Page 16 of Knot So Sweet
It satisfies the body, not the instinct.
We act like it’s enough. Pretend the emptiness after doesn't matter.
But it always creeps back in.
The hunger. The bond we say we don’t need.
No app can replace that. Not really.
"She’s not staying," Garrick snaps, cutting me off. His voice is flat, final. "Whatever you're both thinking, forget it. She’ll be gone in a few days, and everything goes back to normal."
He climbs out of the truck and slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame, then stalks off toward his cabin like it just insulted his sourdough starter.
Liam and I trade a look, the kind of resigned eye contact you make when your grumpiest packmate starts spiraling and pretending it’s about soup.
"Well," Liam says, breaking the silence, "that went well."
"Like lighting a match in a fireworks factory."
We get out and head to the common area. The motion-sensor lights blink on, spilling cold light over the covered walkway that links our three cabins to the main building.
Liam’s cabin’s on the left, all windows and sunshine, with a wide porch where he lounges with his vet journals and pretends not to listen in when we argue. Mine’s on the right, built forcomfort but also with good views of the property, quiet corners, and more exits than strictly necessary. I like knowing who’s coming before they knock.
Garrick’s place sits straight across from the common area, separated by a little garden Meredith guilted him into planting last spring. He grumbled about it the whole time but kept adding herbs and late-bloomers like he cared. It’s the most private of the three cabins which suits him. He likes his quiet, room to bake, space to brood, and just close enough that we can drag him out when we need to.
The common area is cozy in the way Liam insisted on: exposed beams, big stone fireplace, furniture that practically begs you to stop pretending everything’s fine and just take a nap already. Liam beelines to the kitchen of course. That man stress-cooks like it’s a competitive sport.
I drop onto the leather couch positioned between the front door and the hallway. Not by accident. I like having sightlines. Exit and entry. Old habits die hard.
Garrick hasn’t followed us in. So he’s either in his cabin brooding over bread dough or out in that garden glaring at the moon like it owes him money.
"Coffee?" Liam asks, already pulling mugs from the cabinet.
"Only if you're making it the way Garrick taught you," I reply, settling back into the couch cushions. "None of that weak shit you usually brew."
He flips me off without looking, but then measures the grounds like someone who knows pissing off a master baker comes with consequences.
I take a slow, hard look at the mess we’re in. There’s a rattled omega camping above the bakery, and a pack brother wrestling with whatever nonsense is eating at him.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve seen enough screw-ups to know how fast things can go sideways around here.
"She's pretty," Liam says quietly, leaning against the counter while we wait for the coffee to finish brewing.
Violet is the kind of beautiful that stops traffic and starts wars. Dark hair that catches light like silk, eyes the color of winter sky, and bone structure that belongs in a museum. But it's not her beauty that has Garrick tied in knots. It's something else, which sets off every protective instinct our stubborn baker has spent years suppressing.
“She’s also trouble,” I say, keeping my voice dry. “The kind that unpacks and overstays.” Makes you forget why you swore off Omegas in the first place.
"All the more reason to help her," Liam counters, pouring coffee into three mugs with the automatic precision of someone who's done this thousands of times. "She needs a pack, Xaden. Someone to have her back while she figures out what comes next."
Liam won’t meet my eyes, which is a confession in itself. He’s got that silent-set look about him, shoulders squared but too still like he’s already picked a side and doesn’t want to argue about it.
So Garrick’s not the only one she’s gotten under the skin.
“Tell me something, Liam,” I say, keeping my voice level the one I use when negotiations are about to blow-up in our faces. “Are you seriously about to pitch Omega adoption like it’s a rescue mission?”
The thing about Liam is that he's the pack mediator, the one who smooths over conflicts and makes sure everyone feels heard. But beneath that gentle exterior is an alpha who once spent three days tracking a stolen dog through hostile territory because a kid asked him to. When Liam decides something needs protecting, he becomes immovable.
"I'm suggesting we do what any decent pack would do," he says, handing me a mug. "We protect someone who needs protecting."
