Page 83 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“You’re thinking too hard,” Theo says quietly, as if he can read my mind.
“Just… realizing I don’t feel scared right now.”
His breath catches slightly. “Good. That’s how it should be.”
I glance up at him. They’d hinted and joked, but now I needed to know. “You really want me in your pack?”
His jaw flexes, and his gaze holds mine with that unshakable intensity. “Cam, you’re already in it. The only choice you’ve got left is how close you want to be.”
Something tightens in my throat, and I rest my forehead against his collarbone. “Closer,” I whisper.
We stand like that, swaying gently in the quiet, until the knot begins to ease. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull away until my body relaxes fully. When he finally does, it’s only to settle us down onthe porch steps, the blanket still around me, his arm still secure at my back.
Above us, the stars burn sharp and bright, and the moonlight turns the clearing silver. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m not counting the minutes until I have to move again. I’m just… here. With him. And I belong.
Chapter sixty-two
Cam
The scent of breakfast is what finally convinces me to leave the warmth of bed — bacon curling at the edges, butter melting into crisp potato cubes, the soft herbal note of thyme in scrambled eggs. It’s not just the food that pulls me, though. It’s the layered sound of voices — Theo’s practical calm, Jamie’s lazy drawl, Dane’s low, quiet weight in the conversation like a steady drumbeat.
I stand in the doorway for a moment before they notice me, soaking it in. The morning light comes in pale through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in its glow. Theo is at the stove, spatula in hand, his back straight and efficient. Jamie is stretched across the couch with his leg propped on a pillow, the picture of a man who knows how to milk an injury for all it’s worth. Dane leans in the doorway that leads to the hallway, arms crossed, gaze already shifting toward me before I even take a step.
“Morning,” Theo says first, voice warm but still brisk.
Jamie’s grin is slow and shameless. “You look like you went three rounds with the blanket and lost.”
I glance down at the wrinkles in my shirt, half-smiling. “Might’ve.”
Dane doesn’t say anything, but there’s that faint shift in his shoulders — the one that says he’s glad to see me on my feet.
Theo slides a plate toward the counter. “Eat before Jamie figures out how to hobble in here and steal it.”
Jamie puts a hand to his chest. “I would never.”
I settle on the stool, and the first bite is everything — fluffy eggs, buttery potatoes, bacon’s salt-snap. It fills me with warmth all the way down. The brothers keep up an easy chatter while I eat: Jamie baiting Theo about his “overcooked” eggs, Theo reminding him exactly who’s cooking his food, Dane tossing in the occasional deadpan line that makes Jamie sputter.
When I’m nearly finished, Dane says in that calm, matter-of-fact way of his, “Cards?”
Theo already has the deck in hand before I answer. Jamie shrugs. “Fine by me — unless Cam’s got a better idea.”
“Cards are fine,” I say, and the way they all wait for me before starting makes something warm uncurl in my chest.
We settle at the table — me across from Jamie, Theo at my right, Dane at my left. The first few rounds are quiet warm-ups. I lose more than I win, which gets me mock-sympathy from Jamie (“Ah, rookie luck ran out already?”), gentle coaching from Theo, and a half-smile from Dane that feels like he’s saying without words that I’ll get them back later.
By the third round, alliances start to form. Theo and I quietly work against Jamie, sharing a glance over the top of our cards that feels almost conspiratorial. We win the hand, and Jamie points at me like I’ve betrayed him personally.
“Thought we had something special,” he says.
“You thought wrong,” Theo replies before I can.
The next round, Jamie and I team up to block Theo, only for Dane to slip in and win without making a sound. “Good game,”he says simply, and Theo shakes his head, though the ghost of a smile finds his lips.
Between rounds, Theo disappears into the kitchen and returns with mugs of tea. The ceramic is warm against my palms, and the steam carries honey and something floral. Jamie tugs the blanket off the couch and tosses it over my lap. “Cold toes,” he mutters, not looking at me, which somehow makes the gesture sweeter. Dane refills my tea halfway through the game without asking, like he’s keeping track.
The chatter ebbs and flows. I win a hand on my own and Theo narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Or maybe I’m better than you think,” I say, surprising myself with the boldness.
