Page 105 of The Knotheads Next Door
"Story of his life," Rowan says, reluctantly extracting herself from our embrace to rescue her feline tyrant. "Constant demands for attention, food, and worship. I have no idea where he gets it from."
"Certainly not from you," I deadpan, earning a flash of her smile that still, somehow, makes my heart skip.
We pile into our vehicles—Rowan insisting on driving her own car back despite my valid concerns about reliability. "I made it this far," she points out. "I think I can manage another few miles."
I follow close behind her just in case, watching as her battered Honda labors up the hills, relief washing through me when we finally turn onto our street. Our street. Our home. Ours, now including Rowan, in a way that feels both new andinevitable, like something falling into its proper place after being misaligned for too long.
Inside, the house welcomes us with familiar creaks and sighs, the old Victorian settling around us like a living thing. But it feels different now—fuller, more complete, with Rowan's scent once again mingling with ours in the air.
She releases Gerald from his carrier, and he immediately sets about reestablishing his territory, sniffing furniture and rubbing against table legs as if checking that everything is where he left it. His casual confidence mirrors something I feel taking root in my own chest—a sense of rightness, of belonging, that I've spent most of my life convincing myself I didn't need.
"Hungry?" Theo asks, already heading for the kitchen. Feeding people is his love language, his way of caring for those who matter to him.
"Starving," Rowan admits, and I realize she probably hasn't eaten all day, too caught up in emotional turmoil and escape attempts to think about something as mundane as food.
We gather in the kitchen, falling into familiar patterns with new awareness. Theo preps sandwiches, Wells sets the table with his usual precision, I open wine, and Rowan... Rowan fits herself into the spaces between us, helping where needed, her movements gradually losing their nervous edge as the reality of her decision—of our collective decision—settles.
There's still tension, still uncertainty, still so many questions to answer about what this means, what we are, how we navigate this uncharted territory. But beneath it all runs a current of something I can only define as hope—stronger than I've felt in years, maybe stronger than I've ever let myself feel.
Later, much later, when dinner is cleared and conversations have wound through practical matters and future plans and the dozen small details that make up a shared life, we find ourselvesin my bedroom. Our bedroom now, I suppose, though the thought is still strange enough to make my pulse quicken.
Rowan stands in the center of the room, her confidence from earlier wavering slightly as she looks between the three of us. "I don't... I'm not sure how this works," she admits. "Outside of heat, I mean."
"However we want it to," Theo assures her, always the voice of gentle reason. "There's no rulebook for this, Rowan. We figure it out together."
"One step at a time," Wells adds, his usual practicality softened by the warmth in his eyes.
I'm not good with words, never have been. So I show her instead—reaching for her slowly, giving her time to step away if she wants to. When she doesn't, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her with all the emotion I can't articulate.
She responds immediately, melting against me in a way that makes my alpha howl with satisfaction. The tension that's been coiled in her shoulders simply dissolves, her body recognizing what her mind might still be fighting—that this is right, that this is home, that this is where she belongs.
Her scent spikes, not the desperate omega-in-heat scent that drove us all to the edge of control, but something deeper.The change is immediate and intoxicating. I breathe her in, letting her scent fill my lungs and settle into my bones. This is what I've been craving without knowing it—not just her body, but her acceptance. Her choice to be here, to be ours.
I feel rather than see Theo and Wells move closer, drawn by her response like moths to flame. The pack bond that's been building between us all—tentative and unspoken but undeniable—suddenly feels solid and real.
"Is this okay?" Theo asks softly, his hand hovering near her shoulder. Always checking in, always making sure Rowan isgood. It's one of the things I love most about him, this careful consideration for consent even in moments of obvious desire.
"More than okay," she breathes, turning slightly to include him in our embrace. "I want... I want all of you."
The admission is quiet but certain, and it sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through me that I feel echoed in the other alphas' scents. She's choosing us. All of us. Not because biology demands it, but because she wants to.
Wells approaches more slowly, his usual composure intact but his eyes dark with want. "Are you sure?" he asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question. "Once we do this—all of us together—there's no going back."
She meets his gaze directly, and I can see the moment she makes her choice. Not the choice to sleep with us—that was made during her heat. But the choice to belong to us, to let us belong to her.
"I don't want to go back," she says simply. "I want to go forward. With all of you."
What follows is both familiar from the days of her heat and entirely new. Familiar because we know her body now, know what makes her gasp and arch and cry out. New because this isn't driven by a heat. This is intentional, deliberate—four people choosing each other, choosing this.
The transition from embrace to something more intimate happens gradually, naturally. Hands begin to wander, mapping skin we've touched before but somehow feels different now. My palm slides along the curve of her waist while Theo's fingers trace the line of her spine. Wells watches with that careful intensity, waiting for his moment to join.
"So beautiful," Theo murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. "All of you. This. Us."
The pronouns matter. Not just her, though she's gorgeous, flushed and wanting beneath our hands. But us—the unit we'rebecoming, the pack that's forming with each touch, each shared breath.
"Kiss me," she whispers, and I'm not sure which of us she's talking to until her eyes meet mine. "Please, Jasper."
I don't need to be asked twice. My mouth finds hers, and this kiss is different from the desperate claiming during her heat. This is exploration, appreciation—taking time to savor the taste of her, the way she sighs into my mouth, the way her hands fist in my shirt like she's anchoring herself to me.
