Page 57 of Knot in Bloom
The memory makes me smile.
We continue hiking, but everything has shifted between us. His hand finds mine naturally, fingers intertwining as we walk. The casual intimacy feels both new and familiar, like something we’ve been building toward for months without realizing it.
My body hums with awareness now—every brush of his thumb across my knuckles, every breath of his deepening scent making slick gather between my thighs. Even with suppressants, I’m hyperaware of everything about him.
The trail opens onto a small meadow where a clear creek winds between smooth stones, creating natural pools that reflect the afternoon sky. Pine trees ring the space like guardians, and wildflowers still bloom despite the October chill. It’s absolutely magical—the kind of place that exists in fairy tales.
“Levi,” I breathe. “This is incredible.”
“I was hoping you’d like it.” He spreads a blanket near the largest pool, unpacks sandwiches and fruit and a thermos of coffee. His cedar scent mingles with the pine-fresh air, and I can detect the contentment radiating from him. “I thought we could read for a while, if that sounds good.”
He shows me the books he’s brought—poetry collections, novels, short story compilations. All clearly chosen with care, a mix of classics and contemporary works that speaks to someone who reads widely and thoughtfully.
“Pick whatever calls to you,” he says, settling beside me on the blanket close enough that our shoulders touch.
I choose a collection of nature poetry while he opens what looks like a well-worn novel. For a while we read in comfortable silence, the sound of moving water creating the perfect soundtrack. But I find myself distracted by his presence—the way he gets a small crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating, how he sometimes smiles at something in the text before realizing he’s doing it.
When I catch him watching me with an expression that makes my pulse skip, I set down my book.
“What?”
“You’re beautiful when you’re reading. Completely absorbed, like you’re living inside the story.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and my scent sweetens involuntarily. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“Really?”
“Really. You look like reading is as essential to you as breathing.”
We’re sitting close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, can smell how his scent has grown warmer as he catches my honeysuckle response. When he reaches overto tuck a wildflower behind my ear, his fingers brush against my neck and I shiver despite the warm afternoon.
“Read to me?” I ask, my voice coming out softer than intended. “Whatever you’re reading.”
His voice is perfect for reading aloud—warm and measured, bringing the words to life without overwhelming them. The story he’s chosen is about second chances and small communities, about finding home in unexpected places. When he reads dialogue, he gives each character a slightly different cadence, and I find myself closing my eyes just to listen.
But having my eyes closed makes me hyperaware of everything else. The way his scent wraps around me, how his free hand comes to rest on my ankle, thumb tracing absent patterns that make heat pool low in my belly.
“You’re good at this,” I murmur during a pause, opening my eyes to find him watching me intently.
“I used to read to myself a lot as a kid. Only child, and my parents were always busy with their work at the clinic.” His voice is fond rather than bitter. “Books were my best friends most of the time.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“Both betas, both nurses. They met at nursing school, moved here right after graduation because small towns needed healthcare workers.” He smiles, and his scent brightens with genuine affection. “They’re practical people—they always said my designation as alpha was a surprise, but they adapted. Raised me to use whatever strengths I had to help people.”
“That sounds like a good way to grow up.”
“It was. Quiet, but good.” He sets the book aside and shifts so he can look at me more fully, his hand sliding higher on my leg.
“I would have liked to date the quiet kid in the library.”
“Would you?” Hope colors his voice, and his hand spreads possessively over my calf.
“Definitely. I was always too intimidated by the popular kids anyway.” I shift on the blanket, moving closer without really thinking about it. The movement brings his hand higher up my leg, and the heat of his palm through my jeans makes me ache. “I had a crush on an older student who seemed sophisticated and worldly.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I also love alphas who read to me by creeks and notice when I need coffee.” My voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Alphas who leave pressed flowers in my notebooks and make me feel cherished.”
