Page 5 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

“I don’t know if we will today.” I squeeze her fingers. “But living here, you’ll see them at some point, and they’re always fun to watch.”

“Is it weird that my apartment is so close to the harbor, but I never visited it?” She rests her head on my bicep. “I’m such a hermit unless someone drags me out of my cave.”

My chest tightens with unexpected emotion. Grady was probably that person, but now she’s here, with us, our pack will be the ones showing her things she’s never experienced before.

“I don’t think it’s weird.” I lift our joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “We can dig for shells, too, and dip our feet in the ocean.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring anything to swim in.” She peers down at her outfit of leggings and a T-shirt under my jacket .

“The water’s too cold for swimming. Pacific Northwest, remember? That water comes from the glaciers.”

She shudders, her happiness dimming. “Oh, yeah. One dip in those icy depths was enough for me.”

I kick myself for reminding her of her one and only time in the ocean, fleeing from Louie’s grasp, and I point to a bush as we pass. “Have you ever picked wild huckleberries?”

Her lips form an oh of excitement. “No! Do they grow here?”

“They do, though it’s a fight to pick them before the wildlife does.” The path narrows, forcing us to walk closer, and her body brushes mine with each step, sending electricity across my skin. “If we’re lucky, Holden will get enough to make us ice cream.”

“That man is a wonder.” Her brow furrows. “But what if the wildlife eats them all first?”

I bend to whisper in her ear. “Then we can order them online and pretend we picked them.”

She giggles. “Deal.”

We move away from the cleared paths, entering the tunnel of trees that leads toward the shoreline, and afternoon light filters through branches in dappled patterns, painting her skin in shifting gold.

We fall into a comfortable silence, twigs breaking beneath our shoes, leaves rustling, and birds calling in the distance.

Every so often, her face turns upward, watching sunlight struggle through the canopy.

And each time she smiles, small and private, like she’s sharing a secret with the island where I built my best memories.

My gaze lingers on the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck disappearing into the collar of my jacket, and hunger that has nothing to do with food tightens my gut.

She catches me staring and turns that secretive smile on me. “What’s that look for?”

Heat rises in my face, caught in my appreciation. “My jacket looks good on you.”

The words are inadequate for the possessive satisfaction I get seeing her in my clothing, but they’re all I trust myself to say.

She tugs at the sleeve, bringing it to her nose in a subtle movement. “Smells like you.”

The simple statement draws a purr from me, along with a deep satisfaction that she’s surrounding herself with my scent.

The trail begins to slope downward, the first hint that we’re approaching the water. Through breaks in the trees, glimpses of blue appear, the ocean shimmering under the midday sun .

“Almost there.” I guide her around a fallen log draped in emerald moss. “Careful of your step.”

Chloe stops, tugging my hand. “What are those?”

I follow the line of her finger to a cluster of mushrooms growing at the base of a cedar tree, small, cream-colored caps with gills the color of coffee.

“Oyster mushrooms.” I crouch, tugging her with me. “They’re edible. Holden forages for them sometimes.”

Her fingers hover near the cluster without touching, her expression caught between fascination and uncertainty. “They grow just anywhere?”

“They have preferences. Dead logs, certain trees.” I reach out, brushing a finger over one cap to show its velvety texture. “These like the moisture and shade.”

An earthy, sweet scent rises from the disturbed mushrooms, and Chloe leans closer, her shoulder pressing to mine, pink hair tickling my neck as she inhales.

“They smell like… rain,” she decides, looking up at me with an impish wrinkle of her nose that hooks behind my ribs and tugs .

I stand, helping her up with our still-joined hands. “There’s more to see. Come on.”

The trail curves around a massive Douglas fir, its trunk wider than both of us together. Sunlight breaks through more often now, the canopy thinning as we approach the water.

“Look here.” I point to a bush with spiky green leaves. “That’s a salmonberry bush. In May, they’ll bear orange and red berries.”

Chloe stares at it. “I’ve never heard of salmonberries.”

“They’re similar to blackberries and raspberries, but tart and not as sweet. Holden gathered enough to bake a tart last year.”

Chloe steps closer to the bushes, her free hand reaching out to touch the leaves with careful fingertips. “You can just eat things from the forest?”

The question reminds me of how different our childhoods were, with mine spent in these woods and hers never leaving the city.

“Some things. If you know what’s safe.” I squeeze her hand. “First camping trip I took with Dominic and Holden, I tried to show off my wilderness knowledge. Ended up with all three of us covered in nettle stings because I misidentified a plant.”

Her laughter bubbles up, bright and clear. “ Seriously? I can’t imagine you making a mistake like that.”

My lips curve upward at the memory, my embarrassment mellowed into fondness by time. “Dominic wouldn’t let me live it down for months. Kept leaving drawings of nettles littered with skulls and crossbones on my desk.”

We resume walking, the path now carpeted with pine needles that cushion our steps and fill the air with a sharp, clean scent.

“What else happened on these camping trips?” Chloe asks, alight with curiosity.

The question opens a floodgate of memories, four young Alphas trying to coexist in the wilderness, learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses years before we’d share a home.

“Second trip, Holden insisted he knew how to start a fire without matches.” I shake my head, remembering his determined expression. “Two hours of him rubbing sticks together, hands blistered, while Dominic, Blake, and I froze our asses off waiting.”

“Did it work?” She steps over a jutting rock, her body leaning into mine for balance.

“Nope. When Holden took a bathroom break, Dominic pulled matches from his pack and lit it. Swore us all to secrecy.” The memory still brings warmth to my chest, Dominic’s wink as he struck the match, our silent conspiracy to protect Holden’s pride.

“When Holden came back, we acted amazed that his friction method had succeeded.”

Chloe’s lips twitch with amusement. “Did he believe you?”

“For years. Dominic confessed when we were moving into the Homestead together. Holden didn’t speak to him for two days.” The recollection draws a chuckle from me. “Then he baked Dominic’s favorite coffee cake as a peace offering but left out all the sugar.”

Her laughter joins mine, our combined sounds rising through the thinning trees. The scent of saltwater grows stronger with each step, the rhythm of waves more distinct.

“You four…” She shakes her head, pink strands catching the increasing light. “I can’t imagine you all in university.”

“Chaotic, mostly, each of us figuring out our places in the pack.” My thumb traces circles on her knuckles. “But it was incomplete until you arrived.”

The words emerge without planning, raw truth instead of careful construction. Her scent shifts, warming with pleasure.

The trees open before us, revealing a small crescent of shoreline curved around the ocean. Water stretches to the horizon, the surface rippling with wind patterns, sunlight creating a pathway of light across its center.

Chloe freezes beside me, her intake of breath sharp and quick. “Oh.”

I watch her face instead of the view, seeing the familiar landscape reflected in her expression breathes new life into it, transforming a place I’ve visited dozens of times into a magical experience.

She steps forward, drawing me with her, onto the boundary where the forest floor transitions to the open shore. Her steps slow as the ground changes beneath her feet, becoming uneven, shifting.

“It’s real sand!” She drops to her knees, pulling me into an awkward half-crouch beside her.

Her free hand, the one not gripping mine, presses into the damp surface, fingers spreading out. The fine grains, dark and mixed with small pebbles typical of Pacific Northwest beaches, push up between her fingers as she presses down.

“It’s cold,” she says, wonder in her voice. “And it moves, but not like dirt. It’s…”

She tips her face up to me, searching for words.

“Yielding,” I offer, setting the picnic basket down to kneel next to her. “But it holds your shape for a bit before it fills in.”

She lifts her hand, revealing a perfect impression that is already beginning to lose definition, tiny avalanches of sand filling in the deepest parts of her handprint.

“In books, they always describe beaches with soft white sand and warm oceans.” She lifts her head to stare out over the water. “But this is beautiful, too. Gritty.”

“It is.” I run my fingers through the cool grains beside her handprint. “You have to have guts to go into these waters and risk freezing.”

She absorbs this information the same way she approaches everything new, fully present and entirely engaged. I wonder at what stories spin away in her mind and if one of her next books will hold a setting like this.

“We should set up before the tide changes.” I stand, offering my hand again, which she takes without hesitation.

Taking the checkered blanket off the top of the basket, I spread it out onto the damp sand, the fabric settling with a soft sigh. I take off my boots to leave at the corners and anchor the light material and gesture for her to do the same so we don’t track dirt onto the blanket .

Then we sink onto the fabric, sitting close enough for our shoulders to touch. The blanket provides minimal cushioning for the sand beneath, but it’s enough to keep our clothes clean and somewhat dry.

When I open the picnic basket and pull out the containers Holden prepared, we find cucumber sandwiches cut into precise triangles, cookies wrapped in wax paper, and thermoses that steam when unscrewed.

“He even packed napkins,” Chloe says, touching the cloth ones embroidered with tiny blue flowers. “Holden thinks of everything.”

“He shows love through details.” I arrange the food in front of us. “Always has.”

The sound of soft waves fills the space, a rhythmic backdrop that allows for unhurried conversation, the silence as meaningful as what’s spoken. Water rushes toward shore, hesitates at its peak, then retreats with a sigh.

Chloe leans into me, her body warm through the layers of my jacket and her clothes. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

The breeze lifts strands of her pink hair, dancing them across my cheek, and I press my lips to her temple, tasting salt on her skin. “Thank you for coming with me. ”

Her fingers find mine again, and I revel in the current that runs between us, stronger than the ocean’s waves, more persistent than the tide.

We haven’t spoken of it yet, but it’s building, the bond humming stronger every time we touch.

When Chloe’s Heat comes, she’ll be ours. It’s only a matter of time.