Page 20 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Thirteen

Dominic

I grip Chloe’s elbow as she steps down from the SUV, the pink strands of her hair catching the fading sunlight.

Red rims her haunted eyes, and as soon as her foot touches the ground, she leans into me, burrowing close and breathing in my pheromones.

The encounter with Simon had left a mark, shaking her sense of safety. The police had found a tracking app on her phone, which must have been how he found her. The delivery guy was discovered unconscious in the maintenance room, though thankfully still alive.

Every instinct screams to hunt Simon down, to ensure he never gets within a hundred feet of Chloe again. But right now, what she needs isn’t my rage, it’s my protection .

I rub her back, using the open car door to buffer her from the dropping temperature. “You okay?”

Chloe’s chin dips, the movement jerky, and her scent carries a sour note of fear that opens an ache in my chest.

When apartment security had checked the second floor after Chloe escaped, Simon had vanished. Just as he had before. The police arrived twenty minutes later to take statements, check footage, and search the back parking lot. But they found nothing.

Then came three hours of questions, each one wearing her down.

She folded in on herself as time passed, her answers growing thinner with every retelling.

By the time they let us go, heading to my hotel felt reckless.

If Simon has been tracking her, he’s probably researched the rest of us, too.

None of our regular fallback spots can be trusted.

I cradle the back of her head and kiss her hair. “I’m here. I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

She pulls in a shaky breath, then steps back and wipes her face before turning to the cottage I parked beside.

The single-story home could have been plucked straight from a fairy tale.

Wildflowers spill from window boxes in purples, reds, and yellows.

River stones line the walkway leading to the front door, polished smooth by time and water.

Rose bushes climb trellises on either side of the porch, their fragrance thick and sweet in the evening air.

Wind chimes tinkle from the eaves, glass and copper catching the last light of day.

Chloe touches the lucky shamrock hanging from her neck, rubbing over the birthstones. “This is Emily’s house?”

My lips curve in understanding. Emily is a six-foot, no-nonsense Alpha. This gingerbread cottage is a stark contrast.

Thin wisps of steam rise from a brick chimney on one side of the cottage, and while the lawn surrounding the cottage isn’t perfectly manicured, it’s lovingly tended, with patches of clover and thyme between the grass blades.

With the long hours she works, I have no idea how she maintains everything.

“Hard to believe, right?” I close the car door and place a hand on the small of Chloe’s back, guiding her up the stone path. “She doesn’t let many people see this side of her.”

“Does Emily have a fairy godmother?” A collection of glass ornaments hanging from a nearby birch tree twirls in the evening breeze, catching Chloe’s attention. “It’s hard to picture the woman who barks at crews and hauls lumber living here.”

I chuckle. “Emily is a lot softer than she lets on. But she doesn’t open up easily. She’s been working with us since the beginning of our project, but I’ve only seen this place once before, when she hosted a small holiday gathering for the senior staff.”

“It was nice of her to let us crash here tonight.” Chloe’s hand finds mine, her fingers cold despite the mild evening. “Do you think we’re safe here?”

I keep hold of her hand. “Simon doesn’t know about Emily. And even if he managed to trace us, she has security that puts most private systems to shame.”

This earns me a small smile, a precious thing after the day we’ve had.

Before Chloe can respond, the cottage door swings open, spilling golden light onto the porch.

Emily fills the doorframe, already dressed down for the evening.

Gone are the thick jeans and flannels she wears at work.

Instead, she’s changed into faded, flannel lounge pants and a soft, heather-gray T-shirt.

An apron covers her front, cream-colored with “Life is What You Bake of It” written in looping script across the chest.

“You two planning to stand outside until the mosquitoes carry you off?” she asks, one hand braced on the doorframe.

A hearty, savory scent drifts past her, and after our aborted dinner plans, my stomach lets out a loud complaint.

Emily tilts her head, the overhead light catching the silver of her chin-length hair. “Dinner’s just about ready. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot.”

I guide Chloe forward, my hand still on the small of her back.

Emily’s cottage exudes safety, from the cheerful yellow of the door to the soft glow of the lights within.

As we cross the threshold, the scents of fresh bread, simmering meat, and root vegetables intensify, and underneath it all, a subtle, clean scent of pine and fresh snow that comes from Emily herself.

“Come on in.” Emily steps aside to let us enter. “Take your shoes off if you want. Floor’s warm.”

“Thank you for putting us up,” I murmur as Chloe and I stop to take off our shoes at a carved wooden bench in the entryway.

“It’s no problem.” Emily closes the door behind us, the heavy oak settling into its frame. “I keep the guest room ready.”

I take in the living space as Chloe moves beside me, her breath catching with wonder .

Lamplight spills across hand-carved furniture, each piece telling its own story with knots and whorls preserved in the polished wood.

Dark wood beams cut clean lines through cream plaster, and a wide stone fireplace anchors one wall. The mantle holds a row of carved wooden figures of birds in flight, forest creatures, and a leaping fish. Books fill built-in shelves, their spines a spectrum of colors on the warm wood.

Every corner has been softened with a handmade quilt on the chair, a woven blanket over the sofa, and cushions embroidered with intricate patterns of flowers and vines.

The floor beneath our feet is wide-plank pine, worn to a honeyed patina by years of footsteps. A circular, braided rug anchors the seating area, its colors still vibrant despite obvious age.

This isn’t just a house, it’s a home intended for a family. A pack. But Emily lives here alone.

“This is…” Chloe trails off, turning in a slow circle. Her fingers graze a quilt draped over the back of a rocking chair, the fabric a constellation of blue and white stars.

“Come, sit.” Emily gestures toward a dining area visible through an archway. “Food’s ready.”

A work of art in its own right, the dining table features a single slab of maple with the live edge left intact, its surface resting on legs that curve with the grace of deer haunches.

Six chairs surround it, each with a different hand-carved back, flowers on one, mountains on another, waves on a third.

Handwoven placemats mark three settings, with ceramic bowls and plates waiting to be filled.

Chloe pauses mid-step, her attention caught by a framed photograph on a side table. She moves toward it, drawn by something I can’t see from my angle.

“You have a cat?” Delight brightens her features as she bends closer to the photo.

Emily stiffens, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening before she turns away. “I need to slice the bread.”

As she disappears through a doorway, Chloe turns to me, hands curling together. “Did I say the wrong thing? Did her cat die?”

I move closer to her, taking in the photograph that captured her attention. It shows a sleek black cat curled on the very window seat visible across the room, sunlight warming its glossy fur.

“No,” I say quietly, mindful of Emily moving just past the archway. “The cat didn’t die. But it doesn’t live with her anymore.”

Compassion blooms in Chloe’s expression, followed by a shadow of sadness as she places the frame back where she found it.

When she turns to me, questions fill her eyes, her never-ending curiosity wanting the story.

But she doesn’t ask, respecting the boundary of Emily’s privacy.

She has no knowledge of the circumstances, but she knows there’s sorrow behind the story.

Warmth blooms in my chest. Most people would keep asking, but Chloe doesn’t. She knows what it means to carry loss and respects that people share their pain when they’re ready. In that moment, I love her even more, and I have to resist the urge to pull her into my arms.

Instead, I guide her to the table, pulling out a chair. The wood is smooth beneath my fingers, polished by years of touch.

Emily returns carrying a basket draped with a flour-sack towel adorned with stitched yellow chicks around the edges. Steam rises when she pulls the fabric back, revealing dense, rustic rounds of bread, the crust golden-brown and dusted with flour.

“It’s just soda bread.” She places the basket on the table. “Nothing fancy.”

“It smells amazing.” Chloe leans forward, nose twitching as she inhales.

Her eyelashes flutter, pleasure softening her features. The haunted look that has shadowed her since Simon’s appearance recedes, if only for the moment.

Emily’s features shift, the hard lines around her mouth easing as she watches Chloe for a few heartbeats before she returns to the kitchen.

The clink of pottery and the soft pad of Emily’s footsteps fill the silence. I take the seat beside Chloe, close enough that our shoulders brush.

Emily returns with the bowl of a crock-pot held between two oven mitts. She sets it on a waiting trivet.

“Irish stew,” she explains, reaching for Chloe’s bowl to fill it first. “Been cooking all day.”

She fills my bowl next, and my stomach rumbles at the chunks of lamb, potatoes, carrots, and onions, the broth thick and fragrant with rosemary and thyme. “This looks incredible.”