Page 36 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Under-cabinet lights cast a warm glow across countertops, leaving the rest of the space in shadow.

Holden sits hunched over the island, the light catching in his golden-brown curls and emphasizing the darker circles beneath his eyes.

A worn cookbook lies open before him, his careful handwriting filling the margins.

His tablet rests beside it, the screen dark and smudged with fingerprints.

His shoulders curve inward with an exhaustion that goes deeper than missing sleep. A white T-shirt replaces his earlier sweater, and the tight fit reveals the tension in his neck and arms. His bare feet rest on the stool’s rungs, toes curled tight.

He grips a stylus with white knuckles, pressing the tip into the cookbook hard enough to leave a dent in the pages.

Then he shifts to the tablet, jabbing it awake to scrawl a note in tight script before he slashes it out.

His hand trembles as he starts again, the letters sharp with rising desperation.

Seeing him come undone in the kitchen, in the place that’s always been his refuge, cracks open my chest. This Alpha who bakes comfort into every meal, who pours sweetness into the heart of our home, now sits alone in the dark, rewriting the same words again and again with shaking hands.

“What are you doing?”

My whispered question cuts through the kitchen’s quiet, and Holden's head jerks up. The stylus clatters from his fingers, rolling across the island out of reach.

“Chloe.” My name leaves his lips on an exhale, relief and panic warring across his features. “You should be sleeping.”

I step closer, my bare feet silent on the cool tiles. “So should you.”

His mouth curves in what might be called a grin if I were being generous. “I'm planning breakfast. Have to get an early start.”

I check the time on the stove. “At two in the morning?”

“Is it that early?” A tremor spreads up his arm to his shoulder, a fine vibration unrelated to caffeine or cold and driven entirely by exhaustion running deeper than bone.

I circle the island to stand beside him. “What’s really wrong?”

He attempts another of those brittle smiles, powering off the tablet. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow. Maybe those cinnamon rolls you like, or?—”

I reach out and close the cookbook. The simple action stops his words mid-sentence, and he stares at it as if not understanding.

I move the book beyond his reach. “Try again. ”

His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Chloe, please. You should go back to the nest. The others will worry if they wake and find you gone.”

“Like I did when I found you gone?” I swivel his stool to face me and study the shadows beneath his cheekbones. “I’m not leaving without you.”

His shoulders curve further inward, and he ducks his head. “You don’t understand. Every time… Every single time you leave my sight, someone tries to hurt you.”

His hands fist on top of his thighs, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Louie in the woods. Simon in your apartment. That psycho of a father. I can’t?—”

His voice cracks, his composure giving way to the fear that’s been eating him alive. “I can’t protect you when I’m not there.”

The confession tears from him in ragged pieces, each word dragged from some deep place where terror lives. “When I close my eyes, all I see is you being taken away.”

A tear slides down his cheek, catching the light before disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt. “What if next time I’m in the kitchen baking bread when you disappear forever? What if the last thing I ever do is measure flour while my Omega gets stolen away?”

His raw anguish splits my heart clean in half. This Alpha who feeds our pack with such devoted care, who finds purpose in nurturing and comfort, believes the thing he does best means he's weak.

“I should be protecting you from danger.” Tears well and threaten to spill over. “Blake is so strong. Nathaniel can make anything happen with a plan. And Dominic can charm anyone. But I’m useless . I bake . What good is that when wolves circle our door?”

His breathing comes in short, sharp bursts as his panic gains ground. “Every night, I lie awake listening for sounds that don’t belong. Footsteps on the porch. Windows opening. Boats approaching our dock. Because I know the moment I let my guard down, someone will come for you again.”

“Holden.” I reach for him, but he pulls back, shaking his head.

“No, you don’t get it. When Simon was trying to kidnap you, where was I? In the kitchen. Baking muffins. Like some domestic Omega instead of the Alpha who should be?—”

I don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish tearing himself apart with words that hold no truth. Instead, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling his head down to rest on my shoulder.

He resists for a heartbeat, tension holding his frame rigid. Then he crumbles, his arms coming up to circle my waist as he buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breathing stutters on my skin.

“I’m right here,” I whisper into his curls, my fingers threading through the golden-brown strands. “I’m safe. We’re all safe.”

His desperate grip tightens, as if I might evaporate if he doesn’t hold on.

“Show me,” I whisper, lips brushing his temple, my fingers still threaded through his curls.

He pulls back, confusion flickering in hazel eyes still bright with tears. “Show you what?”

“How to bake those strawberry scones I love so much.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone, wiping away the salt track his tears left behind. “The ones with the cream that melts on your tongue.”

His brow furrows. “Chloe, it’s two in the morning.”

“Perfect time for baking.” I step back, taking his hands in mine. His fingers, cold despite the kitchen’s warmth, tremble as our palms connect. “Teach me something I’d never be able to do alone. ”

A ghost of his real smile flickers across his lips. “You just want to lick the bowl.”

“Obviously.” I squeeze his hands, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “But also, I want you to show me what makes you feel strong. What grounds you when the world gets too loud.”

He studies my face in the under-cabinet lighting, searching for an answer I hope he finds. Then he turns toward the refrigerator with quiet resolve. “Strawberry scones it is.”

The familiar rhythm of preparation begins to work its magic on him. His movements gain purpose as he gathers butter, flour, cream, and eggs, each item placed on the counter with the practice of someone who’s performed this dance countless times.

“First rule of baking.” He washes his hands for baking the same way a doctor preps for surgery, all the way up to his elbows. “Everything has its place.”

I mirror his actions, scrubbing my palms clean while he arranges measuring cups like little soldiers.

“Strawberries first.” He pulls a container from the refrigerator. “They need to be chopped small enough to distribute evenly, but not so small they disappear into the dough. ”

He hands me a knife, and I begin slicing the berries. The sweet scent rises between us, summer condensed into small red cubes that stain my fingertips pink.

I pop one into my mouth and moan. “Why are these so good? The ones from the store are never this good.”

“Nathaniel grew them for me in the greenhouse out back.”

Holden measures flour with the precision of a chemist, leveling each cup with a knife edge. His hands have stopped shaking, steadied by the familiar motions requiring no thought, only muscle memory built through years of practice.

“Now the butter.” He cuts cold chunks into the flour mixture. “This is where people usually go wrong. They work it too much, and it turns the pastry tough.”

His fingers work through the mixture with practiced efficiency, rubbing butter and flour together until the texture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. I watch the concentration on his face, the way his brow furrows as he achieves the perfect consistency.

“Your turn.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the bowl.

I bury my hands in the mixture, feeling the cool butter soften under my touch. The texture shifts as I work.

“Good.” He moves to stand behind me, his chest brushing my back as he reaches around to guide my hands. “Feel how it changes? The butter starts to warm, but you don’t want it to melt.”

His breath tickles my ear as he speaks, vanilla and warmth surrounding me in a secondary embrace. I lean back into him, savoring the solid weight of his body against mine.

“Add the strawberries now.” His voice drops lower, intimate in the kitchen’s quiet. “Fold them in gently. They’ll bleed if you’re too rough.”

I work the fruit through the mixture, crimson streaks marbling the pale dough. Holden’s hands cover mine, guiding the motion, teaching me the difference between mixing and folding through touch rather than words.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

Heat that has nothing to do with baking floods my cheeks. I turn in the circle of his arms, flour dusting my onesie, sticky strawberry juice on my fingers.

“What’s next?” I ask, though the catch in my breath suggests I’m not focused on the recipe.

His pupils dilate as his focus drops to my mouth. “Cream. We add the cream to bring it all together.”

But instead of reaching for the carton, his hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Chloe...”

“Scones first,” I whisper, though every cell in my body wants to forget about baking and lose myself in the hunger building between us. “Then we can discuss dessert.”

He laughs, the sound rusty but genuine. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m practical.” I duck under his arm to grab the cream, pouring it into the bowl in a steady stream. “And I want to see your face when the first scones I’ve ever made come out perfect because of you.”

We work together to bring the dough into a rough ball and turn it onto a floured surface. His hands guide mine as we pat it into a circle, showing me how to cut clean wedges that will rise perfectly in the oven.

The scones slide into the heated oven with a soft whoosh of displaced air. Holden sets the timer and turns to find me hopping onto the counter, my legs swinging.

“Come here,” I say, patting the empty space between my knees.

When he reaches me, I part my legs for him to step between them. The position brings us to nearly equal height, his face level with mine.

My hands find his shoulders, kneading at the tension still lingering beneath his T-shirt. “Better?”

His lashes sweep down as he leans into my touch. “Getting there.”

But a fragility lingers in his expression, a hairline crack that might shatter under too much pressure. I stroke my fingers down his arms, feeling the fine tremor still running beneath his skin.

“Talk to me,” I whisper. “What do you need?”

He opens his eyes, and the raw honesty in them steals my breath. “I need you.” His hands find my hips, firm and trembling all at once. “Not just physically, though I want that, too. I need to know you’re real. You’re here. You’re mine.”

My breath catches, because I feel it, too. The fear of not being enough, of being loved but still left behind.

“Then take it,” I say, barely louder than the rain. “Take me. Show me I’m yours. Because I’m not going anywhere, Holden. And neither are you.”