Page 55 of Knot on the Market

She emerges onto the porch, cheeks flushed. She moves toward the railing where our shirts wait, and I watch her breathing change as she catches our scents. Green apple and white musk intensify around her, responding to what we've left behind.

She likes it. She wants this.

"We'll finish up next weekend!" Dean calls as he heads toward his own truck, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone who's orchestrated exactly the outcome he intended.

I should head back to town. Walk back to my apartment and process what just happened in private. Maintain the distance that's kept things simple for years.

Instead, I'm lingering. Watching Lila's face as she takes in our scents. Watching her expression soften, her breathing deepen.

She looks up and catches me staring. For a moment we just look at each other. There's something in her eyes that might be invitation. Or curiosity. Or just awareness that something's shifted between us.

Don't read too much into it. But also... maybe do.

"You walking back to town?" Dean asks, appearing beside me with his keys in hand. "I can give you a ride if you want."

The offer is casual, practical, but there's something knowing in his expression that suggests he understands exactly why I'm reluctant to leave. Why I'm standing here like I'm trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

"That would be helpful," I admit, finally forcing myself to step away from the invisible pull of Lila's presence.

"Ready for dinner?" Dean calls to Lila as we head toward his truck. "Aunt Maeve's making her famous pot roast tonight. You should come."

The invitation is spontaneous but genuine, and I watch Lila's face light up with something that might be surprise or pleasure or both.

"I wouldn't want to impose—" she starts.

"You wouldn't be," Dean says firmly. "Maeve loves having people to feed. Trust me, you'd be doing her a favor."

She's surrounded by us now. Whether she knows it yet or not, she's not alone.

That thought follows me to Dean's truck, settles in my chest like something I'm not ready to examine. For five years, I've been fine with watching from the sidelines. Understanding how things work without needing to be central to them. Staying safe where no one could tell me I was too much.

But sitting in the passenger seat, leaving my scent behind in her space, I realize that might not be enough anymore.

She has our shirts now. Hours of concentrated scent, proof that we want to be part of whatever she's building. The thought of her surrounded by these reminders, breathing us in while she sleeps in whatever nest she's created upstairs... it does something possessive to me that I don't entirely understand.

Tomorrow I'll go back to my routines. My ordered life where feelings stay manageable. But tonight, over Maeve's pot roast and whatever easy conversation happens, I'll let myself want what I've been too careful to acknowledge.

Not just her attention. Not just her gratitude. Her. All of her. The omega who reads poetry and fixes broken houses and looks at damaged things like they're worth saving.

Maybe, eventually, she'll decide I'm worth saving too. Worth keeping. Worth choosing.

She's surrounded by us now. And I hope... I hope she chooses to keep us.

Chapter 17

Lila

Istand on my front porch staring at two shirts that shouldn't make my heart race this much.

Callum's flannel and Julian's button-down lie draped over the railing, positioned deliberately side by side. The fabric still holds the shape of their bodies, and both shirts carry the concentrated scent of their owners—cedar and sawdust mixing with black tea and bergamot in ways that make my mouth water and my thighs clench involuntarily.

I reach for Callum's flannel first, lifting it to my face before I can stop myself. The worn fabric is soft against my cheek, saturated with his scent in a way that sends heat racing through my system. Cedar and honest work, the lingering ghost of his skin, something indefinably masculine that makes my omega instincts practically purr with satisfaction.

Just checking the fabric quality, I tell myself, even as I breathe deeper, letting his scent fill my lungs and settle into my chest like a warm weight.

Julian's shirt is next, and when I unfold it, the precision of the creases tells its own story. Black tea and bergamot wrap around me like an embrace, sophisticated and complex, with anunderlying warmth that speaks of careful attention and quiet intensity. The fabric is still warm from his body, still holds the evidence of his presence in my space.

My scent responds immediately, green apple and white musk blooming sweeter, richer, advertising exactly how affected I am by these tokens of attention. The slick that's been building between my thighs since this afternoon intensifies, and I have to press my legs together to contain the evidence of my body's enthusiasm.

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