Chapter Nine
Camden
I’m only three bites into our meal when Mira pipes up from Dot’s bag.
“Normally, Dot reads while she eats. Would you like me to read aloud to you, since you’re eating with Camden? I’ll begin where you left off on your last book.”
Dot’s eyes bulge. She covers her mouth, which is full of toast, with one hand. “No!” she cries, but her voice is muffled. Mira doesn’t hear her.
Too late. In her oddly stilted voice, Mira says, “Chapter Fourteen. I had hungered for Rowan’s cock for so long, but I had never imagined how big it would be. The press of his length inside me was almost more than I could stand, but as his swollen knot pressed against my—”
“Mira! Stop reading!” Dot’s face is scarlet.
The AI falls silent. My mouth hangs open. I have a new strip of bacon lifted halfway to my lips. Thank God I wasn’t already chewing, or I’d have choked on my bacon.
I try not to look at her, which of course means I can’t stop looking at her. Dot’s blushing so hard it looks like it hurts. I should say something—anything—to make this less weird—but my brain is stuck on swollen knot pressed against my—.
Jesus.
The words bounce around my skull like a puck on bad ice.
Why does every part of me suddenly feel too warm?
She’s three feet away, cross-legged on the ridiculous heart-shaped bed, hair messy from laughing, mouth shiny from syrup.
It shouldn’t hit like this. We’ve shared beds before.
Hell, she drooled on my arm once when she fell asleep during a movie. This is different.
I want to break the silence, so I ask the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s a knot?”
Dot lets out a low moan. “It’s an Omegaverse thing.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
She hides behind her hands. “He’s a werewolf, so he has… um, wolf bits. With unusual anatomy.”
Dot’s mouth keeps moving, but no sound comes out. Her eyes dart everywhere except mine.
I’m about to grab my phone—purely academic curiosity, of course—when Mira chimes in, perky as ever.
“Would you like a definition? Knotting is the act of—”
“Mira, no!” Dot half-shrieks.
But it’s too late.
“In certain species, the male’s reproductive organ features a bulbous—”
“Mira!” Dot buries her face in her hands.
“—that swells during intercourse to—”
“Stop!” she squeals, voice muffled by her palms.
I choke on a laugh and manage, “Educational evening so far.”
Mira pauses, apparently satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
Dot groans. “I am deleting you the minute we get home.”
I chuckle into my bacon. “If you want, we can stick around tomorrow. Check out the furry convention.”
“Camden!”
“Is this why your nose is always stuck in a book?”
She parts her fingers to glare at me. “Are you asking me if I’m a pervert?”
“What’s this book called?” I counter.
Dot shakes her head. “None of your business.”
Mira, ever helpful, replies, “Dot’s current book is titled There are Two Wolves Inside Me by Eve Crispin.”
“Two?” I ask, feigning shock. “Is the main character stepping out on Rowan?”
“She’s fated to two mates!” Dot protests. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s a fantasy novel.”
I can’t help it. The words fated mates land in my chest with a thud. Part of me wants to laugh, the other part wants to ask if she ever pictured me in one of those roles. Idiot move. She’s embarrassed enough already, and I’m halfway to making it worse.
I focus on the bacon again, but every crackle of jazz, every soft sound she makes chewing, turns into background noise for something I shouldn’t be imagining—her, me, that same heat from earlier, only without the distance.
Chewing, I let out a little moan. I don’t know what kind of crack they put in this stuff, but I can’t help myself. “I’m not complaining. It makes me want to kiss you. And I’m not joking.”
Dot’s mouth forms a little ‘O.’
Mira cuts in. “If you kiss, at least it will be quiet and I can keep reading.”
“No more reading.” Dot shakes her head. “You could just play some music.”
“I’ve got you, girl. I’ll play an oldie but goodie to set the mood.” A few seconds later, the opening bars of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On” fill the room.
“How about an instrumental?” Dot asks.
Mira obliges. She hasn’t given up on her matchmaking plans, however, because she selects some smooth jazz.
Dot hides behind her coffee cup. I pretend to scroll my phone. The song hums low and slow, and all I can think is that the robot isn’t wrong. This room feels like a setup, and if I’m not careful, I’m the one who’s going to break first.
“Better,” Dot says. “Thank you, Mira.” She picks at her food.
I reach for one of the French toast containers. “I didn’t know that you were into reading those kinds of books.”
In truth, I don’t know a lot about her private life at all.
I know her rhythms, her tells, the way she chews a straw when she’s thinking.
But not who she dreams about at night, not who she wants.
Sitting across from her now, in a hotel room that smells like syrup and pine and sex jokes, I realize how badly I want to know.
“I don’t strike you as the romantic type?” Dot’s reproof is mixed with what sounds like genuine curiosity.
“I’ve never heard you talk about crushes. Or ogle a movie star. I don’t know what you like.” Or what kind of guy you’re attracted to.
And if that guy could ever be me.
“You’re not exactly open about this stuff, either,” she retorts.
She takes another bite of her food and chews for what feels like a very long time.
Longer than necessary. When she finally swallows, she says, “It’s never been that important to me.
Sex. Or, maybe… maybe sex by itself hasn’t…
” She rotates her fork in the air. “People like Knova talk about sex so casually. And so much. But even when I’m reading smut like this—” She nods toward Mira.
“The parts I like best are the slow-burn romances. The mutual pining. Like, in this one, Hazel doesn’t jump Rowan’s bones on her first heat cycle.
She savors the buildup. You know what I mean? ”
Her voice is soft but sure, and it does something to me I don’t want to name. She’s sitting on one leg, fork moving in slow circles, and all I can think about is that she’s never looked more touchable and more untouchable at once. My body’s loud about it; my head’s trying to play defense.
My heart makes a valiant attempt to claw its way out of my throat and fling itself at Dot’s feet. “Yeah. I know.”
I do know. This is exactly how it feels to sit here and want her.
Not a one-night thing, not a puck-bunny grab.
Something that’s been building for years in quiet glances and unspoken jokes.
I’ve been telling myself she’s off-limits so long it’s practically muscle memory, but tonight that muscle’s starting to tear.
“Like us,” Dot says in a low voice.
The words land between us as my pulse spikes. She’s teasing, probably, but my chest doesn’t get the memo. My fingers itch to reach for her, but I stay put. If I move too soon, I’ll wreck whatever this is.
“Yeah?” I set my fork aside. “You’ve been craving my, what was it? Swollen knot?”
She snort-laughs. “That is not what I meant! I was talking about the connection. I already know I can trust you. I know you care about me.” Her mouth contorts into a wicked grin. “And if you have any mechanical troubles, Mira can talk you through it.”
I manage a laugh, but my palms are damp. We’re in a heart-shaped bed, alone for the first time, no excuses. Well, almost alone. If I so much as lean forward, this stops being theory and starts being real.
“About that. Can we maybe be… without… her?”
Dot turns her head. “Mira, power down.”
The music cuts off. Without the smooth jazz, I can hear the thrum of the central air, the faint hiss of pipes as someone in a neighboring room takes a shower, the rumble of cars on the road outside.
“That’s better. Are you sure she’s powered down?”
“Pretty sure.” Dot pokes the last soggy piece of French toast with her fork. “I’m done. Are you ready for bed?”
It’s early, but that only means that we have more time together in this bed. I clear away the remains of our meal. While my back is turned, I cup my mouth to my hand for a quick breath-check. My breath smells like cinnamon and bacon. Could be worse.
I’m stacking empty containers, trying not to wince as the skin at the back of my neck pulls tight and raw. Must’ve been out there longer than I thought, hunched over the jack in the midday sun, pretending to know what I was doing. My neck’s on fire now—perfect timing.
Dot notices. Of course she does.
“Hold still.” She’s already rummaging in her bag. “You’re burning up back here.”
Before I can protest, she’s twisting the cap off a travel tube of aloe, squeezing a cool line onto her fingers.
She moves behind me, gentle but sure, her knees pressed into the mattress as she shifts my collar aside.
The first touch shocks a shiver down my spine—a sweet, stinging relief.
She works the gel into my sunburn with slow, careful circles, the pads of her fingers featherlight but intent.
I can’t help it—I close my eyes, jaw clenching, breath caught somewhere between a groan and a thank you. The pain eases. Something else takes its place.
“Sorry if it’s cold,” she whispers, voice close to my ear.
I shake my head, throat tight. “Feels good.”
Her hand stills, but only for a second. “You shouldn’t have done it alone.”
I force a grin, keeping my eyes forward. “Had to look tough. Couldn’t let you see me cry in front of a flat tire.”
She huffs a soft laugh, but her hand stays on my neck. “You don’t have to look tough for me, Cam. I like you better when you let me take care of you.”
That’s what undoes me—the ease in her voice, the weight of her palm at the base of my skull. I want to lean back, let her hold all of me. Let her see it all.
But I just swallow, the aloe stinging and soothing at once. “Noted,” I say, softer than I mean to. “You missed a spot.”