Page 69 of Knot My Type

"For a cabin in 1987, maybe," Fen shoots back.

I find myself laughing, the easy banter dissolving my anxiety about legal arrangements and property rights. These men want me here, want me protected and secure and legally recognized as part of their family. The fact that they're thinking about such practical details speaks to the seriousness of their commitment in a way that grand romantic gestures never could.

"Okay," I say, surprising myself with how easily the word comes. "If you think it's important, then yes. Let's make it official."

The smiles that greet this declaration make me feel like I've given them a gift rather than accepted one.

"Good," Kael says with satisfaction. "I'll call our lawyer next week, get the paperwork started."

"Our lawyer," I repeat, testing the words. "I like the sound of that."

We finish cleaning up together, the four of us moving around the kitchen with increasing synchronization. I'm learning the rhythm of their domestic dance, finding my place in the careful choreography of shared space and shared responsibility. It's different from any living situation I've ever experienced—more collaborative, more considerate, more fundamentally equal despite our different roles and personalities.

When everything is clean and put away, we migrate to the living room, settling onto the large sectional sofa that somehow manages to accommodate all four of us comfortably. I'm curled between Kael and Fen, with Rhys stretched out at the other end, his long legs tangled with mine in casual intimacy.

"So," Rhys says, his voice carrying a particular tone that makes me look up at him. "About the other practical stuff we need to discuss."

"What other practical stuff?" I ask, though something in his expression makes me suspect I'm not going to like this conversation.

"Heat cycles," he says bluntly. "Specifically, yours. What they're like normally, how often they occur, what kind of support you need."

Heat floods my cheeks, embarrassment and something else warring in my chest. We've been through one cycle together already, but that was spontaneous, unplanned, more instinct than preparation. The idea of discussing it clinically, of planning for future cycles like items on a calendar, feels strangely vulnerable.

"Every three months, usually," I say, my voice smaller than I'd like. "Though stress and major life changes can affect the timing. They last about three days, sometimes four if they're particularly intense."

"And what do you normally do?" Fen asks gently. "During them, I mean. How do you manage?"

The question is fair, necessary even, but it brings up memories I'd rather not revisit. "Before, I dealt with it alone. Took time off work, stocked up on supplies, waited for it to pass."

"Alone?" Kael's voice carries a note of something that might be anger, though I don't think it's directed at me.

"Marcus wasn't..." I struggle to find words that don't make me sound pathetic. "He wasn't comfortable with that aspect of omega biology. He thought it was messy, inconvenient. So I learned to handle it by myself."

The silence that follows is heavy with things none of them are saying. I can feel the tension radiating from all three of them, the barely controlled anger at my ex-husband's callousness.

"That's not how it's going to be with us," Rhys says finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Ever."

"I know," I assure him. "What we shared yesterday, what we did together—I've never experienced anything like that. I didn't know it could be like that."

"Good," Kael says, and there's something possessive and protective in his voice that makes my stomach flutter. "Because we're going to take care of you. All of you, every aspect of you, for as long as you'll let us."

The promise settles into my bones like warmth, like coming home after a long journey through cold and lonely places. I've never been cherished like this, never been with people who see every part of me—even the inconvenient, biological parts—as something to be treasured rather than tolerated.

"There's something else," I say before I can lose my nerve. "About omega biology, I mean. Something we should probably discuss before we go any further."

All three of them go still, attention focusing on me with laser intensity.

"Fertility," I say simply, the word heavy with implication. "Omega cycles aren't just about heat. They're about reproduction. And when we bond like we have, when we share cycles and knots and all of that—pregnancy becomes a real possibility."

The silence that follows is profound, loaded with thoughts and feelings I can't begin to untangle. We've been so focused on the emotional and relationship aspects of our bond that the biological realities have remained largely unspoken.

"How do you feel about that?" Fen asks quietly. "About the possibility?"

It's such a simple question, but it hits at the heart of everything I've been trying not to think about too directly. How do I feel about the possibility of carrying a child—or children—fathered by one or more of these men? About expanding our family in the most fundamental way possible?

"Scared," I admit honestly. "But not in a bad way. More like overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. I've always wanted children, but I'd given up on the idea after Marcus made it clear he wasn't interested in being a father."

"And now?" Rhys prompts gently.

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