Page 3 of Knot So Sweet
"This isn't my problem," he growls, and the sound vibrates through my chest that's definitely not unpleasant despite how angry I am.
"You're absolutely right," I say, turning toward Dolly's back door. My hands are shaking slightly as I fumble with the handle, whether from cold or adrenaline or the lingering effects of his scent, I'm not sure. "Not your problem, right? So go back to your dough and leave me the hell alone."
I pop open the back door and shove my duffel bag into the front seat to make space, hyperaware of his eyes on me. The bag is heavier than it should be, stuffed with everything I could grabin the ten minutes I had while Mark was in the shower. Not much, but it's mine.
"I've been driving for seventeen hours. I'm going to sleep before I drop."
"You can't sleep in your car."
The concern in his voice catches me off guard, but I don't let it show. Faking concern can be just another manipulation tactic. I've learned that the hard way.
"Watch me." I climb into the backseat and pull my jacket over my shoulders like a blanket. The vinyl is cold against my legs, and I can already feel the chill seeping through the windows. It's not comfortable, but I've slept in worse places.
As I arrange my jacket into a makeshift pillow, he’s still standing there in my peripheral vision. His scent lingers in the cold air: bread and cinnamon and reluctant protection. My omega instincts whisper that he's safe, but I've learned not to trust those instincts. They've led me astray before.
"This is ridiculous," he shouts, loud enough for me to hear.
He drags one large hand through his hair, sending flour drifting to the ground like snow. The gesture is frustrated and oddly vulnerable, and I hate that I find it appealing.
Pretty sure your singing's what killed your car," he says, but there's less heat in it than before.
"Don't let me keep you, then." I lie back down, facing the seat, spine stiff.
He exhales sharply.
"Fine!” he snarls. "Freeze to death in your car. But when morning comes and you're a popsicle, don't expect me to feel guilty about it."
"I wouldn't dream of expecting compassion from you," I mutter. "That would require you to see omegas as actual people."
His jaw tightens. Something shifts in his face—too fast to read. Gone before I can decide if it meant anything.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." I turn my back to him, pulling the jacket tight. "You saw someone in trouble and thought about property values."
"That's all I need to know."
"Have it your way," he snaps.
He marches away. The bakery door opens with another musical chime, warm light and delicious scents spilling out onto the sidewalk, and then it closes behind him.
I'm alone again.
The silence is heavier now, pressing in on me from all sides. The air is getting colder, and it seeps through Dolly's questionable insulation. My breath fogs in the air, and I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to conserve body heat.
Inside, he moves like he's probably done this a thousand times, walking back and forth, disappearing into what must be the kitchen.
I should be trying to sleep, or figuring out my next move. But there's something mesmerizing about seeing him work.
The way he handles the heavy trays like they weigh nothing, the way he checks each loaf with careful attention, the way his shoulders flex under the thin fabric of his tank top. It's like watching a master craftsman, someone who takes genuine pride in what he does.
Mark never looked like that when he worked. He approached everything with barely concealed resentment, like the world owed him something better than whatever he was doing.
I curl tighter in the backseat, knees to my chest. Pathetic, maybe, but it works. It’s an old habit from the Mark days, when disappearing was the only defense I had.
My stomach's cramping from hunger, and I can't feel my fingers anymore. Perfect. Just perfect.
My body's running on nothing but spite and the last dregs of gas station coffee.
