Chapter 37 Knottedly Ever After… #2
Every thrust stokes the heat higher, friction building on friction, so intense I’m not sure where pleasure ends and need begins. My world shrinks to the press of bodies, the squelch of wet skin, the taste of Levi’s tongue in my mouth, the drag of Luca’s teeth on my shoulder.
Scent explodes in the air—honey butter biscuit, thick and spiced, molasses gingerbread edged with wild dark roast, all of it swirling with my own caramel and cinnamon until it’s a cloud of want.
The rain’s going harder now, a counterpoint to the slapping of skin on skin, a backdrop for our shared, messy ruin.
They drive into me, harder, faster, pushing each other, working together like two parts of a whole. Every time Levi rams deep, Luca matches him, the fullness ratcheting up until I can’t—
I can’t.
I come apart, shuddering so hard I almost black out, and the world goes white at the edges. My body clenches around them both, spasming so tight Luca swears under his breath, and Levi’s curse is pure animal as he loses it, thrusting once, twice, then stilling as he spills inside me.
Luca’s not far behind—he pushes in, knot swelling at my rim, and I feel him lock in place, pulsing as he joins Levi in the chorus of surrender.
All three of us groan. Unison—like a song, like a promise.
The aftershocks leave me trembling, sweat-damp and boneless, between two Alphas who don’t even try to pretend this was casual. Luca’s arms tighten, anchoring me to his chest, while Levi goes impossibly soft and nuzzles my jaw, almost purring with content.
Vaguely, I sense the rain slowing, the candlelight gentling. The only thing left is the mix of our scents, heavy and sweet and so, so safe.
I catch myself grinning, dizzy and dazed.
This is what it means to be claimed—not as property, but as the heartbeat at the center of everything.
For the first time in my life, I believe it.
I’m theirs.
And they’re mine.
My muscles have officially left the building.
I’m barely aware of the way Luca and Levi shift around me, except that their skin is hot, their hands gentle, and I’m being cradled—one Alpha to my front, one to my back, both of them humming with satisfaction.
I’m pretty sure if the barn caught fire, I’d just let myself roast in this nest, too blissed out to even notice.
But these idiots—these wonderful, infuriating idiots—don’t give me a chance to go comatose.
“Drink,” Levi says, voice as bossy as ever. There’s a glass pressed to my lips, cool water sloshing with the kind of clarity my brain lacks. He pours it in slow, careful sips, thumb stroking the corner of my mouth so I don’t spill all over the pillows. (I spill anyway. He grins.)
I try to sit up, but Levi tuts and tips me gently against his bare chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat practically a lullaby. “Hey, you gotta hydrate. Heat’s a marathon, sunshine, not a sprint. You don’t want to cramp.”
The glass is swapped for fruit—juicy, cold, and sliced so thin it’s basically dessert. Levi dangles a slice over my lips, and when I open, he slips it in with a ridiculous flourish, like he’s serving me at a five-star resort instead of our jumbled cuddle pile.
I’m trying to bask, but the dude’s relentless.
“Good?” he asks, mouth full of smug.
“Better than your pie crust.”
“Rude.” He’s already prepping another bite, honeycomb glistening in his palm. “This is artisanal. Farm-to-pillow, even. Seven stars on Yelp.”
“Pretty sure you don’t even know what Yelp is.”
“Shh, I’m feeding you.”
The next taste is sweet, a rush of sugar and gold, sticky on my tongue. I lick my lips, accidentally catch Levi’s thumb, and he actually shivers. Payback for the food commentary, I guess.
While he plays snack vendor, Luca’s in full silent caretaker mode.
He rises from the nest, moves with zero sound, and disappears to the far side of the barn—then comes back carrying what I recognize as a vintage pitcher and a folded towel.
The look on his face is classic Luca: focused, composed, and just a little bit proud.
He sets the pitcher down, checks my temperature with his own hand (rancher habits die hard), and then vanishes again.
The next time I see him, he’s prepping a bath in the little side alcove we converted into a “Omega Recovery Spa,” aka the only clawfoot tub in Oakridge not haunted by plumbing ghosts.
He checks the water with his wrist, adds something fragrant—honey and orange and maybe actual vanilla bean?
—and sets out candles like he’s auditioning for Bachelor: Alpha Edition.
By the time he comes back, I’m half-draped over Levi, who’s still monologuing about snack presentation.
But there’s something else. A shift in the air. The flicker of a darker shadow at the barn door—
Rowan.
He’s here, and suddenly my senses overload in a different way, because his scent is instant: cedar smoke and bourbon-vanilla, cinnamon bark and that honeyed warmth that spells Alpha with a capital everything.
“Hey, pumpkin,” Rowan murmurs, crouching at the edge of the nest. His hand brushes my sweat-damp hair back from my forehead, fingers slow and deliberate. “You hanging in there?”
Probably not.
Doesn’t matter.
His thumb stroking my temple is enough to turn my bones to putty.
I mean, he’s not even trying to flex, but the way he looks at me? Like I’m a treasure he almost lost, and now he’s hoarding every second.
“Bath time,” Rowan declares, as if carrying me across a room is a form of national service.
“You gonna haul me like a sack of flour?” I mumble, caught somewhere between sass and pure stoned affection.
“That’s the plan.” He grins—a real one, rare and blinding—and slips his arms under me. Lifts me straight out of the nest, sheets and all, barely jostling the mess of pillows.
I cling to his neck, totally helpless and not hating it. His skin under my hands is warm, slick with just enough sweat to remind me why I lost my mind an hour ago.
“Don’t drop me,” I threaten.
“Never,” he says, and there’s nothing but promise in it.
The bath is perfect. Shocker.
Rowan lowers me into the water, and every muscle sighs.
There’s honey and vanilla in the steam, the scent of my own Heat layered with cedar and smoke.
The water ripples around me, catching candlelight, scattering it across my chest and thighs, making me look way too glamorous for someone who just did double Alpha Olympics.
I close my eyes, sinking deeper. Rowan kneels at the side, sponging off sweat, muttering small compliments—“so pretty,” “best Omega,” “can’t believe you’re ours”—and the words soak in deeper than the bath.
But the real magic? When he climbs in behind me.
The tub isn’t made for two, not really, but he doesn’t care. He settles me against his chest, wraps both arms around my waist, and tucks his chin against my crown. I feel stupidly, completely safe.
His hands are reverent. He kneads exhausted muscles, works away tension, then just…holds me. Lets the water do its work while his body is a wall of comfort, sheltering me from the last throes of Heat.
We don’t even talk at first. We just breathe.
At some point, Rowan’s hands drift lower. One cups my thigh, spreading it lazily; the other caresses my stomach, mapping circles that get lower with every pass. His cock presses hard and obvious against my lower back, but he waits, like he’s giving me time to choose.
The world goes gentle, fuzzy at the edges.
When he finally pushes inside me, it’s different from before—slow, so slow, and careful in a way that’s almost ceremonial.
I’m floating, cradled in heat and muscle and Rowan’s soft, earnest “I got you, firefly.” He rocks us together, letting the water ripple, every thrust more like a promise than a demand.
Our eyes lock in the flickering dark. He touches my jaw, brushes kisses against my cheek, and never, not once, lets me doubt who I belong to—or who belongs to me.
It’s too much and not enough.
I start to whimper, but he hushes me, fingers splayed across my ribs, holding me exactly where he wants me.
“You’re safe,” Rowan breathes. “Always safe. Always loved.”
I fall apart for him, quietly, the pleasure blooming low and bright until it’s almost a sigh, almost relief. He holds me through it, rocking gently, his own release slow and perfect, filling me with heat that finally lets my body go limp.
I drift. There’s a moment of pure float, no gravity, no pain, just the warm swirl of water and the Alpha who won’t let anything bad touch me again.
I fall asleep like that—curled in Rowan’s lap, the water already cooling, his heart thrumming steady as a drum.
And somehow, even in the last flicker of consciousness, I know exactly where I am.
Home…in the comfort of my Alphas…experiencing my heat without waves of anxiety and uncertainty…
Heat is a liar. You think it’s gone—wrung out, sated, satisfied.
But then it circles back, teeth bared, and sinks in all over again.
I come awake gasping, body coated in a sheen of sweat, every fold of my skin prickling, desperate and hollow. My thighs are slick, my chest heaving, and the only thought in my head is that I’m empty. Empty, empty, empty.
I roll in the nest, clutching at the blankets, every cell screaming for my pack, my Alphas, for more.
It’s Rowan who appears first.
He’s shirtless, all solid muscle and hero jaw, golden brown skin flushed with the effort of breaking every speed record down the barn stairs. I can smell the cedar smoke on him before I see his face—molten, lightning-bright, eyes gone near orange in the candlelight.
I don’t have to say anything. The whimper gives me away.
He climbs in, pulls me close, and slants a hand along my jaw.
“More, pumpkin?”
God, yes.
“Need you. Please—I need—”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask me to beg, doesn’t make me earn it. He just kisses me, deep and slow, pushing his tongue into my mouth so I taste the bourbon-vanilla on his breath. His hands stroke my hips, tug me into his lap, and his cock is already hard, already ready to fill the ache inside me.