Page 71 of Knot the Last Chapter

She blinks. Her breath catches. She sets the mug down slowly, rising from the bench and heading for the counter, slowly, looking back, like she’s trying to decide if she’s running or leaning in.

“Rhys...”

I move with her, slow but deliberate. I’m bigger than her, broader. She turns and steps back until her spine meets the counter, her eyes locked on mine.

I don’t touch her. I just box her in with my arms.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it too.”

Her pupils dilate. Her chest rises. The air between us crackles.

“I did,” she whispers. “But it’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying no. I just... I don’t know what I want. I thought I did. But this—” Her hand gestures to the space between us, to the tension winding tighter. “This is more than I expected.”

I nod slowly.

“You’re worth the wait,” I say, stepping back.

Her eyes search mine like she doesn’t quite believe it.

But she nods. Once. Twice. Then she walks past me, soft and quiet and leaving a scent trail that drives me wild.

When she’s gone, I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache.

Because I meant what I said. But gods help me—I’m already losing my mind.

Chapter forty-two

Lila

Words flow faster when I’m restless.

The night air feels charged, even though the storm outside is calming. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with memory. I’m curled up in the chair near my bedroom window, my notebook balanced against my knees, and Misty sprawled across the end of the bed, her tail flicking in lazy rhythm. Her eyes are half-lidded, but I know she’s watching me.

I’ve written more tonight than I have in weeks. It’s like something cracked open inside me. First, the mansion mystery and having to find a compass…I love that. I don’t know how to use it yet, but I can feel my subconscious dissecting it for ideas. In the meantime, every page brings my protagonist into sharper focus. She’s no longer the soft-spoken girl who stumbled into her story—she’s fierce, unraveling secrets, claiming her space, and challenging those who underestimate her.

I wonder if I’m writing her… or writing me.

I can’t stop thinking about Rhys. About the way his eyes darkened when our lips met. The way his scent clung to me, wildand steady all at once. He didn’t just kiss me—he consumed me. Branded me with a hunger I’ve never felt so completely.

And still, he let me go.

I press a hand to my lips, as if I can still feel the shape of his.

But I’ve kissed two of them now. Rhys and Corwyn. Each time it felt like stepping closer to the edge of something dangerous. Something thrilling.

Tyler… he’s the only one I haven’t kissed. But his scent, his presence, the way he looks at me—it drives me mad with curiosity. What would it feel like to be touched by all of them? Claimed by them? Wanted, not as a symbol or fantasy, but asme?

My thighs press together. I shift uncomfortably, heat pooling low in my belly.

I keep writing, scribbling faster, pouring the emotion out onto the page. My characters are tangled in secrets, in longing. I write one kiss, then another. The prose drips with yearning. My hand aches, my breath catches—until I reach the bottom of the page.

“No,” I whisper.

I flip through the small notebook. Every page is full, most with a few lines and false starts. With fits and starts, hesitations and lack of confidence.

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