Page 46 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Thirty

Nathaniel

C hloe perches on the edge of my desk in the downstairs office, her pen tapping the seam of her jeans in a rhythm counter to the clock on the wall.

My laptop screen casts a cold glow across the desk’s surface, illuminating the neat stacks of paperwork that include her scanned birth certificate, registry forms, DNA profile, and the Sinclairs’ proposition.

I had collated it all in preparation, the way my father taught me.

Evidence first, followed by analysis and action.

I cover Chloe’s knee with my hand, stilling her tapping, as I dial the number for the inheritance lawyer.

It had taken almost a week to get everything in order, since Chloe didn’t have all of her documentation, and there was no way Vivian Sinclair was going to hand the documents over. But now, we’re as ready as we can be.

Hitting the call button, I put it on speaker so Chloe can listen in.

It rings twice before it clicks over into a crisp, professional greeting. “Milo Reese speaking.”

“Hey, Milo, it’s Nathaniel Burton, with Chloe Richardson present,” I say, my thumb tracing circles on her thigh. “We’re ready for our consult.”

A faint shuffling of papers comes from Milo’s end, and the murmur of a secretary in the background. “You received my pre-brief?”

“Read and annotated,” I confirm, though Chloe’s margin notes in pink gel pen are far more aggressive than my own. “We have your three draft options. Chloe wants to hear them aloud.”

Chloe’s hand lifts to the shamrock pendant at her throat, fiddling with it nervously, but her jaw is set with determination. She’s not backing down now, especially not after the Sinclairs messed with her livelihood.

Milo’s voice fills the office. “Option one: Full withdrawal. You revoke all standing legal and registry ties to the Sinclair pack and re-register as unaffiliated, with a request for privacy protection. Downside is that you lose any claim to the estate or hereditary benefits. Upside is that the Sinclairs can’t leverage pack law to force a courtship or inheritance on you. ”

Chloe’s nostrils flare, and her chin tilts up. She writes a quick note in the margin of the notepad balanced on her thigh, and I read it upside down. No f-ing way .

“Option two?” I prompt.

“Buyout clause,” Milo says. “We argue that the original rejection from the pack nullifies further claim. Sinclair estate can issue a single payout, let’s call it a ‘goodwill severance’, that releases you from any obligation to participate in succession, courtship, or legacy politics.

You’d keep the money, but the pack loses the right to drag you into their drama. ”

Chloe’s hand stills. She draws a double underline, but I catch the hesitation in her posture. She doesn’t want to owe the Sinclairs a single thing. She wants her life to be clean.

“Third option.” I shift closer, sliding my hand up her thigh to her hip. “Lay it out, Milo.”

“Addendum rider,” Milo says, his voice dropping as if worried about who’s listening.

“You accept the Sinclair connection, but with a customized legal addendum. This document blocks any pack from invoking courtship by obligation, force-bonding, or inheritance unless you give explicit written consent. There’s precedent for this.

It’s a nightmare to get past the Registrar, but if you pull it off, you get access to estate resources with zero social leverage from the pack. They can’t touch you.”

Silence stretches. On the desk, the air from the vent ruffles the edges of the DNA results. The ticking of the clock, always faint in this office, now sounds loud, counting down the timeline to decide how to move forward.

Chloe’s mouth works, her tongue pressing into the groove of her lower lip as she digests the options. “What’s the chance of getting option three through the Registrar?”

Milo doesn’t hesitate. “Less than twenty percent, unless you have a sympathetic legal representative or blackmail material on the registrar’s clerk. But, with the right signatures and a little creative phrasing, it can be done.”

Her pen quivers above the paper. “And the odds that the Sinclairs will retaliate?”

“Near-certainty,” Milo says. “But if you want to hurt them, public embarrassment works better than legal. Established packs like theirs care more about reputation than money.”

She gives a sharp exhale. “I don’t want revenge. I want out.”

I squeeze her hip. “Then that’s what we’ll get you.”

A quiet rustle comes from the phone. “I’ll send over the latest draft language for all three options. You’ll need two witnesses, preferably bonded partners, to cosign. Email me if you want to pursue option three, and I’ll call in a favor at the Registrar’s office.”

“Thank you, Milo.” I end the call and shift in my chair to face Chloe. “What are you thinking?”

“I need a cocoa break,” she says, slipping off the desk. She leans down to kiss my cheek. “Do you want some tea? I can bring you some.”

“Give me a minute, and I’ll come out to join you.” I catch her before she can straighten, drawing her in for a longer kiss as I let my pheromones out to soothe her.

She relaxes against me, her small hands curling on my shoulders before she pulls back. “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“Whatever ensures you stay with us.” I sweep my thumb across her glistening bottom lip. “We’re not letting them take you from us. ”

A wobbling smile forms on her lips, and she takes another deep inhale of my pheromones before she slips from the office.

I sit in the quiet and drum my fingers on the edge of the desk, counting the pulse in each fingertip.

The Sinclair proposal sits on the top of the document stack. We had hoped it would be our ace in the hole. Proof that they not only acknowledged Chloe’s bloodline, but intended to use it as manipulation. If it had, Chloe could have used it to break from the Sinclair pack.

But they were careful to avoid making any admissions or using language that could be turned against them. Just a sanitized outline of a courtship with terms, incentives, and family expectations.

Nothing illegal.

Nothing actionable.

I’d been furious when I read through it the first time. Not only at them, but at myself for thinking they’d be stupid enough to put the noose in writing.

Without the recording of the meeting, we’d have no leverage. No real proof of what they threatened.

My hand tightens around the edge of the desk.

If we go forward with Chloe reclaiming her name and making her break public, the Sinclairs will retaliate.

And not only socially. The old guard will come crawling out of the woodwork, the kind who threaten Omegas into submission.

They’ve already made the first volley with her publisher to show they’re willing to push to get what they want.

And my father? He’ll know before we’ve even finished filing the paperwork.

Should I warn him? Get ahead of it? Or would it just give him a reason to interfere more with our pack?

No. We should stay quiet. Deal with this ourselves. Chloe gets to choose when to light the fuse, if that’s what she wants.

I gather the papers into a single stack, slide everything into a black folder, and walk it to the file cabinet to lock it up with a quiet click.

Time to go find her.

She needs to understand what we’re risking and what we might be able to win.

I find Chloe on the front porch, knees drawn up on the seat, a mug of cocoa balanced on her knee. It's empty already, but it gives her hands something to hold. Her notebook sits on the small table beside her, along with the promised cup of tea.

The sun slants in through the fir branches, streaking the porch with dappled light.

When my mother brought me here as a child, the world always seemed separate from the machinations of pack politics.

I had shared that with my bondmates, and we had wanted to offer the same magic of escape for other people when we decided to open the resort.

I wish the magic of Misty Pines could have protected Chloe from all of this, but when we invited the real world onto our shores, it brought all the problems of the real world, too.

I slide onto the chair beside her and accept the tea she passes over.

“The call went about as expected,” I say.

She hums in agreement. “It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?”

I look out at the tree line, past the wild-rose tangle that hasn’t bloomed yet. “It will. Once Milo files the addendum, the Sinclairs will know we’re prepping for a fight. And so will everyone else in their orbit.”

Chloe blinks hard and focuses on a spot in the yard where Sprinkles is stalking a squirrel. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Don’t do that.” I set my mug on the wooden boards and take her hand. “I offered.”

“You didn’t have to. ”

“Yes, I did.” Taking her mug, I set it on the table before I draw her up and settle into her chair.

I pull her down onto my lap, snuggling her close.

“All my life, every connection my father built, every favor he banked, was for his own gain. This is the first time I’m using any of it for myself, and it’s to keep you safe.

I’d call that a better use of family connections. ”

She nuzzles my neck. “Aww, you do care.”

“Don’t spread it around,” I warn, and her mouth curves against my skin.

For a long while, the only sound is the creak of tree branches and the distant caw of crows from the northern wood.

Then Chloe lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want your pack to get hurt because of me.”

I could lie. I could say it won’t happen. Instead, I slide my hand over hers and link our fingers. “It’s your pack, too. This is what we do for those we love.”

She freezes before she releases a shaky breath. “Do you mean that?”

I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes, I love you. I didn’t want to at first, but you snuck into my heart, and now you’re stuck with me.”

“I’m happy to be stuck.” She shifts, her lips brushing the sensitive spot behind my ear. “I love you, too. Even if you were grumpy toward me at the start.”

For a while, we let the quiet stretch. I keep my arm around her, our hands linked, and her breaths warm the curve of my shoulder.

Eventually, though, the spell breaks.

“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” I ask when she stirs. “There's something I want to show you.”

She rubs her head on my shoulder, hair tickling my neck. “Only if you let me wear your jacket.”

“Deal.”

I let her slide off my lap and shrug out of my jacket, settling it around her shoulders. Then I take her hand again, and we step off the porch, our hands clasped.

The path behind the Homestead winds past the shed and around a tangle of raspberry stems that still have last summer’s thorns. The grass is spring-wet and spongy underfoot, and I cup Chloe’s elbow when she stumbles a bit on the slope.

The greenhouse isn’t big. Not yet. It’s a patchwork of salvaged glass and plywood, framed by the kind of rough lumber that never makes the architectural photos.

“My grandfather built this,” I explain as I open the door, releasing a puff of humid air that carries the scent of damp soil. “I need to tear it down to build a safer, more glamorous one, but I’m sentimental.”

Chloe hesitates at the threshold, her foot skimming the wooden step. “Is it safe?”

I tug her forward. “I wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t.”

Sunlight through the panes bathes her in gold, glinting off the pink in her hair. Condensation drips down the glass in streaks, painting wavy lines over the blurred shapes of the forest outside.

I move toward the back left corner, where a cluster of potted starters crowd together. Chloe’s attention gets snagged by the lemon tree, its leaves neon bright and glossy, but I steer her to a pot near the ground.

It’s a lilac sapling, the variety that blooms purple instead of the soft blue that overruns most old yards. The leaves are small and still curled, but they reach upward, the shape unmistakable.

I had ordered it from a botanist, and it came in two days ago.

Chloe crouches to run a fingertip along the edge of a leaf, and the sapling bends under her touch.

“It’s a lilac,” I say.

She stays bent, her hair falling forward, and for a moment, I can’t tell if she’s breathing or holding her breath.

“I thought we could plant it together,” I continue. “When all this is done.”

Chloe doesn’t answer at first. She turns her head, pressing her cheek into the collar of my jacket, and stares at the sapling with an expression somewhere between longing and terror.

“I haven’t had roots in a long time,” she whispers.

I crouch beside her, the humidity clinging to my skin and making the back of my shirt stick. “You don’t have to plant it right away. Or at all.”

A short, startled laugh escapes her, and she wipes a thumb under her eye. “I want to.”

A beetle crawls across the lip of the pot, and Chloe brushes it away, careful not to crush it. The gesture is so tender it hurts.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, letting my hand linger at the curve of her jaw. “When you’re ready.”

She lifts her head, attention shifting from the lilac to my face. Tears shimmer and slip down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the sleeves of my jacket. “Sorry. It’s silly to cry."

“It’s okay.” I draw her back into my arms. “You don’t need a reason. ”

She buries her head against my shoulder. “I can’t wait to join your pack. To bond with you. I want these roots, more than you could ever know.”

But I do know, because I want them, too, just as much.

Now that I’ve found my true mate, I won’t let the Sinclairs take her from me.