Page 62 of Knot My Type

"Perfect," I assure him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. "Just thirsty. Don't let them wake up and panic when they realize I'm gone."

His lips curve in a sleepy smile. "I'll guard the fort."

I slip on Kael's discarded shirt, the fabric hanging almost to my knees and carrying his scent like a comfort blanket. The simple act of wearing his clothes sends a little thrill through me—another small claim, another way of belonging.

The house feels different as I pad barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen. Not physically different, but somehow more mine than it was before. Every corner, every shadow, every creaking floorboard is familiar now in a way that speaks to permanence rather than temporary shelter. This isn't just where I'm staying anymore; it's home.

The kitchen is bathed in late afternoon sunlight that streams through the windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the golden air. I fill a glass with cold water from the tap, drinking deeply and relishing the way it soothes my throat, raw from hours of crying out in pleasure and need.

As I set the glass down, I catch sight of my reflection in the kitchen window and freeze. The woman looking back at me is barely recognizable as the buttoned-up, anxiety-ridden person who stumbled through this door four weeks ago. My hair is a wild tangle of waves, my lips are swollen from countless kisses, and the collar of Kael's shirt has slipped to reveal the edge of fresh bonding marks that decorate my throat like jewelry.

But it's more than just the physical changes. There's something in my eyes that wasn't there before—a confidence, a sense of self-possession that radiates from within. I look like a woman who knows she's loved, who knows she belongs, who has finally found her place in the world.

A soft chime from the counter makes me turn, and I realize it's my phone—fully charged for the first time in weeks thanks to the restored power. The screen shows a dozen missed calls and twice as many text messages, all from Rebecca. My best friend, my anchor to my old life, the person who's probably been worried sick about my extended silence.

Guilt twists in my stomach as I scroll through the increasingly frantic messages. The most recent ones are from just this morning, before I made my decision to stay, and they paint a picture of someone genuinely afraid for my safety.

Eliana, PLEASE call me. I'm starting to think something terrible has happened.

I've called the police in your area but they say they can't do a wellness check because of the storm.

If you don't call me by tonight, I'm driving up there myself, roads or no roads.

I need to call her. She deserves to know I'm safe, that I'm happy, that I've made a choice that's going to change everything. But how do I explain what's happened here? How do I tell my fiercely independent, perpetually single best friend that I've not only fallen in love but fallen in love with three men and decided to stay with them permanently?

Rebecca has been my sounding board through every major decision of my adult life. She talked me through my divorce, held my hand through the darkest days after Marcus's betrayal, celebrated every small victory in my writing career. The idea of her not understanding this, not supporting this, makes my chest tight with anxiety.

But I can't put it off any longer. She's worried, and that's not fair to her.

I take a deep breath and dial her number, my heart hammering as it rings once, twice—

"ELIANA!" Her voice is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "Oh my God, are you okay? I've been going out of my mind! Where have you been? Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"I'm fine, Rebecca," I say quickly, using the nickname that always makes her soften slightly. "I'm sorry I worried you. The storm knocked out the power and cell service, and I just got it back today."

"Are you hurt? Are you safe? Please tell me you're not stuck in some creepy cabin with a serial killer or something."

Despite everything, I find myself laughing. "No serial killers. I promise."

"Then what—" She stops abruptly, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. "Wait. There's something different about your voice. You sound different."

Trust Rebecca to pick up on subtle cues even over the phone. We've been friends since college, and she knows me better than almost anyone. Of course she'd notice the change.

"I am different," I admit, settling into one of the kitchen chairs. "A lot has happened, Becca. I need to tell you something, and I need you to really listen without interrupting, okay?"

"Oh God, you did meet someone, didn't you?" Her voice shifts into the tone she uses when she's preparing to be protective. "Please tell me you haven't fallen for some mountain man who's going to keep you chained to a stove for the rest of your life."

"It's not like that," I say quickly. "Well, not exactly like that. There are three of them, and—"

"THREE?" The word comes out as a shriek. "Eliana Marie, please tell me you have not gotten yourself into some kind of weird polygamy situation!"

"It's not polygamy," I protest, though I'm not entirely sure how to explain what it actually is. "They're not married to eachother, and it's not some religious thing. They're a pack. Kael and Rhys are alphas, Fen is a beta, and I'm omega, and we've bonded and—"

"Oh no." Rebecca's voice goes flat with disbelief. "Oh no, no, no. Eliana, please tell me you have not bought into that alpha-beta-omega nonsense. That's not real. That's just fantasy fiction for people who want to romanticize unhealthy power dynamics."

The dismissal hits like a slap, making my cheeks flush with hurt and anger. "It's not nonsense, Becca. And it's not unhealthy. These men have shown me more respect and care in four weeks than Marcus did in two years of marriage."

"That's a pretty low bar," she shoots back. "And you've been isolated with them for a month! That's textbook Stockholm syndrome, honey. You've trauma-bonded with your rescuers."

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