Page 9 of Ready or Knot

“Hot damn, Jude. Logan managed to find someone that can keep up with you,” he mutters.

I turn to the man next to me, head tilted a bit, trying to ignore the growing ball of nerves in my belly.

“I haven’t heard someone discuss Dante outside of required classroom discussions in years,” he murmurs, the corners of his lips tipping up. The blush spreads across my chest in a heartbeat, but I’m nearly positive it isn’t from nerves. Not entirely, at least.

Logan groans. “Don’t even start, Jude. Tonight’s supposed to be fun.”

Four

LOGAN

Jude rolls his eyes, and Faedra laughs, the sound of it knocking me on my ass just like it did the first time—light and airy without being too delicate.

“Not an English major then, Logan?” One perfect eyebrow arches over her green eyes. I grimace, shuddering, and she laughs again. Jude’s shoulders relax, just a bit, and I mentally high five myself.

“Definitely not,” I tell her, leaning closer. Her breath catches for a second, her hand tightening on the edge of the table, and I smirk. “I’m way more interested in the way bodies move.”

I intentionally drop my voice and grin when she scents—just a little bit. There’s too many people in the room for it to be much more than a faint trace, but I breathe it in all the same, letting that intrinsic part of me roll in it before the movement of a group to my side stirs the air and dissipates it. Her lips part, her tongue tracing over them. Freckles dot across her cheekbones and smooth down her arms, and I want to trace them—first with my hands and then with my tongue. The vision of it hits me hard enough that I scent, too, and Carter chuckles beside me.

Faedra glances at him, her head tilting in silent question. The movement highlights the opal pendant resting just below the hollow of her throat. I need to figure out a way to get her body under my hands—get her close enough that I can bask in her scent again without people ruining it.

The universe must hear my scheming because the DJ changes the song and the heavy bass of a Taylor Swift song fills the room. Faedra gasps.

“Oh, I love this song,” she says. She throws her head back as she brings the copper mug to her lips, finishing the drink in three quick gulps. It shouldn’t be as hot as my body decides it is, and I find myself quickly adjusting my boner so she doesn’t notice it. Her lips tick up in a soft smile as she asks, “Does your interest in moving bodies include dancing, or just dirtier things?”

God damn.

Jude’s eyes widen, and Carter takes a last drink of his whiskey, setting the tumbler on the tabletop. I close the distance between us, holding out my hand in invitation, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Who said I can’t make dancing dirty?” I ask her with a smirk. Her blush is instantaneous, and I bask in it as she takes my hand.

“God damn it, Logan,” Jude grumbles.

I pointedly ignore him, focusing instead on guiding Faedra to the edge of the already crowded dance floor. She doesn’t hesitate, turning so that her back is pressed to my chest and moving to the beat of the music, her hands above her head. She hums the melody under her breath, and I smile. The dance floor becomes more crowded as the song’s chorus plays, several women giggling behind me. Faedra doesn’t hesitate, pressing into me, taking up less space, and I bracket her waist, enjoying the feel of her curves under my palms. The longer she dances, the more relaxed she becomes, and I’m content to watch her grow more comfortable as the DJ moves through a reasonably modern discography.

When the song changes, morphing into a slow melody clearly meant to be something that encourages people to pair up, Faedra turns in my arms, a soft question in her gaze. Her smile is bright, and her cheeks are flushed, and I don’t hesitate to bring her closer into my arms, taking a half step into her and moving my hand to the small of her back. Her hands are gentle where she laces them together behind my neck.

As we turn in a slow circle, she asks, “How many of these have you gone to?”

The dreaded question.

It comes up every gala, and every time it gets harder to answer with the truth. Something about the extended time makes Omegas wary, and they find a way to move onto another group of Alphas soon after I tell them.

“A lot,” I offer, holding my breath, bracing for the guarded eyes and feigned interest to appear.

She tilts her head, her eyebrows pinching, her lip between her teeth.

“How many is a lot?” The question is soft, almost pitiful, but her hands stay locked around me, her body still pliant against mine.

I pride myself in being the optimist, especially compared to Jude’s general dour outlook on life. But disbelief has me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something sarcastic. I offer her the truth. Best to rip the band-aid so we can see if there’s someone else here that might work for us.

“We’ve been officially designated for four years. I think we’ve missed two galas,” I explain before leading her into a spin as the music starts to fade. I blow out a breath, prepping myself for the inevitable polite disengagement. Instead, she steps back into me, a thoughtful look in her eyes, her shoulders relaxed. A second slower song begins to play, and she follows my lead to continue dancing without hesitating.

“That must be really draining. Just one is a lot—and I know I’ll end up matched with a pack.” Her cheeks flush, her teeth digging into her lip again. “It must take a lot of courage to keep showing up.”

There’s no way. This is unreal. How many times have we managed to find someone that enjoys the three of us just to find them suspicious of how long we’ve waited to match? Or the opposite, too. They’re understanding of the extended selection time but then don’t get on with Jude or Carter or even me.

And yet, by some miracle, Faedra seems to be both.

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