Page 6 of Knot on the Market

After they leave, I sit in my transformed kitchen and try to sort through my feelings. The practical part of me is relieved—I have food, I have coffee, I have the basics I'll need to get through the next few days. But another part of me feels like I've already failed at the independence test before it even started.

I came here to prove I could handle things on my own, and the first people I met immediately took over and fixed everything for me. What does that say about my ability to actually manage my own life?

But then I remember the way Dean's fingers brushed mine when he handed me that plate, warm and callused and entirely too appealing. The way my omega instincts stirred to life at his scent—toasted marshmallow and amber and something that felt like safety I haven't experienced in years.

Maybe the real problem isn't that I accepted help. Maybe the real problem is that I liked it. Liked having someone take care of the details, liked the feeling of being looked after instead of being the one doing the looking after.

That's exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble before. The comfortable slide into letting someone else handle the hard parts while I focused on being grateful and accommodating.

I can't fall back into that pattern.I won't.

Tomorrow I'll figure out how to be properly independent. Tonight, I'll eat the food they brought and be thankful for the kindness, but I won't let it become a habit.

For the first time since the story broke, since my life imploded on national television, I'm not thinking about them. I'm not wondering what they're doing or whether they miss me.

I'm thinking about tomorrow. About coffee in my own kitchen and maybe walking downtown to explore the shops and thank my new neighbors properly. About figuring out what's wrong with that loose porch step and whether the fruit trees in the backyard might actually produce something edible.

I'm thinking about building something new instead of mourning something broken. Something that belongs to me because I created it, not because someone else decided I deserved it.

And for the first time in months, that feels like enough.

I head for the stairs, my hand trailing along the worn banister, the bag of clean sheets Maeve handed to me and pillow tucked under my other arm. Tomorrow I'll figure out plumbing and paint colors and how to be a person who lives in a place like this without relying on attractive firefighters to make it work.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep in a house that doesn't smell like them, on sheets that smell like lavender and independence instead of broken promises.

Chapter 3

Lila

Iwake up to sunlight streaming through bare windows and the disorienting sensation of not knowing where I am.

For a moment—just a moment—I reach for the familiar warmth that should be beside me, the comforting weight of pack bonds that used to anchor me between sleep and waking. My hand finds only empty space and sheets that smell like lavender instead of them.

Then it all comes rushing back. Honeyridge Falls. The broken house. Maeve's kindness and Dean's warm smile and the fact that I'm completely, utterly alone for the first time in years.

And my complete failure at independence on day one.

I sit up slowly. The clean sheets Maeve brought are tangled around my legs, and the pillow that seemed perfectly adequate last night now feels lumpy and foreign. But I slept. Actually slept, without the anxiety dreams that have plagued me for weeks.

The room looks different in morning light, smaller somehow, but also more real. The water stain on the ceiling is definitely Texas-shaped, and there's a spider web in the corner that Isomehow missed yesterday. But the sunshine makes everything feel possible instead of overwhelming.

Today, I'm going to prove I can handle things myself. Yesterday was a fluke—I was tired, overwhelmed, caught off guard by neighborly kindness I wasn't expecting. Today I'll figure out what this independence thing actually looks like.

I pad downstairs in my silk pajamas and bare feet, still marveling at the quiet. No traffic, no pool maintenance crew, no pack moving around the kitchen making coffee and discussing their day. Just the old house settling around me and birds that actually sound happy instead of the perpetually stressed pigeons of LA.

Dean's coffee maker sits ready on the counter, and I feel a little surge of pride as I figure out how to make my first pot of coffee as an independent adult. It's stronger than I'm used to, but it tastes like victory.

I'm halfway through my first cup, standing at the kitchen window and watching the morning light hit the mountains, when I hear it.

A metallic clunk from the front door, followed by the unmistakable sound of something hitting the floor.

I set down my coffee and walk to the entryway, where I discover that the front door knob has completely detached itself from the door. The interior handle lies on the hardwood floor like it just gave up on life, leaving a perfectly round hole where it used to be.

I can see straight through to the front porch.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask the empty house.

The house, predictably, doesn't answer.

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