Page 74 of Knot Your Sugar

He doesn't. "Listen, I just wanted to—"

"I'm really busy right now," I cut him off, not looking up. "Can this wait?"

The silence that follows makes me glance at him. His expression is a mixture of hurt and resignation that makes my chest tighten with guilt.

"Sure," he says finally. "It's not important."

I can't help but notice how his shoulders drop as he walks away. Damn, I feel bad, but what am I supposed to do? My head's all fuzzy and I'm burning up. His scent is just doing unholy things to my concentration. And great, now my eyes won't stop following him around, like my body's got some kind of homing device locked onto him.

Get a freaking grip, Elena!

Pistachio cream time. The whir of the food processor grinding the nuts feels like it's drilling straight into my brain. 100 grams butter. 100 grams powdered sugar. 100 grams pistachio powder. Symmetrical numbers usually calm me down. But not right now. Everything feels jagged, too loud, too bright. By the time I’m beating in the eggs, another layer of sweat has bloomed on my forehead. The breeze, which should be a caress, feels like a whisper-thin mockery against my internal furnace.

The timer for the dough chimes.Damn, it's already been an hour?

I roll it out to exactly 1/8 of an inch, a precision I take pride in, even as my body betrays me with tremors and flashes of heat.

I line the dish. Crimp the edges. Hope it holds. I’m just pouring in the baking beans for the blind bake when Judge Chen walks by, eyeing my work.

"Beautiful crimping," she comments.

"Thank you," I reply, forcing a smile.

The first stage goes into the oven, and I check the time. 11:45 AM. Still on schedule, despite the riot happening in my body.

Fuck the alphas were right, I'm definitely going into heat. If I can just push through for a few more hours...

By the time the tart shell comes out golden and perfect, the festival has filled with visitors, the background noise grating against my nerves like sandpaper. I pour the pistachio cream into the shell with hands that no longer feel entirely my own.

Still, I manage to power through.

The tart goes back into the oven. Another timer set. Thirty minutes.

My vision does a little samba as I start prepping the fruit (strawberries, blueberries, vibrant kiwi, sunset-hued mangoes, creamy bananas), each slice a tiny, perfect recruit in my fruity battalion.

The filled tart shell emerges as the timer rings, the pistachio cream a perfect olive hue with a slight dome. Under normal circumstances, I'd feel triumphant. Instead, I'm fighting waves of dizziness as I transfer it to the cooling rack.

Now comes more waiting. The tart needs to cool completely before I can decorate it with fruit. Forty minutes minimum.

I sink onto a stool, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The headache has evolved into a pulsing beast, and the hollow ache in my belly is transforming into an emptiness demanding to be filled.

No. No. No. Not now.

I open my eyes to find Dorian watching me from across the competition area, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. He knows what's going on. Of course he does, he can probably smell the change in my scent from twenty feet away.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm on my feet and moving toward him.

"I need to talk to you," I say, my voice a low, urgent whisper as I reach his side. "Somewhere private. Now."

His perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift a fraction. "Elena, is everything—?"

"Just come with me," I plead, tugging his arm. He resists for a second, then, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a pending HR investigation, he follows.

I lead him toward the garden where we had our feedback session. It feels like a lifetime ago. Once I'm sure we're out ofsight of the other contestants, I whirl on him. "You were right," I practically gasp. "The heat. It’s… it’s starting. And it’s bad."

His expression, a frustrating mix of calm and genuine concern, makes me want to scream. "We need to get you home. The competition isn't worth—"

"No!" The word rips out of me. "I amnotquitting. I’ve worked too damn hard. But I need… I need your help." My voice cracks. "Like… like that first night. Remember? No strings, no messy emotions, no… complications. Just… relief. Enough so I can think straight, so I can actuallyfinishthis damn pie and win." It’s a gamble, I’m basically asking a judge, a billionaire, my sort-of-ex-fling, for a quickie to take the edge off my impending heat. My cheeks are on fire, but the need is a roaring inferno that burns hotter than shame… (and reduces common sense to ash).

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