Page 29 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
He straightens slowly, his posture calm, composed. His eyes, though—his eyes do a brief, wild flick downward before returning politely to my face. He clears his throat, expression unreadable.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. His voice is deep, steady, with a hint of smoke. “Just wanted to check if you were alright.”
The words settle into me with unexpected warmth. My pulse is still jumping, but not entirely from surprise.
“I’m okay,” I say softly, wishing my voice didn’t sound quite so breathless.
He doesn’t speak right away, and in the pause, the space between us seems to shrink. My omega instincts are humming again—quiet, tentative. His scent is rich and grounding, like cedar and worn leather and something just barely spicy beneath it all. It calls to me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I force myself not to shift closer, even though part of me aches to do just that.
The tension stretches, thin and fragile as spun sugar.
Then Dane blinks slowly, and his voice is lower when he says, “Supper’s ready. We didn’t wreck the kitchen. Much.”
A smile curls unbidden at the corner of my mouth. “That’s comforting.”
He smiles back, just slightly, then dips his chin and steps away. “Get dressed. We’re not letting you skip a meal.”
I watch his retreating form, the line of his shoulders taut but relaxed in the way only someone confident and completely in control can be. I exhale slowly, the heat from the shower suddenly matched by something else entirely—the warmth blooming across my skin, the way my chest feels tight and achy in a way that’s not unpleasant.
I pad back toward my room, the house smelling like grilled cheese and something spicy—maybe paprika or chili flake. Laughter floats up the stairs, low and easy. Jamie, probably. Maybe Theo. Gram would be thrilled to hear them filling the house.
And she’s okay,I remind myself again. She’s going to be okay.
Still, I press a hand to my belly as it lets out a low growl, the hunger twining around the ache I didn’t know I’d been carrying. I don’t want to be alone tonight. But I don’t want to fall into something just because I’m grateful, either.
Because something about Dane’s presence felt like more than comfort. It felt like being seen—and wanted—and resisted, all at once. That unspoken tension, the way his scent held mine forone beat longer than it should’ve. The way I wanted to lean in, but didn’t.
I shake my head and close my bedroom door gently behind me.
Chapter seventeen
Dane
The scent of grilled cheese still lingers in the air, mingling with roasted garlic, warm tomato soup, and just the faintest trace of something softer—Cam. Her scent has woven its way into the space, light and grounding, like sugar-dusted citrus. I catch it as I carry the last bowl to the table, and it does something to me I’m not ready to face.
I’m not ready for any of this.
We’re gathered around Gram’s cozy, well-worn kitchen table. Jamie is sprawled into his seat like it’s claimed him, one leg slung over the other, arms lazily crossed as he surveys the spread. Theo is buttering a piece of bread with all the intensity of a competitive athlete. Cam slips into the seat across from me, cheeks still slightly pink from her shower, hair damp and curling over her shoulders.
I shouldn’t have been waiting by that door.
The image of her, towel wrapped around her like a second skin, eyes wide but not frightened... It’s burned behind my eyelids. Her scent had spiked—embarrassment, maybe,but something else too. Something responding. Something interested.
I try not to think about it. I fail.
“Okay,” Cam says, pulling her bowl toward her and peering in like she’s about to evaluate a science experiment. “This smells incredible. And it doesn’t look like you burned anything, so… color me impressed.”
Jamie grins. “I only lit one dishtowel on fire.”
“One?” Theo deadpans. “That’s personal growth.”
“And we still have eyebrows, so I’d say it’s a win,” I mutter.
Cam’s eyes flick between us, amused. “Did you all grow up cooking together, or is this a new bonding experience?”
“College survival skills,” Jamie says with a dramatic flourish of his spoon. “Our first apartment together was one broken stove away from being condemned.”
