Page 162 of Knotting the Cowboys

"You okay over there?" Mavi glances at me while passing another dish to River.

"Yeah, just thinking." I resume washing, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of dried sweet potato. "It's nice, you know? All of us working together like this."

"Better than nice," Cole rumbles. "It's right."

Right.

Such a simple word for something that feels revolutionary. In Iron Ridge, cleanup was segregated—omegas in the kitchen while alphas conducted "important business" elsewhere. Usually that business involved Blake holding court in his office, dissecting everyone's performance at dinner, deciding who'd pleased him and who'd failed.

I'd stand at a sink much like this one, hands pruning in cooling water, wondering what arbitrary rule I'd broken this time.

The memory slides into my consciousness like oil on water, dark and spreading. Blake never helped with dishes. Never carried a plate to the kitchen or wiped down a table or even threw away his own napkin.

That was omega work, beneath him, beneath any alpha worth their designation.

My hands tighten on the casserole dish I'm scrubbing. The rough texture of baked-on cheese grates against my palms as I work harder, pushing the memory down.But it won't stay buried. Not tonight, not when I've just experienced what pack life should be.

"He'd hate this," I mutter, not meaning to speak aloud.

"Who'd hate what?" River asks, hanging his towel on the oven handle.

I realize they're all looking at me—River curious, Mavi watchful, Cole's expression darkening like he already knows where my thoughts have gone.

"Nothing," I say quickly, focusing on the dish. "Just thinking out loud."

But I can't stop the spiral now that it's started.

Blake would hate everything about this evening.

The casual mingling of alphas and omega in the kitchen. The lack of hierarchy in who serves whom. The way Luna was included as an equal participant rather than hidden away with a nanny. The mismatched plates he'd call "poor" and the centerpiece he'd deem "amateur."

Most of all, he'd hate how happy I am.

The dish slips in my soapy hands, and I catch it before it can shatter. My knuckles are white where they grip the edge, tension radiating up my arms into my shoulders. Because that's what this is really about, isn't it?

Blake can't stand the thought of me happy without him.

Can't accept that I've found something better, something real, something he could never give me because he never saw me as more than property with a pulse.

"Son of a bitch," I breathe, scrubbing harder.

The casserole dish is long clean, but I can't seem to stop the mechanical motion.

Scrub, rinse, scrub again, like I can wash away the taint of his memory if I just try hard enough.

He wants to ruin this.

The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. He wants to destroy this kitchen where I cooked my first Thanksgiving. This table where we joined hands like a real family. This house whereLuna's laughter rings from the walls and no one flinches at the sound of footsteps.

This pack that sees me as a person rather than a designation.

The dish creaks ominously in my grip.

Water sloshes over the edge of the sink, soaking the front of my apron, but I barely notice. My vision has narrowed to the suds swirling down the drain, but what I'm seeing is Blake's face that day in town.

The cruel twist of his mouth as he stripped me bare with words. The casual arrogance of a man who thinks he owns something just because he once put his hands on it.

"Willa." Cole's voice comes from directly behind me, low and careful. "Put the dish down."

---