Page 52 of Knot What She Seems
Don’t want to scare her.
Never want to scare her.
I’m a large man. Scarred. Ugly. Need a mask to keep people from asking questions like “What the fuck happened to you?” and “Who did this to you?”
Not perfect like she is.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is very similar to her brother’s, which is on the higher side for a male. But while I want to punch him in the face every time he speaks, I want to kiss her.
Claim her.
I inhale again, and her eyes widen in shock. Those plump pink lips part on a shaky exhale. I know she can smell me too.
Mate.
Mine.
Want her so fucking badly.
I force myself to speak, to use vocal cords that I thought were incapable of working. “Colter.” I point to myself for emphasis.
She blinks at me.
What’s her name again? I search my memories, and it comes to me almost instantly, as if my brain’s been storing the information for this exact moment. As if it knew how important this particular name will end up being.
Brylee.
I take another step forward, and this time, she doesn’t immediately cower away. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s gotten over her initial fear of me or if it’s because she has nowhere to go.
Want to help her.
Want to take care of her.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach around her for the backpack. She flinches automatically—which causes my heart to splinter—but then manages a shaky, “What are you doing?”
I shove the backpack the rest of the way into the crevice in the tree trunk.
If my mate wants it in the tree for whatever reason, then I’ll put it in the tree.
She volleys her gaze between me, the backpack, and the tree. I can’t read the expression in her eyes. And honestly? It’s hard to stare at her face when her body’s on display the way it is. But I try. Want to respect her.
Even still, I dip my gaze to her cleavage for a fraction of a second before I force myself to look away. To stare elsewhere.
Brylee glances down at herself, as if she’s just remembered that she’s practically naked, and she curses colorfully.
I draw my brows together. I don’t think I’ve ever met an omega who curses quite like she does.
Still muttering under her breath, Brylee reaches for a pair of leggings and crop top lying on the grass. She must’ve removed them from the bag for whatever reason. I quickly turn my back, granting her privacy. There’s silence behind me, almost as if she froze, before I hear the shuffle of fabric punctuated by the occasional “motherfucker” and “bitch-smelling anus.”
As she changes, I spot something on the ground and bend down to pick it up. I hold it tenderly in the palm of my hand as I wait for the all clear. After a beat of silence, her tentative—and slightly confused—voice says, “I’m done.”
I turn.
Brylee smooths the hands down the sides of her leggings, carefully avoiding eye contact. Red colors her cheeks.
“’S okay,” I mutter, taking a step toward her.
Her head snaps up. “What?”
