Page 35 of The Knotheads Next Door
There's a weight to her question that makes my pulse quicken. "I'd like to think so," I say carefully. "Unless you'd prefer we weren't."
"No," she says quickly. "I mean, yes. I'd like to be friends." She looks down, a flush spreading across her cheeks. "I’ll take as many friends as I can get. I don't have any... alpha friends."
The way she says "alpha friends" makes it clear that friendship isn't all she's thinking about. And if I'm honest with myself, it's not all I'm thinking about either.
"Well, now you have one," I say, keeping my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.
"An alpha friend who will force-feed you sandwiches and embarrass Jasper with stories of his mishaps."
She laughs softly, but her scent has changed—sweetened, deepened, with notes that make my body respond in ways I'm trying desperately to ignore. She's not on suppressants, I realize suddenly. Just blockers. And without the suppressants to stabilize her hormones, her body is responding to compatible alphas in proximity.
To me.
Iam a compatible alpha to her.
I should leave. Now, before I do something stupid.
But as I start to rise, her face falls, and the disappointment in her expression hits me like a physical blow. She's lonely, I realize. Scared and confused and far from home, trying to navigate changes she doesn't understand.
"Actually," I hear myself saying, "I'm too wired to sleep yet. Want to watch something mindless on TV? I think there's a baking competition marathon on."
The smile she gives me is worth every alarm bell going off in my head. "I'd like that."
I settle back in the chair, reaching for the remote. We find the baking show and watch in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on particularly disastrous cake fails or impressive sugar work. Gradually, Rowan's eyelids grow heavy, her responses becoming slower, more mumbled.
When she finally drifts off, Gerald still curled on her chest, I turn the volume down but leave the TV on for background noise. I probably should wake her, tell her to go to bed. Or at least cover her with a blanket and go upstairs myself.
Instead, I find myself moving to sit beside her on the couch, careful not to disturb her. In sleep, her face is relaxed, the worry lines that have been increasingly present lately smoothed away. She looks younger, more vulnerable. A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out to brush it back.
My fingers graze her skin, and even in sleep, she reacts—turning her face toward my touch with a soft sigh that sends a jolt straight through me.
Move away, Theo. Now.
But my body isn't listening to my brain anymore. Before I can stop myself, I'm gently running my wrist along the curve of her neck—a subtle scent-marking gesture that's pure alpha instinct, an offer of comfort and protection.
Her reaction is immediate. She exhales shakily, her body melting into the touch like she's been waiting for it, needing it. Even Gerald seems to sense the change, stretching and purring louder in his sleep.
I pull back, shocked at my own behavior. Scent-marking is intimate, presumptuous—not something you do to a "friend," especially not without explicit permission. It's the sort of gesture that marks her as "mine" in ways I have no right to claim.
But as I watch Rowan settle deeper into sleep, her expression more peaceful than I've seen it in days, a realization hits me with devastating clarity.
I'm falling for her.
Not just her scent, not just her potential omega status, but her—Rowan Whitley, with her fierce protectiveness of a tiny kitten, her dry humor, her determination to face her fears alone rather than burden others.
And if the way my scent calms her is any indication, her body has already recognized something her conscious mind might not be ready to admit.
We're compatible. Potentially incredibly so.
Which means this situation just got exponentially more complicated.
Because Rowan isn't just responding to me. She's living in a house with three unmated alphas, all of whom are increasingly affected by her emerging scent. Jasper's hostility, Wells's rigid control—they're just different manifestations of the same attraction I'm feeling.
And if—when—she fully presents, all hell is going to break loose.
I should wake her, send her to her room, create some distance. But as I look at her sleeping face, finally peaceful after days of visible stress, I can't bring myself to disturb her.
Instead, I carefully lift Gerald from her chest, setting him in his bed nearby, and then cover Rowan with the throw blanket from the back of the couch. She murmurs something in her sleep, turning slightly toward me, her scent wrapping around me like an embrace.
