Page 49 of Knot Their Arrangement

She groans – a delightfully unguarded sound – before covering her face with her hands in a gesture that somehow manages to be both childish and endearing.

"I stopped because..." Her voice comes out muffled through her fingers, barely above a whisper. "The girl's going into heat and the pack is doing all these sinful things which are fantastically written but if I continue..." Another frustrated groan escapes her before she drops her hands in defeat. "Never mind! It's stupid!"

My smirk widens at her continued discomfort, but before I can respond, Damon makes his move.

With that casual dominance that comes so naturally to him, he captures her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze. The gesture should seem aggressive, but there's something almost tender in how carefully he handles her, as if she's made of the finest porcelain.

They make quite the picture – Damon leaning close, Kamari looking up at him with those wide, startled eyes. Their proximity speaks of intimacy, of unacknowledged attraction that simmers just beneath the surface.

If I didn't know better, I'd think they were lovers sharing a private moment rather than two strangers who met mere hours ago.

Though perhaps 'strangers' isn't quite the right word anymore.

"I don't get all the philosophies and dynamics of reading and storytelling like Kieran over there," Damon says, his voice dropping to that dangerous purr that usually precedes trouble. "But it does intrigue me enough to hear you finish expressing how the book makes you feel."

I watch as another wave of color floods her cheeks, but this time something else enters her expression – a spark of defiance that makes her brown eyes flash with sudden fire.

It's especially noticeable in how her pupils dilate, revealing more about her emotional state than she probably realizes.

"Or is that something Omegas don't share about because it's a weakness?" Damon pushes, and I have to hide my amusement behind my wine glass.

He's always known exactly which buttons to push.

Watching him work is like observing a master artisan. He knows precisely how to provoke the reactions he wants, how to peel back layers of propriety to expose raw truth underneath.

Our little princess's weakness is clearly her emotional reactions, and Damon, ever the strategist, has already mapped out exactly how to trigger them.

Sure enough, Kamari's spine straightens, indignation overwhelming her earlier embarrassment.

"I-It's not a weakness to be turned on by a detailed ten-page sex scene!" she declares with unexpected volume, just as our waitress arrives with our dessert order.

The timing is absolutely perfect – the kind of scene I couldn't write better myself.

The waitress, consummate professional that she is, doesn't even blink as she sets down two cups of coffee, a cup of tea, and three servings of vanilla ice cream with practiced precision.

Kamari looks like she wants to sink through the floor, her entire face now resembling a ripe tomato.

The blush has spread down her neck, disappearing beneath her saree's modest neckline, and I find myself wondering just how far down it goes.

"Thank you for the swift delivery," Damon tells the waitress smoothly, his hand never leaving Kamari's back.

His perfect manners only seem to fluster our Omega further, as if his casual acceptance of her outburst makes it somehow more embarrassing.

I can't help but let my smile grow as I observe them.

The dynamics at play are fascinating – Damon's calculated provocations, Kamari's instinctive responses, the way they seem to orbit each other without fully realizing it. She fits into our world with surprising naturalness, despite – or perhaps because of – her obvious inexperience with its darker aspects.

The writer in me can't help but catalogue every detail:the way her fingers twist nervously in her saree, how Damon's touch seems to both calm and excite her, the subtle ways her body language shifts between fight and flight.

It's all valuable data, all potential material for future stories.

Though somehow I suspect her real story might prove more interesting than anything I could write.

The waitress retreats with silent efficiency, leaving us alone with our desserts and the lingering echo of Kamari's embarrassing declaration.

The ice cream is already starting to melt, three perfect scoops crowned with fresh vanilla beans – evidence of Cardinal's attention to even the smallest details.

My gaze returns to my book, still sitting closed before her.

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