Page 85 of Down Knot Out
I find the bathroom empty, too, towels hanging in perfect alignment, toothbrush dry in its holder. I check the other rooms in case he wandered into one of them in his sleep.
But Goldilocks won’t be found so easily, it would seem.
My search leads me down the main staircase, feet silent on the hardwood treads. The ground floor lies shrouded in deeper darkness, the moonlight not reaching far past the covered porch.
Pale light spills from beneath the two-way kitchen door, and a soft shuffle reaches my ears.
I approach with the caution of someone who’s learned how sudden appearances can trigger defensive responses.
With a light touch, the kitchen door swings inward on well-oiled hinges.
Under-cabinet lights cast a warm glow across countertops, leaving the rest of the space in shadow.Holden sits hunched over the island, the light catching in his golden-brown curls and emphasizing the darker circles beneath his eyes. A worn cookbook lies open before him, his careful handwriting filling the margins. His tablet rests beside it, the screen dark and smudged with fingerprints.
His shoulders curve inward with an exhaustion that goes deeper than missing sleep. A white T-shirt replaces his earlier sweater, and the tight fit reveals the tension in his neck and arms. His bare feet rest on the stool’s rungs, toes curled tight.
He grips a stylus with white knuckles, pressing the tip into the cookbook hard enough to leave a dent in the pages. Then he shifts to the tablet, jabbing it awake to scrawl a note in tight script before he slashes it out. His hand trembles as he starts again, the letters sharp with rising desperation.
Seeing him come undone in the kitchen, in the place that’s always been his refuge, cracks open my chest. This Alpha who bakes comfort into every meal, who pours sweetness into the heart of our home, now sits alone in the dark, rewriting the same words again and again with shaking hands.
“What are you doing?”
My whispered question cuts through the kitchen’s quiet, and Holden's head jerks up. Thestylus clatters from his fingers, rolling across the island out of reach.
“Chloe.” My name leaves his lips on an exhale, relief and panic warring across his features. “You should be sleeping.”
I step closer, my bare feet silent on the cool tiles. “So should you.”
His mouth curves in what might be called a grin if I were being generous. “I'm planning breakfast. Have to get an early start.”
I check the time on the stove. “At two in the morning?”
“Is it that early?” A tremor spreads up his arm to his shoulder, a fine vibration unrelated to caffeine or cold and driven entirely by exhaustion running deeper than bone.
I circle the island to stand beside him. “What’s really wrong?”
He attempts another of those brittle smiles, powering off the tablet. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow. Maybe those cinnamon rolls you like, or?—”
I reach out and close the cookbook. The simple action stops his words mid-sentence, and he stares at it as if not understanding.
I move the book beyond his reach. “Try again.”
His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Chloe, please. You should go back to the nest. The others will worry if they wake and find you gone.”
“Like I did when I foundyougone?” I swivel his stool to face me and study the shadows beneath his cheekbones. “I’m not leaving without you.”
His shoulders curve further inward, and he ducks his head. “You don’t understand. Every time… Every single time you leave my sight, someone tries to hurt you.”
His hands fist on top of his thighs, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Louie in the woods. Simon in your apartment. That psycho of a father. I can’t?—”
His voice cracks, his composure giving way to the fear that’s been eating him alive. “I can’t protect you when I’m not there.”
The confession tears from him in ragged pieces, each word dragged from some deep place where terror lives. “When I close my eyes, all I see is you being taken away.”
A tear slides down his cheek, catching the light before disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt. “What if next time I’m in the kitchen baking bread when you disappear forever? What if the last thingI ever do is measure flour while my Omega gets stolen away?”
His raw anguish splits my heart clean in half. This Alpha who feeds our pack with such devoted care, who finds purpose in nurturing and comfort, believes the thing he does best means he's weak.
“I should be protecting you from danger.” Tears well and threaten to spill over. “Blake is so strong. Nathaniel can make anything happen with a plan. And Dominic can charm anyone. But I’museless. Ibake. What good is that when wolves circle our door?”
