Page 96 of Knot So Sweet
"I can walk." But even as she protests, she sways into his support. "It's just a few stairs."
I move to her other side, not touching yet but close enough to catch her if she falls. Her aroma intensifies with each passing second, filling my lungs with every breath until I'm drowning in vanilla and honey and desperate omega longing.
Restraint. I have to maintain restraint.
Garrick already gathers candles, practical as always. We require light upstairs. He balances three in his large hands, flames dancing as he moves.
The stairs are narrow and steep, made narrower by three bodies trying to navigate them together. Each step becomes an exercise in discipline as Violet's scent fills the confined space. Biology advertising her availability to every alpha in range.
Good thing the only alphas in range are already hers.
Her apartment door stands open at the top. She never locks it when she's downstairs, trusting us to keep the building secure. That trust settles warm in my chest, makes my alpha purr with satisfaction even as the rest of me fights for composure.
Inside, the space appears exactly as I remember from the handful of times I've been here. Small but comfortable, every surface covered with evidence of who she is. Books stacked on the coffee table. Poetry journals scattered across the couch. A blanket she made herself draped over the chair, uneven stitches speaking of patience and determination.
Everything carries her signature. Months of vanilla and honey soaked into fabric and wood until the entire space feels saturated with Violet.
Home, my alpha whispers. Pack home.
She moves toward the couch immediately, drawn by instinct she's probably not even aware of. Then she stops in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle. Her fingers twist together, anxiety bleeding through the heat.
"I don't know where to start," she admits, voice small. "Don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"Close your eyes," I tell her, keeping my voice low and even. Calming. "Stop thinking. Just feel. What would feel right? What would feel safe?"
She obeys, lids sliding shut. Her breathing evens out slightly as she focuses inward instead of on us watching her. I can see themoment she stops fighting her instincts, shoulders dropping as she lets biology take over.
"The couch," she says after a long moment. "By the window. I can hear the storm but I'm protected from it. Safe but not trapped."
"Good." Garrick already moves, setting candles on various surfaces. Soft light fills the space, warmer than electric bulbs ever manage. "What do you require to build with? Blankets? Pillows?"
"Soft things." Her arms wrap around herself, hands gripping her elbows. "Different textures. Things I can layer and arrange. Things that..."
She stops, color flooding her cheeks.
"Things that what?" Liam prompts gently.
"Things that smell like pack," she finishes quietly. "Like safety. Like you."
The admission makes all three of us go still. She's asking for our scents. Wanting to surround herself with us even though we're standing right here.
Craving pack in the most primal way possible.
Liam disappears into her bedroom without a word. Sounds of a closet opening, items being moved around. He returns with an armful of blankets in varying materials. Fleece the color of storm clouds. Worn cotton with faded flowers. Something plush that might be chenille, deep blue and soft enough to sink into. Pillows in mismatched cases follow, dumped onto the couch in a pile of potential.
Violet opens her eyes. Stares at the offerings like they're treasure instead of random bedding pulled from her closet.
Then she starts building.
Her movements come frantic at first, driven by instinct rather than thought. Hands moving faster than her conscious mind, arranging and rearranging. Pillows go on the couch armsfirst, creating barriers. Walls to nestle between. The fleece blanket spreads across the cushions, smoothed flat with careful strokes. Cotton layered next, arranged just so. The chenille goes on top because it's heaviest, makes her feel held when she burrows beneath it.
We watch in silence. This belongs to her to create, her safe space. Interrupting would be like interrupting prayer.
But I can smell dissatisfaction rolling off her in waves. Something's wrong. Something's missing.
She stops, turning to face us. Her pupils have blown wide now, barely any blue visible around black. The flush has spread down her throat, disappearing beneath her sweater. Sweat beads at her temples despite the cold draft sneaking through window frames.
"I require..." She stops, cheeks going redder for reasons that have nothing to do with heat. "Things that carry your scent. Like all of you. Is that weird? It feels weird but I have to..."
