Page 94 of Knot So Sweet
"Told you I wasn't a beginner." Her fingers drum against the polished surface, victory written across every line of her body.
Outside, wind slams against the bakery windows hard enough to rattle glass in frames. Snow comes down in sheets now, white obscuring the streetlights beyond. The storm forecast called for six inches. Looks more like twelve from where I'm sitting.
Garrick leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. His flannel shirt carries flour from this morning's baking, white powder caught in the rolled cuffs at his elbows. "You hustled us."
"Strategically withheld information," Violet corrects, reaching for her wine glass. The Merlot catches candlelight, turning deep purple in the dim kitchen. "There's a difference."
"Not much of one," Liam says, but he's smiling. His green henley brings out the amber in his gaze as he studies her across the felt. "Campus champion three years running. Underground games funded your education. That's professional level."
"You learn fast or you lose everything." She takes a sip, throat working as she swallows. Then she sets the glass down and shifts in her seat. Small movement, barely noticeable. But I notice everything.
I've been watching her for the past twenty minutes. Not the cards. Not the way her fingers shuffle with professional precision. Her.
Something's changing.
It started subtle. A flush creeping up her throat that I attributed to wine and warmth. Pupils dilating wider than candlelight explains. Small shifts in her seat like she can't get comfortable, crossing and uncrossing her legs under the table.
Now her breathing has changed. Deeper. Each inhale deliberate like she's pulling air into her lungs with conscious effort. Her fingers keep touching her throat, pressing against the pulse point there like she's checking her own heartbeat.
Her aroma hits me between one breath and the next.
Vanilla and honey. Sweet and warm. But underneath, something else blooms. Something richer, deeper, more primal. The smell of omega biology waking up after months of suppression.
Heat.
The realization clicks into place with terrible clarity.
My coffee scent spikes involuntarily, going dark and smoky. Across the table, I see Garrick's nostrils flare as he catches it too. His burnt sugar aroma sharpens, caramelizing into something almost painful in its intensity.
Liam goes completely still, cedar notes deepening until the kitchen smells like a forest after rain.
Three alphas all recognizing the same thing at once.
"When's your next cycle due?" I ask. "You've been off suppressants for months. Your body should have regulated by now."
Violet's fingers freeze on her wine glass. "What?"
"Your heat." I lean forward, elbows on the table. I have to confirm what my instincts are already screaming. "When's it supposed to start?"
The temperature in the kitchen shifts. Garrick and Liam both go rigid, attention laser-focused on Violet. She looks at me with eyes gone wide, pupils blown so large there's barely any blue left around the black.
"I don't..." She sets the glass down with a soft clink. "Five months, maybe? I’m not sure. Before I left Mark. That was my last heat, and it was on suppressants, so it barely registered. Just cramping and mood swings. I've been off them since then. Doctor said it could take three to six months for my cycle to regulate naturally again."
"And you're feeling what, exactly?" I keep my voice level. Calm. Even though my alpha claws at the inside of my chest, demanding I get closer to her. "Right now. What are you feeling?"
Her teeth catch her lower lip. The gesture seems unconscious, nervous. "Warm. Like the room's too hot even though I know it's not." Her fingers twist together on the table. "Restless. Like my skin doesn't fit anymore. Like I have to move but don't know where to go."
She takes a shaky breath, and I watch her nostrils flare. Scenting us.
"And you all smell incredible," she finishes quietly. "Which usually means..."
She trails off. Doesn't have to finish.
We all know what it means.
The kitchen goes silent except for wind howling against walls and snow pelting windows like thrown sand. The candles flicker, flames dancing in draft that sneaks through old window frames. Shadows stretch and contract across Violet's flushed face.
Garrick's aroma shifts first. Burnt sugar going darker, almost scorched. Then Liam's cedar deepens, threading with vanilla until the scent fills the small space like fog. My own coffee notes turn rich and smoky without conscious permission, betraying how my body responds to hers.
