel. Heard you're collecting Alphas now. How modern."
I will not throw pie at her. I will not throw pie at her. That would be assault and also a waste of what looks like excellent pie.
