Page 50 of Knot My Type

I should be afraid. Three strange men in an isolated place, and me with nowhere to run even if my frozen limbs could carry me. But something about the way the tall one with sandyhair helps me inside, the way the massive dark-haired one immediately starts building up the fire, the way the quiet one brings me tea without being asked it feels like coming home.

The words pour out of me like water through a broken dam. I was a writer once, before my life imploded. I published five novels that did well enough. After that, words felt pointless. Trivial.

Still, I managed to publish three more books—but they flopped more and more with every release.

Since I’ve been in the cabin, it’s dawned on me: I’m more than a writer—I’m an author. I didn’t stop being one; I just lost my spark. My muse.

But being here, feeling everything I’m feeling with Fen, Kael, and Rhys, has brought that muse—once thought dead—back to life. It’s returned with a vengeance.

I write about the awkwardness of those first days, when we're all strangers tiptoeing around each other. About the slow building of trust, the gradual relaxation of boundaries. I write about Kael's unexpected gentleness when he helps me tend a small cut on my hand, about Rhys making me laugh until my sides ache with stories from his past, about Fen somehow always knowing exactly what I need before I know it myself.

The hours slip by without my notice. The sun climbs higher outside my window, then begins its descent toward the horizon. My coffee grows cold, then gets replaced by fresh cups that appear at my elbow as if by magic—Fen's quiet efficiency at work again.

I write about the night I have my first panic attack in the cabin, when memories of blood and betrayal overwhelm me. How Kael sits with me in the darkness, not saying a word, just his solid presence anchoring me to the present. How Rhys makes me tea and tells me stupid jokes until the shaking stops.How Fen wordlessly hands me a worn paperback mystery and lets me read beside him in companionable silence until dawn.

I write about the morning I wake to find them in the kitchen, moving around each other with unconscious coordination as they make breakfast. How right it looks, how perfectly they fit together. How desperately I want to be part of that dance.

I write about pack dynamics and power structures, about the way alphas are supposed to dominate and omegas are supposed to submit, and how none of that seems to apply to us. How Kael's protectiveness never feels possessive, how Rhys's natural leadership never feels controlling, how Fen's steady presence never feels diminishing.

I write about attraction and desire, about the way my body responds to their scents, their proximity, their casual touches. About lying awake at night wondering what it would feel like to be claimed by not just one alpha, but by all of them. About the shame I feel for wanting something so far outside societal norms, and the growing realization that shame is just another cage I build for myself.

The words flow faster than I can type them, scenes and emotions I've been too afraid to examine spilling onto the page with startling clarity.

I write about yesterday morning, when I wake to find snow still falling but lighter now, and how I catch Kael watching me over his coffee cup. The way his dark eyes soften when he thinks I'm not looking, the way he quickly looks away when our gazes meet. How I want to reach across the table and smooth the permanent furrow between his brows, tell him it's okay to want things, to feel things, to let himself be vulnerable.

I write about the afternoon when Rhys teaches me to play poker, his long fingers deft as he shuffles cards. How he lets me win the first few hands, then grins when I catch on and start playing for real. How his praise when I bluff successfully makeswarmth bloom in my chest like sunshine breaking through clouds.

I write about Fen's quiet moments of care—how he always makes sure my favorite tea is stocked, how he leaves books he thinks I'll enjoy on my nightstand, how he remembers I prefer my eggs over easy and my bacon crispy. How his thoughtfulness feels like love disguised as practicality.

And I write about last night. About my confession and the way they listen without judgment, without trying to fix me or tell me my feelings are wrong. About Kael's admission that he's been guarding himself too, that maybe we all need to let our walls down.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, muscle memory from years of writing taking over. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, in the satisfaction of finding exactly the right word to capture a feeling I barely understand myself.

Chapter Seven: The Choice

The morning sun streams through my window, and I know without looking that the storm has broken. I can feel it in the air—that crisp clarity that comes after nature has spent her fury. The roads will be clear soon. I can leave.

But do I want to?

I sit at my desk, fingers poised over keys that suddenly feel foreign. For weeks, I've been telling myself this is temporary. That I'm just recovering, gathering strength before I return to whatever passes for my real life. But what if this is my real life? What if home isn't a place you return to, but one you choose to stay in?

The words pour out of me, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tight. I write about fear—not the sharp terror of my nightmares, but the soft, insidious fear of wanting something so much it could destroy you. I write about the way Kael's scentmakes me feel safe, how Rhys's laugh makes me feel alive, how Fen's steady presence makes me feel anchored.

I write about pack bonds and chosen family, about the way they've never made me feel like a burden or an obligation. How they've given me space to heal while still making it clear I'm wanted. How they've shown me that being omega doesn't mean being weak or helpless—it means being the heart of something beautiful.

Hours pass. The sun moves across the sky, casting different shadows through my window. My back aches from hunching over the laptop, my wrists protest the constant typing, but I can't stop. The words keep coming, like I'm downloading months of suppressed emotion directly onto the page.

I write about desire—not just physical, though God knows that's there too—but emotional desire. The bone-deep longing to belong somewhere, to someone. To matter in a way that goes beyond basic survival.

I write about the night I almost kissed Kael. How we were cleaning up after dinner, moving around each other in the kitchen, and he reached over me to put a plate in the cabinet. How his scent wrapped around me like a caress, how the heat of his body so close to mine made my knees weak. How I turned around and he was right there, his dark eyes intense with something that made my breath catch.

How we stood frozen for a heartbeat, his hand still braced against the cabinet above my head, my face tilted up toward his. How he pulled back with visible effort, clearing his throat and stepping away, but not before I caught the way his eyes dropped to my lips.

I write about the guilt I feel for wanting all three of them. Society says alphas are possessive, that they don't share. But these three have shared everything else—why not this? Why not me?

I write about the morning I catch Rhys and Fen in what looks like an intimate conversation, their heads bent close together, Fen's hand on Rhys's shoulder. How they spring apart when they see me, but not before I notice the flush in Rhys's cheeks, the way Fen's fingers linger just a moment too long.

How I realize that whatever's building between all of us is more complex than traditional pack dynamics. We're not following the standard script of one alpha, one omega. We're writing our own rules, creating something that exists in the spaces between accepted labels.

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