Page 59 of Knot the Last Chapter

My brows lift in disbelief, but he’s already stepping back, his expression smug and controlled.

“You’ll need your strength.”

Then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him like he didn’t just set fire to my nerve endings.

I slide down to the floor, Misty curling at my feet.

“Gods,” I whisper, fanning my face. I pray my heat suppressants hold, knowing full well I was as close to a full heat as I’d ever been.

The three of them might be the end of me. And I’m not sure I care anymore, no longer recognizing the omega I’m becoming with my heat.

Chapter thirty-three

Rhys

Ichop herbs like my life depends on it. With the same fire that Corwyn and I used to look for the missing compass to solve the mansion mystery, before giving up.

The kitchen is warm, alive with scent and sound—the sharp green of fresh rosemary and thyme, garlic hissing in the pan like a secret, butter melting into golden perfection. I move with practiced ease, every slice, every stir giving my hands something to do, something to focus on.

Because I can’t focus on her.

I woke early, slipping away from the door where I’d sat half the night listening for her breathing, her movements, anything. Told myself I was being protective. That it was instinct.

The truth? I just needed to know she was still here. Still ours.

But now, the scent of her hangs in the air like velvet smoke, thick and undeniable. It clings to the wood of the walls, to the stone hearth, and curls under the door like a living thing. Every inhalation winds me tighter. I already cooked her breakfast, supper will be ready in an hour, and I’ll have the next five days worth of food done before end of day, at the rate I’m cooking.

I hear the creak of floorboards, and then soft footsteps. Bare feet. A moment later, she’s there.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

Her voice is low, warm with sleep and something else. Something thicker. It slides through me like honey, slow and hot.

I force my gaze up. I shouldn’t have. She’s wearing one of my shirts.

The sleeves are rolled to her elbows, the hem brushing the top of her thighs, tight leggings hugging her curves beneath. Her hair is damp, curling over her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed from the shower—or maybe something more.

My chest tightens.

“Morning,” I say, and it comes out rough. “How was breakfast?”

“Delicious, thank you so much.” She offers me a smile and puts her dishes in the dishwasher. She moves into the kitchen like she owns it, sliding up beside me with that soft grace that’s all her. The space shrinks around us, the stove’s heat nothing compared to the warmth radiating off her body.

“You’re cooking again,” she says, brushing a hand over the counter, fingertips gliding across the wood.

“Wanted to do something helpful. Cooking is always helpful.”

She smiles. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… Lila. My hands don’t stop moving. I dice garlic, add it to the pan. Stir. But my body is humming with awareness, with want. Every time she moves, I track her. Every flick of her wrist, every inhale.

She leans over to smell the broth, and her hair brushes my arm.

“You’ve got a good hand,” she says.

I huff a breath. “I’ve had practice.”

She bumps her hip against mine, playful, and it knocks my control off its axis.

“You’re tense,” she says.