Page 88 of Knot the Last Chapter

Chapter fifty-one

Corwyn

The rain has eased, finally, though the air still smells of storm and pine. In the library, it’s warm and still—quiet in the way a cathedral might be. The fire crackles gently in the hearth, casting amber light across the floor and the spines of countless books.

I’m standing in front of grandfather’s old desk, trying to distract myself with the stories of the Carver Mansion mystery. He’s always make a point to sit at his desk when he told me. I’ve pulled out my old notes, written in my much younger, and less elegant, script. But still, nothing comes to mind.

I just don’t know how to find this compass, or interpret his words.

The library door creaks. I glance up—and lose my breath.

Lila steps inside, barefoot and flushed from sleep, wearing one of Tyler’s T-shirts that hangs mid-thigh. Her hair is slightly mussed, her cheeks pink from warmth or memory, and Misty trails behind her like a fuzzy ghost.

She freezes when she sees me.

“Oh—sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” I say quickly. “Not even a little.”

Her smile is shy and slow, and it lands somewhere in the center of my chest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Too many thoughts. Also… no more ink.”

I nod toward the cabinet. “We’ve got ink refills hidden in that hutch—middle drawer.”

She glances at the desk. “That’s a lovely desk.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” I tell her, hands in my pocket, analyzing it as a way to stop myself from just gawking at her. “It’s where he always insisted on telling me about the Carver Mansion mystery. My notes are scattered on it.”

She crosses the room, curiosity lighting her face. “Mind if I read them?”

“Not at all, but don’t judge my handwriting,” I say, stepping aside so she can see. She throws a smile my way and then her brow furrows as she goes over the few notes.

“Follow the rose from beneath your nose. To open what was sealed by pride, surrender first what shame would hide. Three clues together form the answer.”

“I figured he meant the compass rose,” I offered, and she nodded in agreement, then stands up to look at me closely.

“I don’t see a rose under your nose,” she says jokingly. I chuckle, impossibly aware of how close she is. The scent of her heat still lingers on her skin, softened now, but impossible to ignore. My control is a frayed thread, but I hold it.

Barely.

“What about a book with the word nose in it?”

“That’s a good idea,” I say, though I’m still distracted by her.

“It could be symbolic. Or maybe a book with a rose, or a garden! British mystery novelists love their garden settings.”

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and we work side by side, chasing ideas, pulling volumes, mapping out passages in themargins of old letters and family journals. And every time her hand brushes mine, my restraint slips further. Her skin is electric. Her eyes, bright and alive, glow with the thrill of discovery. She belongs here—not just in the library, but in this house. In this life.

She fits.

And I want her.

I want to press her back against the shelves, tilt her chin, and kiss her until the rest of the world falls away. I want her voice in my ear, my name on her lips, her fingers in my hair as I learn every inch of her body the way I’ve learned these halls.

But she hasn’t chosen me.

Not yet.