Page 40 of Knot Going Down (OlympicVerse #3)

LUCAS

C ooking with Ava is kind of like watching a surgeon operate, if the surgeon also swore at you under her breath and judged everyone else's knife skills with her eyebrows.

She's in her element. Calm. Focused. A little smug.

After last night’s drama, I knew she needed some time away from the alphas, so I talked her and Emily into taking the cooking class I’d originally booked for my old pack. I’m glad I did. It’s nice to see this new side of her.

The gleaming kitchen space on the lower deck of the ship smells like sugar, vanilla, and barely suppressed chaos. Crème br?lée day. Emily’s already singed one of our hand towels with the blow torch.

Ava’s got her hair twisted up in a bun, apron snug around the curve of her waist, and the kind of concentration on her face people usually reserve for defusing bombs or parallel parking in front of a crowd. Her whisk is moving with mechanical precision.

“You are enjoying yourself?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

She glances up, flicking a spot of vanilla bean from her thumb with casual grace. “Obviously.”

“Yes. It is super obvious by the way you are threatening our dessert with the wire whisk.”

Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “It knows what it did.”

Next to us, adorable Emily is holding a blowtorch like it’s a lightsaber. Our instructor, a beta with a nervous laugh, has stopped trying to supervise and seems to only hope no one dies. Blow torches should not be distributed on two-for-one coconut rum shot day.

Ava adds cream to the saucepan without measuring. She does this little swirl thing with the handle like she’s showing off. Honestly, I could watch her cook all day. She’s relaxed here, probably more than she has been in days.

Which makes this the perfect time to say something I probably shouldn’t.

“So,” I start, keeping my tone light and my eyes on Emily’s torch, “hypothetically, if someone were to be in danger of going into heat—someone in this kitchen, hypothetically—they might need… support. Perhaps boundaries should be discussed. Participants. Turn offs. Just a thought.”

Ava shoots me a side eye showing her complete lack of amusement in my topic of conversation.

“Huh,” she says. “You think Emily might go into heat on this cruise?” There’s a small smirk to Ava’s lips that makes me want to kiss her.

One station over, Emily torches the top of her custard like she’s trying to summon something from hell. “Why is this the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done? I want one of these for my apartment.”

We were supposed to be making our own desserts individually, but Ava appointed herself in charge of our Disaster Buddies trio and made Emily’s and mine for us while I tried not to salivate watching her work the spatula.

“If you wanted to talk about it. Or prepare. Or tag someone in to help. Not that you need help. But you certainly will. I do not think?—”

Ava tilts her head and cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Lucas.”

“Yes?”

“You’re lucky you’re holding a ramekin and not your own spleen.”

I hold up the little ceramic bowl in mock surrender. “I am merely trying to be supportive.”

“I’m fine,” she says, a little too fast. “I already told you the plan. A locked door and fresh air.”

I nod like that doesn’t sound like total denial. “Yes. Of course. Totally fine.”

She lifts the saucepan off the heat. “I mean it.”

I almost believe her. Almost. But I saw her face last night after the pills went overboard. The utter panic. She’s good at cooking, great at pretending things are fine, and rather terrible at letting people help.

Emily flicks her torch off and on and cackles. “You guys, I think I just invented dessert arson!”

My usually apprehensive beta evidently blossoms when pyrotechnics are involved.

“ Benzinho ,” I say, quieter now, returning my focus to lubing up my ramekin, “have you considered that being out on the balcony will waft your scent to the whole ship? The scent of an omega in heat.” I let that sit for a minute.

Ava’s lips twist in a rough scowl. She beats the custard a little harder.

“If you change your mind,” I continue, “and want to talk about it, I am here. Not even in a sex way—unless you want that. Mostly… I could hold your hand. Or sit outside the door. Get you electrolytes. But I think?—”

“Oh my God,” she huffs, setting the saucepan back down with an amount of force the custard doesn’t deserve. “Did Declan put you up to this?”

“No. But he did try to talk to you, and you nearly bit his head off.”

“He was being condescending.”

“Was he?” I tilt my head. “Because I think he was trying not to panic while also being supportive. Which, for Declan, looks a lot like condescending because that is likely his default setting as an officer of the law.”

She finally looks at me. Cool. Sharp. “Let me guess. You agree with him.”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Because I’ve been through it, Ava. I know what is coming. You will need a knot. And boundaries should be discussed beforehand.”

Her jaw tightens. The only sign she’s listening is the way her fingers curl slightly at her sides, like she’s resisting the urge to clench them into fists.

“I know it is scary,” I add. “And you are trying to stay in control. But your body does not care if you are ready. When it hits, it hits . And trying to tough it out solo is not brave. It is dangerous.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and I’m sure my ramekin is so overly greased now that it could take a knot. But I prefer to keep my hands busy.

Next to us, Emily accidentally lights a paper towel on fire and yelps. Our instructor nearly trips over a rolling pin trying to put it out. It’s the least stressful thing happening right now.

Ava reaches for my highly lubricated ramekin and pours the warm custard into the dish.

I think custard is supposed to go in the fridge first?

Or do we put it in the fridge after it’s in the ramekin?

I wasn’t paying that much attention, and I’m not about to ask Ava if what she's doing is right. I stay quiet, letting her process, letting her fight with herself in silence. She’s doing the math. Weighing pride against practicality.

“I hate this,” she says finally, barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

She exhales, and something in her posture slumps. Just a little. But enough. Like defeat. And it tugs on my heart. “ If it happens, I’ll probably need help.”

I keep my voice steady. “Probably.”

She still doesn’t look at me. “Yours. Declan’s. Knox’s.” She says their names with a tinge of disgust I know cannot be the full truth of her feelings. I’ve seen the way she looks at them.

But there it is, nonetheless. Not a confession. Not surrender. But a start. A fragile trust. In us. In this fake little pack we’ve formed. In Ava-speak, that’s basically a love letter.

My chest goes tight, but I don’t make a big deal of it. I don’t tease. I don’t smirk. I just nod.

“We will take care of you,” I say. “No matter what.”

“Em,” Ava huffs, checking herself out of our chat. “What you’re doing to that poor thing is a war crime.”

With the easy laugh of someone who didn’t hear our conversation, Emily passes over her torch and custard.

Ava raises the fire like a white flag and caramelizes the custard, the sugar crackling into a perfect golden crust.

Emily looks up, her eyes light. “That smells amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Emily gives her a broad smile before gathering up the dirty pot and utensils.

As Emily turns toward the sink, Ava rolls her eyes and sets her perfect crème br?lée ramekin down with a soft clink . “God help me, I’m going to end up feral, lust drugged, and locked in a room with two overhorny alphas.”

“Not locked,” I say quickly. “Just supervised. Attentively. With snacks.”

“Great,” she mutters. “Can’t wait.”

But she doesn’t sound angry anymore. She sounds resigned. Maybe even a little relieved.

“I want Emily there, too,” she adds, cheeks flushed but not from the torch. “If I’m going feral, I want someone there who knows how to talk to me without smelling like testosterone and on the verge of a rut.”

“I am sure she has impeccable crisis snacks.” I try to play it off, as if this confession isn’t a big deal. “I am certain she will also bring the handcuffs if desired.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Ava replies, too fast, then freezes as her own words hit her.

I grin happily but say nothing. Her cheeks are still pink. Her voice is firm, but I can hear the tiniest shake under it. She’s scared. She’s brave. And she’s trusting us to help her through what’s coming.

All of us.