Page 66 of Knot the Last Chapter

Just a slow, smug smile that curls at the edge of his mouth—like he knows exactly what that kiss meant. Because I answered his question.

I think I answered it for myself, too. And gods help me, it makes me feel even hotter.

I hurry out of the room before I catch fire from the inside out.

Chapter thirty-eight

Lila

Ishut the bedroom door behind me and lean against it, heart still thundering like I’ve just sprinted across the island.

Misty is already curled up on the bed, watching me with those wise, unblinking eyes, as if she knows what I’ve done—what I’m feeling—and is waiting to see how I’ll handle it. I cross the room slowly, stripping off my sweater with shaky hands and tossing it into the corner before collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

“What’s happening to me?” I whisper to her, half-laughing, half-horrified.

Misty yawns, stretches, and presses her head against my thigh, purring. As if to say,you know exactly what’s happening.

I’ve never been this version of Lila before. This woman who kisses an alpha senseless in front of two others. Who basks in the power of their attention and burns with it. Who lets herselfwant.

I’m the independent omega. The one who clawed her way into a high-rise job in the city, who never went into heat, who never even wanted to. I was safe there, above the pull of instinct anddesire and bonds that threaten to undo the person I’ve fought so hard to become.

But now…

Now my blood sings when they enter a room. My body reacts before my brain catches up. I’m flushed and fevered and shaky, and all it takes is a glance, a laugh, the smell of them drifting up through the floorboards to leave me undone.

The worst part? I don’t want it to stop.

I move to the little desk in the corner of the room and clutch my pen, hoping to channel some of this chaos into something useful.

I read the words scratched down over and over again, but the words don’t ignite the way they did before. I’ve written this story a dozen different ways in my head—my mystery heroine, clever and competent, solving crimes in quaint, twisty small-town settings. But now, every sentence feels too clinical, too restrained.

She’s not alive. She’s notme.

I start scribbling again, but instead of describing a murder scene, I write about heat. About pressure. About hands on skin. About what it feels like to be seen by three pairs of eyes at once.

Rhys tastes like Wood smoke and spice. Dark and slow and consuming.

Corwyn is brighter, like honey and citrus. Sharp, knowing, edged with something wild.

And Tyler… I haven’t kissed him. Not yet. But I know what his voice tastes like—velvet and steel—and I crave the rest of him with a hunger I can’t rationalize.

I pause, fingers trembling over the page.

I’ve kissed two of them.

Two.

And somehow, it doesn’t feel like too many. It feels like not enough.

Misty hops up onto the desk, weaving between my arms until she plops down on my open notebook like she’s reclaiming it for herself. Her purring vibrates against the wood.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not helping,” I mutter, scratching behind her ears.

Downstairs, laughter erupts again—Tyler’s low rumble, Corwyn’s dry wit, Rhys’s warm chuckle. It echoes up through the floor like a heatwave.

I squeeze my thighs together and groan.

I want to write. I want to put this mess of longing and confusion and identity into something concrete. But the truth is, I’m too full. Of emotions. Of hormones. Of them.