Page 68 of Knot Your Sugar

"I'll be there," I say, my voice tight, clipped. I turn away before he can see the toxic mixture of fear and resentment swirling in my eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I’d like to get some more practice before the day is over."

As I walk back toward the festival grounds, each step a tiny explosion of frustration on the gravel path, I feel invisible walls closing in around me.

This is fine, a smallvoice whispers in the back of my mind.One conversation. That’s all you agreed to. You’ll go, you’ll listen, you’ll clear the air. Then you’ll walk away and focus on winning tomorrow.

And yet, I can’t shake the tight coil of anxiety in my chest. I feel cornered, like I’m being forced into a confrontation I didn’t ask for, one they’ve made impossible to avoid.

I only hope this won't just make everything worse…

Chapter thirty-five

Elena

I stare at my reflection in the Harborview's decidedly upscale bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is a stranger: pale, tense, her eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself. "Just act normal. Deny everything. They can't prove anything."

My pep talk isn't very convincing. But at least, my pre-heat symptoms seem to be under control. Sorta. For now.

When I return to the secluded, private booth they’ve reserved in the corner of the gastropub, all three of them stand as if choreographed. The gesture, meant to be courteous, I’m sure, feels suffocating, almost predatory. Like three handsome, well-meaning wolves politely holding open the door to the sheep pen.

“Your sparkling water,” Dorian says, his voice smooth as silk as he slides a crystal glass toward me. James and Coleare nursing beers, while Dorian sips something amber and expensive-looking. I’d refused alcohol, needing every ounce of my wits about me for this… confrontation.

“So,” I begin, my voice surprisingly steady as I cut through their attempts at polite, pre-ambush small talk. "Let's just get to it, shall we? You think I'm an omega. A late-blooming one, if Cole’s intel was correct."

The three of them exchange a quick, loaded glance.

"Yes," Cole finally says, his voice calm, steady. "Based on your scent."

"Which has changed significantly in the last few days," Dorian adds, his gaze intense, unwavering.

"Intensified," James clarifies, leaning forward slightly, his usual playful smirk noticeably absent. "And it’s… well, it’s very specific."

They’re being careful, measured, trying to be gentle, I guess. But beneath their restraint, I can feel a simmering alpha energy. A potent mixture of protectiveness and possessiveness, of curiosity and… hunger, making my composure feel paper-thin.

"And you also believe," I add, keeping my tone deliberately skeptical, "that you’re all my… what was it again? Scent matches?" I inject just the right amount of incredulity into the words and raise an eyebrow for good measure.

"We all smell the same dominant notes in your scent, Elena," Dorian explains. "Ripe peaches and honeyed figs. That kind of… shared olfactory recognition… it only happens with deep biological compatibility."

As he speaks, something terrifying starts to happen. Their individual scents begin to sharpen and bloom in the air around me. Cedar and musk from Cole. Bergamot and saffron from James. Sandalwood and cinnamon from Dorian. My god… it’s mouthwatering. Worse, they’re not just lingering, they’re merging. Twisting together into a heady, unmistakable alphamusk that makes my body hum with a low, insistent thrum of want. It’s like every instinct I’ve ever tried to suppress is suddenly wide awake.

Oh, God.

I take a large, desperate gulp of sparkling water, the bubbles doing absolutely nothing to clear the sudden, overwhelming fog in my head. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"If youarean omega, Elena," Dorian continues, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more persuasive, as he leans forward, "and if you are, as we suspect, just beginning to present, then you could experience your first heat very soon. Possibly," he pauses, letting the implication sink in, "during the final tomorrow."

"Which would be…" James begins, then searches for a suitably diplomatic word, his blue eyes flicking between me and the others with a nervousness that’s almost… cute. If I weren’t currently hyperventilating internally.

"Challenging," Cole supplies, his expression carefully neutral, but with an underlying note of deep concern.

"We're concerned for your wellbeing, Elena," Dorian says, his silver-gray eyes intense, unwavering, pinning me to my seat. "Both personallyandprofessionally."

I cross my arms, a purely defensive gesture, trying to create a physical barrier between myself and their overwhelming presence, their intoxicating scents. "How very… considerate of you all." The sarcasm is thick, a desperate attempt to mask the rising panic.

"Elena," Dorian’s voice softens, that smooth tone of his sliding under my defenses like warm honey, "this isn't just about us, or what we believe might be happening. This is about ensuring you're able to compete at your best tomorrow. We want to help you."

"Help me?" I repeat, trying to summon my anger, so I can claw back a shred of control. "Help me how, exactly? By offering me a prestigious job at your new patisserie in Chicago, Dorian, conveniently keeping me under your watchful eye?"

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