Page 73 of Knot Your Sugar

"What?" My head snaps toward him.

"After the morning briefing, I'm handing responsibilities to my second and heading back to the city."

"Why?" I object, though I already know the answer.

"It's just that… I can’t be effective if I'm distracted. And I am. By… all of this." He makes a vague gesture that seems to encompass me, him, Elena, maybe even Dorian. "Being a good firefighter means one hundred percent focus. Can’t do that if my head’s not in the game."

"Distracted by Elena," I clarify, the words tasting bitter again.

"It's the right call," he says, his voice firm, but his eyes betray a hint of vulnerability.

"So you're just… bailing?" I demand, the irony not lost on me. "Let me get this straight: I called you out for hiding, you threw it back at me, and now you’re doing the exact same thing?"

Cole's jaw tightens. "This is different."

"How? How is this different?" I press. "You're still using your job as an excuse to avoid dealing with your feelings."

"Because people could die if I'm not focused," he snaps, meeting my gaze. "That's how it's different, James. My distractions don't just affect me, they could cost someone their life."

The gravity in his voice stops my argument cold. Because he's right aboutthat.

"So that's it, you're giving up. On Elena, on..." I wave between us, "whatever this is."

"She made her choice, James," he says after taking a long sip. "Sometimes the best way to protect something, or someone, is to step back."

"So," I start, resignation settling over me like a thermal blanket, "tomorrow we all go back to our separate worlds, pretend none of this ever happened."

Cole doesn't contradict me, which is answer enough.

"Well then," I raise my glass, "here's to what might have been."

He clinks his bottle against mine, our expressions equally bleak as we drink to a future that's evaporating before it even had a chance to form.

Chapter thirty-eight

Elena

The air hums with the focused hush of the final, while my skull pounds with the same relentless headache that kicked in the moment I woke up.

The alphas’ pointed warnings about my impending heat are on a cruel loop in my mind. Their words, which I’d dismissed with all the bravado I could muster, now feel like prophecies chiseling themselves into my very bones.

Sweat, cold and unwelcome, prickles my forehead despite the crisp morning air. My last pill, swallowed two hours ago, feels less like a shield and more like a single daisy in the path of a hormonal hurricane. Between the headaches and the insistent cramping in my belly, the party’s really starting.

With a deep breath, I scan my surroundings, witnessing a blend of steely determination and barely concealed terror.James stands at his own station, his usual peacock swagger noticeably subdued. Our eyes snag for a nanosecond before I snap my gaze back to my dough, shaping it into a perfect sphere with overkill ferocity.

Not today, Satan. Or James. Or any other distracting alpha.

I measure flour (250 grams,exactly) into a chilled bowl. The cloud of white dust that poofs up usually smells like comfort. Today, it’s an olfactory assault against my overwhelmed senses.

"Focus, Elena, focus," I hiss, adding 125 grams of perfectly cubed, chilled butter. My fingers, now apparently equipped with hyper-sensitive nerve endings, work the fat into the flour and sugar. The sandy texture develops (a small win), but the rhythmic kneading does unfortunately little to quell theheatsimmering beneath my skin.

I swaddle the dough in plastic wrap and put it into the mini-fridge. Timer set. One hour. My hands are definitely shaking as I pull out my notes for the pistachio cream. The headache has cranked itself up to a pulsing, behind-the-eyes rave.

"Hey, Elena."

I nearly jump out of my skin at Cole's voice. He stands a careful distance from my station, his firefighter uniform crisp and formal. His scent wafts over, and my traitorous nose twitches with appreciation as my eyes widen like I’ve just seen dessert.

"Morning," I reply, turning back to my ingredients as a desperate protective strategy, hoping he'll take the hint.

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