Page 22 of Pack Down Bad

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I can fill in the blank for myself.Just in case I wind up staying.I want to, but I don’t know how to tell him that or ask about the possibility just yet.

Dropping my chin to stare shyly at my own feet, I admit so quietly that I’m not sure he can even hear me when I say, “I want to learn.”

ChapterTwelve

Belle

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Percy asks as he hands me two travel mugs of coffee.

I nod resolutely. “We’re scent-matched, Percy.” Saying the words openly feels so weird. “How can we ever decide how to handle that if I can’t find a way to get to know Knox a little? If he hates my presence, I might as well not start fantasizing about what life would look like if...”

I don’t want to finish my sentence.

I’m too afraid of hope.

“He doesn’t hate you, Belle.” Percy’s argument is hard to believe when his eyes are heavy with sympathy.

“He totally does.” Otherwise, how could he be so cold to me as his scent-match? “But maybe one of your special coffees and my pleasant demeanor can convince him to change his mind!”

“I appreciate your optimism, so good luck.” Percy laughs.

When I told him my plan, he warned me that Knox’s workshop is usually off-limits when Knox is painting. Interrupting his day might be a huge mistake on my part, but I have to try. Who knows how long they’ll let me stick around? I have to make headway while I can... or risk losing my scent-matches and being stuck living the rest of my life with whoever I can find as a consolation prize.

With coffees in hand, I exit the house and follow the path Rhys shoveled for Knox to his workshop. The wood door is cracked open, practically inviting me in. When I reach the workshop, I nudge the door open wider with my foot and slip inside.

I’m not prepared for the sight of Knox at work. He’s shirtless and barefoot, his back muscles glistening as he paints a stroke of navy paint across the biggest canvas I think I’ve ever seen in person. His muscles ripple as he shuffles over to swipe his brush through more of the same color on a palette balanced on top of a stool nearby.

Instrumental music with a strong beat reverberates through the large shed that’s been set up as a painter’s workshop.

The sight of Knox is too distracting to take a good look at the rest of the place, but I can see a huge collection of painted canvases lining every wall from my peripheral vision.

I can’t tear my main focus away from Knox.

There is paint streaked across his body. A green slash over his shoulder. A deep gray trickling down his arm. And when he turns, I see some of the navy color rubbed across the right side of his jawline.

“Belle?” He notices me, his mouth falling open in surprise. “You’re not supposed to be in here. What are you doing?”

He practically stumbles over his own feet, rushing over to a workbench covered in different containers of paint. He jams a button on an old school boombox to shut the music off abruptly, and then quickly throws a canvas sheet over the whole table.

“Is your preferred paint brand a national secret?” I joke in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Knox turns back to me with a frown and crosses his arms over his chest, not acknowledging my bad attempt at humor. “It’s cold out. You should go back inside, or go back to following Rhys around.”

He makes me sound like a stray puppy. I guess Iamsort of a stray, lost from home and desperate to stay in theirs.

Instead of letting him scare me off, which seems to be the goal, I walk further into the workshop and choose a section of paintings to admire. A few of them don’t seem quite finished, but I can tell they’re all amazing. My heart swells with emotion as I see the scope of Knox’s work. He’s done everything from abstracts heavy with emotional tension to beautiful mountain landscapes capturing a sense of nostalgia.

I don’t feel like someone who knows a ton about art, but I know enough to know that Knox’s art makes people feel things. No wonder he can afford for this to be his full-time job.

“You’re really good,” I murmur. I shouldn’t be surprised. Any man as tense as Knox is bound to be crazy talented to balance things out.

Knox grunts, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just paint.”

“This,” I point to a particularly compelling portrait of a silhouette in the woods, “isnotjust paint.” I inhale deeply, smelling past the paint fumes to get a whiff of the other smell lingering on the canvas. “This one smells like you.”

He swallows hard.

“Why are you painting shirtless?” I ask, assuming that’s why the canvas is so thick with his scent. “Is it a tortured alpha artist thing?

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