Page 35 of Knot My Type

I move into the kitchen, preparing the meal not because she asked for it—she didn’t—but because something in me tells me she needs it.

Maybe it’s just the silence that fills the cabin.

Or maybe it’s the quiet way her presence pulls at me, urging me to bridge the divide that both fascinates and terrifies me.

The fire crackles again, a soft pop breaking the stillness, and I glance over my shoulder. Eliana is sitting by the window, her body tense as she looks out at the mountain landscape, her gaze distant and lost. She hasn’t said much since waking up, and each quiet word she manages to utter is layered with wariness, as if every interaction is a negotiation rather than a conversation.

I drop the last bit of meat into the pan, the sizzle reverberating through the cozy space and drawing her attention, albeit briefly. Her eyes narrow, and I can see the sharp edge of her exhaustion still clinging to her like a shroud. But there’s something else there too—something softer, a glimpse of vulnerability that strikes a chord deep within my chest.

“Smells good,” she says quietly, her voice tentative, as if testing the waters of trust.

I don’t respond right away. I keep working, moving in a rhythm that’s become second nature to me. I’m not good with words, especially not with her. Especially not with anyone anymore. But cooking is something I know. It’s simple and clean, transforming raw ingredients into nourishment. It doesn’t require the kind of vulnerability I’ve been unlearning over the years.

She shifts again, her breath quickening as her body tenses further. My gaze snaps back to her, and I can sense an almost electric tension brewing between us, a recognition of the fragility of this moment.

“I’m making stew,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intend but steady all the same. “Venison, wildroot, and garlic. Should be done in a few.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, but I hear her move, the soft sound echoing through the hushed cabin. It’s almost like a melody, the gentle rustle of her movements. When she stands, her legs seem unsure beneath her weight, and I watch as she catches herself against the table.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but she shakes her head, cutting me off before I can finish.

“I’m not going back to bed,” she says quietly, but there’s a firmness to her words, a defiance I hadn’t expected. “I’m not going to just lie here waiting for someone to hand me food.”

I don’t know what to make of that. Stubbornness beams through her every action, shining brightly. I can see it in the way she holds herself, even now, standing in front of me with her back straight, posture unwilling to concede despite the shadow of exhaustion still lingering around her.

I finish stirring the pot, adding a bit of salt and a few more herbs. The scent fills the small cabin with warmth and familiarity, the steam rising and curling into the air like a comforting embrace. There’s something soothing about the process—something that feels almost sacred in its simplicity—something I cling to in the face of uncertainty.

“Sit,” I say, my voice low, trying to soften the edges of my command. “You’ll need your strength.”

She hesitates, and I can feel the weight of her indecision. After a brief pause, she moves to the table anyway, sliding into one of the chairs by the window, her eyes never leaving me. I can’t help but feel a shift; I see the vulnerability in her posture and the slight tremor in her hands as she wraps them around the wooden table. It tugs at something deep inside me, a thread of protectiveness woven into the fabric of our situation.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear. But I hear it, and it settles somewhere warm in my chest. I glance over at her.She looks better.The color is returning to her cheeks, and for a brief moment, the hollow look in her eyes seems to dissipate. Yet, that wariness is still there, a barrier between us that feels nearly insurmountable.

I set a bowl of the steaming stew down in front of her. She reaches for the spoon, her fingers trembling slightly as she stirs the contents, the enticing aroma wafting toward her. This is my offer of care, my attempt to show her she’s more than a fleeting moment in this pack’s life.

“This is good,” she says, lifting a spoonful to her mouth. Her eyes dart briefly to mine, and for the first time, I see a hint of surprise mixed with appreciation. “Better than what I expected.”

I don’t say anything, simply observing her as she takes another bite. I’m not sure what I expected either—to feel resentment or something else entirely. But all I feel now is an urge to dismantle the barriers between us, even if only just a little.

With each spoonful, her posture seems to relax, the tension in her shoulders easing slowly. A soft exhale escapes her—a sound I hadn’t realized I was holding onto. It settles within me, mingling with the comforting crackle of the fire.

“You cook like a pro,” she says, her voice growing steadier with the warmth of the meal. “I didn’t know this side of you.”

I chuckle softly, surprised at the compliment. “It’s the only thing I know how to do well anymore,” I reply, meeting her gaze for an elongated moment.

The conversation flows without urgency as if we’re both hanging onto the quiet breath of the cabin, allowing the moment to expand between us. I study her more closely now, noting the way she seems to absorb everything around her—the way the firelight glows in her hair, enveloping her in a halo of warmth,and how the shadows beneath her eyes start to soften. It’s as if she’s beginning to finally emerge from the storm inside herself, swayed by the simple act of nourishment, the sense of being cared for.

“I’m glad you’re finally up,” I say gently, shifting my weight on the seat across from her. “We were worried about you.”

She looks at me, her expression pensive. “Worried? I didn’t think anyone would care,” she admits, and there’s a vulnerability in her tone that strikes a chord within me.

I can’t let her feel like she’s just a burden. “Of course we care. You’re part of this pack now, whether you want to admit it or not. We look out for each other.”

She raises her brows, and there’s a spark of hope in her eyes. “Part of the pack. That’s quite the responsibility,” she replies, stirring the stew absentmindedly, her gaze dropping to the surface.

“Does it scare you?” I ask, feeling drawn to peel away the layers of uncertainty that surround her. “Being part of something? Being around Alphas?”

She looks up at me, and I can see her weighing my question carefully. “It’s not that I’m scared. It’s just different. I’ve always been alone, and now I’m trying to figure out where I stand.”

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