Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Sierra
I’m stress-baking.
This is fine. This is totally normal. Lots of people stress-bake when they’re going into heat and should definitely be building a nest instead of creaming butter and sugar like their life depends on it.
The kitchen smells like vanilla and brown sugar.
I’ve got cookie dough chilling in the fridge, a chocolate cake in the oven, and I’m currently working on what might be the most elaborate batch of cinnamon rolls in human history.
My t-shirt is damp where I pulled it back on over my wet skin, clinging in a way that would be uncomfortable if I weren’t already overheated from pre-heat symptoms. My sleep shorts aren’t much better.
They’re riding up with every movement, but I can’t be bothered to change.
I’m too busy beating the frosting like it’s a certain alpha’s smug face.
“This is relaxing,” I mutter, scraping the bowl. “This is me relaxing. Having a calm, peaceful evening before my heat.”
The bowl of frosting does not look convinced.
Neither am I, honestly.
But baking helps. It always has. When my mom died, I baked for three days straight. When I lost my first major client, I made enough cookies to feed a small army. When the Knightley Pack stole the Sterling wedding, I’d stress-baked so much that Mia had to remove the flour from my apartment.
So yeah. I’m making cinnamon rolls at seven PM while going into heat. It’s fine.
Call it a coping mechanism with frosting.
I’m slathering cream cheese frosting onto the hot rolls when I hear it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
I freeze, spatula in mid-air.
No. No, that can’t be right. This is a private rental. No one should be—
Car doors slam. Multiple doors.
I set down the spatula and wipe my hands on a dish towel, frowning. Maybe it’s the property manager? Except the listing specifically said they wouldn’t disturb guests unless there was an emergency.
Voices drift through the open window. Deep voices. Male voices.
Alpha voices.
Oh, hell no.
I march to the front door, prepared to politely but firmly tell whoever it is that they have the wrong house. I’m a mess. Damp clothes, flour on my face, hair escaping from my ponytail in every direction. But I don’t care. This is my week. My alpha-free, stress-free, heat week.
I yank open the door.
And come face to face with the Knightley Pack.
All four of them.
With luggage.
We stare at each other for a long, horrible moment.
Cole Knightley recovers first, his eyes widening with what looks like genuine surprise. Then, his mouth curves into a slow, annoyingly charming smile.
“Well,” he says, his voice warm and smooth as whiskey. “This is unexpected.”
“What are YOU doing here?” My question bursts out at the exact same time Dax Knightley growls, “What are YOU doing here?”
We glare at each other. Dax looks even more massive than usual. Six-foot-something of solid muscle, wearing a t-shirt that’s probably crying for mercy. His forest green eyes are fixed on me with the intensity of someone who’s just found an enemy combatant in his safe house.
“I’m renting this place,” I say, crossing my arms. The movement makes my damp t-shirt cling even more, and I see Cole’s eyes track the motion before Dax smacks him upside the head.
“Ow! What the hell?”
“Eyes forward,” Dax mutters.
“We’re renting this place,” Malik says. He’s the calmest of the four, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but somehow still manages to look like he’s about to chair a board meeting.
Perfect dark skin and dark eyes to match. “We booked it three months ago.”
“So did I,” I shoot back, then my brows furrow, because this can’t be right. “It’s a luxury honeymoon villa. It’s literally designed for two people. One master suite. That’s it, so I’m pretty sure you’re at the wrong place.”
Cole’s lopsided smile appears. “We’re pack. One bed is enough.”
Something in his gaze erases whatever comeback I might have thought of.
Jalen, the quiet one, is already pulling out his phone. “Let me check the confirmation email.”
“I’ll check mine too,” I mutter, retreating to grab my phone from the kitchen counter.
This can’t be happening. This cannot actually be happening.
I pull up my email and scroll to the booking confirmation. Property: Hula Hula Beach House. Dates: November 3-10. Confirmation number: 2669.
I march back to the door, phone thrust out like a weapon. “See? November third through tenth. That’s this week.”
Jalen shows me his phone. Property: Hula Hula Beach House. Dates: November 3-10. Confirmation number: 2669.
The same confirmation number.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “They double-booked us.”
“That’s not possible,” Dax says. “We used Sweetwater Coastal Rentals. They don’t make mistakes like that.”
“Well, they apparently do,” I snap, “because here we both are with the same confirmation number.”
Malik is already dialing, phone pressed to his ear. “I’m calling the rental company.”
We stand in awkward silence while he waits.
Cole shifts his weight, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe while looking entirely too amused by this situation.
Dax has his arms crossed, glowering at me like this is somehow my fault.
Jalen keeps glancing between me and the house, his expression unreadable.
“Yes, this is Malik Knightley,” Malik says into the phone. “We have a reservation for Hula Hula Beach House, confirmation number 2669. We’ve arrived to find... yes, we’re aware there’s another guest. That’s exactly the problem.”
He listens, his jaw tightening incrementally.
“I see. And you didn’t think to notify either party that there was an issue with the booking?
” Pause. “The automated system should have caught this. Yes, I understand it’s a technical error, but that doesn’t solve our immediate—” Another pause, longer this time.
“I see. No, I understand. Thank you for your time.”
He hangs up and takes a long, measured breath.
“Well?” Dax prompts.
“There was a system migration last month. Some bookings got duplicated in the database. They’re offering a full refund and a complimentary stay at a future date.”
“Great,” I say. “So, you can leave and come back on that future date.”
“We’re not leaving,” Dax says flatly.
“Neither am I!”
“We booked first,” Cole points out, though he’s still smiling like this is all terribly entertaining.
“How do you know that?” I demand. “The confirmation numbers are the same. For all we know, I booked first.”
“Does it matter?” Jalen asks quietly. He’s looking at me more closely now, and I see the exact moment he notices. His eyes widen slightly. “Are you... are you okay? You look flushed.”
Oh god. Oh no.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t look fine,” he says, taking a step closer. “You look—”
I step back, barely stopping myself from looking down at my arms to see just how flushed I am. Is my impending heat already visible? Please, God, no. “I’ve just been baking. It’s hot in here.”
He nods, but doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“Look,” I say, trying to sound reasonable despite the rising panic in my chest. “I rented this house for the week specifically to have privacy. To relax. Alone. This is really important to me.”
“It’s important to us too,” Malik says. “We haven’t had time off in eight months. We blocked out this entire week.”
“Well, I haven’t had a real vacation in over a year,” I counter.
“We’ll leave,” Dax says immediately. “We’re not sharing a house with—” He stops himself, jaw working like he’s biting back words.
“With what?” I ask dangerously.
“With a competitor,” he finishes, though I get the distinct impression that’s not what he was going to say. “This is awkward for everyone.”
“I agree.” I cross my arms again.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Cole gestures to the darkening sky, his eyes on Malik, “there’s a storm coming.”
As if on cue, thunder rumbles in the distance.
Malik is already on his phone again, scrolling rapidly. “There has to be something available. Another property, a hotel...”
Inside the house, the TV is still on from when I put it on for background ambiance. The meteorologist’s voice drifts through the open door, cheerful and dooming.
“—storm system has accelerated and is now expected to make landfall tonight around midnight. Residents in coastal areas should prepare for heavy rain, high winds, and possible flooding. This is a significant weather event, folks. If you’re planning to travel, you’ll want to reconsider those plans.”
“Midnight,” I repeat. My gaze darts to the clock on the wall. It’s seven now.
“The outer bands are already hitting the highway. Visibility is zero just ten miles south,” Jalen murmurs.
“Even if we leave now, we’d be driving straight into that visibility. Is it worth the risk?” Cole asks.
Malik’s jaw works. He’s still scrolling, but I can see the growing frustration in his expression.
“There has to be something,” he mutters.
“Nothing within two hundred miles,” Jalen says, looking at his own phone. “I’m checking hotels, rentals, even bed and breakfasts. Everything’s either booked or already closed for the storm.”
“So, what are you suggesting?” Dax asks, his voice dangerously quiet. “That we stay here? With her?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Jalen says calmly. “I’m stating facts. We can’t drive into a storm. We can’t find alternative accommodation. And we can’t leave her here alone with a major weather event coming.”
“I’ll be fine alone,” I say. “I planned to be alone. That was the entire point.”
“Not with a storm like this,” Malik says, finally looking up from his phone. “The forecast is saying possible evacuation orders for low-lying coastal areas. This house is right on the beach.”
I blink. “Evacuation orders? The weather report said this was just a rain system.”
“Weather changes,” Cole says. He’s not smiling anymore. “Storms accelerate. We should have checked the updated forecast before we left Sweetwater.”
“So should I,” I admit reluctantly.