Page 33 of The Knotheads Next Door
"This can't continue," Wells says quietly once we hear her door close. "Her scent is getting stronger every day, despite the blockers. And she's clearly not taking care of herself properly."
Jasper's jaw tightens. "Not our problem."
"It is if she passes out from hunger in our house," I counter. "Or if her hormones spike and she goes into full heat unprepared."
The three of us exchange looks, the unspoken tension of the past week hanging heavy between us. We've all been affected by Rowan's changing scent—Jasper retreating into angry silence, Wells becoming even more rigidly controlled, me feeling a constant, low-level urge to comfort and protect that I'm trying desperately to ignore.
"Two more months," Jasper says finally. "Then the agreement is over, and she can find somewhere else to live."
"And if she presents before then?" Wells asks, ever practical.
Jasper doesn't answer, just stands and stalks out of the kitchen.
"Real helpful," I mutter, reaching into the fridge. I pull out ingredients and quickly assemble a sandwich—turkey, avocado, sprouts, the good mustard that Wells special orders online. I wrap it carefully and stick a note on top:For midnight cravings. Eat me.
Wells raises an eyebrow. "You're enabling her avoidance."
"I'm making sure she doesn't starve," I correct, sliding the sandwich into the fridge. "There's a difference."
"And the line between caring and courting is...?"
I shoot him a look. "Don't start."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "Just be careful, Theo. This situation is complicated enough without you going full alpha-protector."
"Says the man who insisted on driving her to the flower wholesaler because her car is 'unsafe,'" I point out. "We're all walking a fine line here."
Wells doesn't deny it, just sighs and returns to cleaning up dinner. I grab my keys and head out for my shift, trying to ignore the nagging worry about Rowan that follows me all the way to the clinic.
By the time I get home at midnight, the house is quiet and dark. I move through the kitchen by memory, shedding my jacket and kicking off my shoes. I'm tired but wired—night shifts always leave me feeling slightly off-kilter, trapped between exhaustion and alertness.
I open the fridge for a drink and notice the sandwich is still there, untouched. Frowning, I pick it up and head upstairs. Maybe I'll leave it outside her door.
But as I pass the living room, I notice a small glow from the reading lamp in the corner. Rowan is curled up on the couch, Gerald sleeping on her chest, a book open but forgotten on her lap. She's staring into space, her expression distant and troubled.
"Hey," I say softly, not wanting to startle her.
She tenses anyway, her eyes darting to me. "Oh. Hi. How was work?"
"A little busier than usual. Emergency surgery on Mrs. Peterson's poodle, who ate her diamond earring." I hold up the sandwich. "You didn't eat."
She glances away. "Not hungry."
"Rowan," I say, moving closer, "you need to eat. You've lost weight."
"Have not," she mutters, but there's no conviction in it.
I settle on the arm of the couch, keeping a careful distance. "Do you want to talk about what's going on? And don't say 'nothing,' because we both know that's not true."
She strokes Gerald's tiny head, not meeting my eyes. "I just... don't feel like myself lately."
"Because of the changes?" I ask gently.
She nods, almost imperceptibly. "It's like my body is... I don't know. Rebelling. Doing things I don't want it to do."
"That must be scary," I say, acknowledging her fear instead of trying to rationalize it away.
She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her face, followed by something softer. "It is," she admits. "I've spent my whole life not fitting into any category. Not alpha, not beta, not omega. Just... Rowan. And now..."
