Page 47 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

I reach out and gently catch her wrists. "Don't. Don't hide."

"Knox, "

"Don't hide from us." I pull her hands away from her body and hold them, my thumbs stroking the insides of her wrists. Her pulse is hammering, fast, frantic, a hummingbird's heartbeat. "You've been hiding your whole life. Not here. Not with us."

Her eyes search mine. She's looking for something, sincerity, maybe. Proof that I mean it. Proof that this isn't just dirty talk, isn't just an Alpha trying to get an omega out of her clothes.

I let her see it. All of it. The cocky facade stripped away, the grin gone, the bravado abandoned. What's left is the kid from South Boston who grew up with nothing and never expected to find anything worth keeping. The man who held her hand in a park today and felt, for the first time, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

She sees it. I watch her expression shift, watch the fear recede, watch the trust take its place.

"Okay," she whispers.

I release her wrists and reach for the hem of my own shirt. I pull it over my head and toss it aside. Her eyes drop to my chest, to the planes of muscle, the line of hair running down my abdomen, the V-cut that disappears below my waistband, and her scent spikes so hard I taste honey on my tongue.

"Like what you see?" I ask. The old Knox, the charming, filthy-mouthed Knox, surfaces automatically, because flirting is my armor, my defense, the thing I do when I'm too vulnerable to be sincere.

"Knox." JD's voice is a warning from the foot of the bed.

"It's a legitimate question," I say, not looking at him. My eyes are on Willow. "She's checking out my body. I want to know if she approves."

Willow laughs. A real, genuine laugh that breaks the tension like a wave breaking on rocks. "You're impossible."

"Impossible to resist?" I lean closer, and my mouth finds her ear. "Impossible to stop thinking about? Impossible to stop wanting?"

"All of the above," she breathes.

I grin. A real grin this time, not the predatory smirk from the kitchen, but something warmer. Something that hurts.

"Good," I murmur against her ear. "Because I've been impossible since the moment you walked in. And I'm about to get a whole lot worse."

Behind her, Deklan shifts. He's propped on one elbow, watching, his dark eyes tracking every movement with the quiet intensity of a man who processes the world through observation. His hand rests on Willow's hip, barely touching, just his fingertips against the warm skin, and I can see the tension in his jaw. The restraint.

He's holding back. The Beta who knelt on the floor and put his mouth on her, who showed her she mattered - he's holding back because this isn't his show. It's mine. At least to start.

And JD. The Alpha stands at the foot of the bed, shirtless now, his massive frame backlit by the city glow. His dark eyes are fixed on Willow with an intensity that should be terrifying. His cock is straining against his pants, thick and visible, the base already swelling with the knot that's been threatening to inflate for three days. He hasn't moved. He's waiting.

This is the arrangement we discussed, silently, in the glances exchanged over breakfast, in the looks shared in the hallway while Willow was with Lily. I go first. Because I am the one who's been pushing since the beginning. Because I am the one who cornered her in the kitchen, whispered filth in her ear, and made her spill sugar on the counter. Because I am the one she needs to feel safe with first, safe enough to let go, safe enough to surrender.

JD goes last. Because the Alpha claiming, the knot, the bond bite, the permanent biological link, has to come at the end. It's the seal. The final lock clicking into place. And it can only happen when she's already open, already overwhelmed, already so consumed by pleasure that her omega instincts override every fear and every doubt.

But first, me.

I reach for her.

My hands find her waist, and the contact is electric. Her skin is warm, impossibly warm, fever-hot, the scent-match cranking her body temperature higher with every passing second. I pull her toward me, shifting her in the nest until she's kneeling in front of me, her bare chest inches from mine.

"I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do," I say, my voice dropping to that low, rough register that I know affects her. "And you're going to tell me if you want it."

She nods. Her pupils are blowing wide.

"Words, Willow."

"I want it."

"Good girl." The phrase rolls off my tongue, and her scent floods the space between us, honey and vanilla, thick and sweet and drenched in arousal. "First, I'm going to take off your jeans. Slowly. I'm going to peel them down your legs and look at you. All of you."

Her breath catches.