Page 32 of The Knotheads Next Door
Gerald blinks at me, unconvinced.
"I can," I insist. "Mind over matter. I just need to be more careful with the blockers. Maybe double up on them. Avoid getting too close to any of them. I can handle this."
My phone buzzes from where I left it on the nightstand. I check the screen—a voicemail notification from a number I recognize despite having deleted it from my contacts.
Pops.
My finger hovers over the delete button, but something stops me. With a sigh, I press play and hold the phone to my ear.
"Bunny, it's me." His voice is tired, worn thin with worry. "We've been trying to reach you for weeks. Your mom is—we're all worried sick. Please call us back. There are things you need to know about your condition. Things that might be important now that you're on your own. James contacted us again. He says—" A long pause. "Just call us, Rowan. Please. We love you."
The message ends. I stare at the phone, a knot of different emotions tangled in my chest. Anger. Longing. Fear.
What things do I need to know? What could James possibly have to tell them that matters now, after this long?
I place the phone face-down on the nightstand without calling back. Whatever secrets they're keeping, whatever my biological father wants to share about my "condition," it can wait. I've managed this long on my own.
I can handle two more months in this house.
I have to.
Gerald mews softly from his bed, a tiny sound of concern.
"I'm okay," I tell him, not quite believing it myself. "We're okay. And if things get too weird here, we'll just... leave. Start over somewhere else. We're good at that, right?"
But as I settle into bed, my traitorous body still thrumming with awareness of the three alphas downstairs, I wonder if running away is still an option.
Or if this time, my biology has finally caught up with me.
Chapter 10
Theo
Inotice things. Maybe it's the vet in me—trained to spot subtle changes in behavior. Or more likely the fact that I've always been sensitive to scents— and feelings—around me.
Like a woman who has barely touched her food for three days.
I watch Rowan push her pasta around her plate, making it look like she's eating while actually consuming maybe three bites. It's the third night in a row she's done this. Her cheeks look hollower than they did when she first arrived, and there are shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
Jasper and Wells have noticed too, in their own ways. Jasper's response is to glower more intensely, as if her lack of appetite is a personal affront. Wells keeps making pointed comments about "proper nutrition" and "maintaining energy levels" while sliding extra servings onto her plate when he thinks she isn't looking.
Neither approach is working.
"I'm heading to the clinic," I announce, standing and collecting my plate. "Night shift."
Rowan glances up, relief flashing across her face at having an excuse to end dinner. "I should get ready for bed too. Early morning at the shop tomorrow."
"It's 7:30," Jasper points out bluntly.
She shrugs, already gathering her dishes. "Gerald needs attention."
"I already fed him," Wells says. "And cleaned his box."
A flash of something—annoyance? panic?—crosses Rowan's face before she smooths it away. "Well, he needs... socialization. Cat development. Very important stuff."
She deposits her dishes in the sink and practically flees upstairs before anyone can question her further.
I follow her path with my eyes, concern tightening my chest. Something's not right. And it's more than just the tension that's been building since her heat spike last week.
