Page 49 of Wolf It Down, Knot Me Up

“Please don’t let me down,” I whisper to the universe and go downstairs.

The main room glows warmly from the fireplace, and there’s a table of guests by the windows, four men in their late forties, ruddy and loud as they enjoy their drinks. No sign of my three. Probably in the private room off the dining hall. But first I slip into the kitchen, and stop dead in the doorway.

Ethan and Grayson have their backs to me at the range. Ethan in his white chef’s shirt, and Grayson beside him, so much bigger it’s almost a joke, sleeves shoved up, black apron tied on over a shirt and jeans. And the whole kitchen is thick with roasting-meat smells.

“Excuse me,” I announce, “but there has to be a law against a man that hot standing near open flame. It’s a hazard, and somebody’s going to get hurt.”

“You know,” Ethan answers without turning around, “I’ve been telling myself that for years. It’s the burden of the gift.”

I chuckle. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

“That’s just evil.” He flips something in the pan and glances my way with a grin. “And in my own kitchen.”

Grayson turns, wiping his hands on the apron, and gives me a slow once-over from my shoes up. “Hey, little bird. Hope you’re starving.” I’m buzzing all over at the sound of his voice, especially as a hot little pulse curls between my thighs, uninvited. He blows me a kiss, which doesn’t help.

“Earth to Lucy.” Ethan snaps me out of my fantasy, spatula pointing in my direction. “Since you’re going to stand there melting over my sous-chef, make yourself useful. I’m behind. Take these to the guests.”

“So romantic.” I grab a half apron off the hook and tie it around my waist so I at least look employed. Ethan loads four appetizers in my arms, some artful little tower of seared meat and blackened greens over a dark smear of sauce, the fancy end of what Grandma calls “mountain food.”

“Quick as you can,” Ethan instructs with a raised eyebrow. Someone’s getting bossy.

I carry the tray to the guests, and the second I’m in range of all four of them, they pause their chatter and stare. I set a plate down in front of each of them, working around the table, and catch the gold wedding band on the first one’s hand, and the second’s, and the third’s, then four for four—a whole table of husbands away for a fishing weekend.

“Well, hello,” the nearest one says. “They’ve been hiding you.”

“Enjoy the meal, gentlemen.”

“Hang on, hang on.” Another one, wearing his charm like cologne. “It’s a graveyard in here tonight. Sit down, keep us company, enjoy at least one drink.”

“That’s kind, but I’m working.”

“One won’t kill you, doll.” I turn to leave when a hand wraps around my forearm, not rough, but enough to make my skin crawl. “Come on, don’t break four hearts. You’re far too pretty to be serving food anyway.”

A shadow drops over the whole table as though the light just went out.

The talking flatlines all at once, and I glance up. Grayson has come out of nowhere, and he plants himself at the head of the table with a dish towel over his shoulder. “You want to show some fucking respect and get your hand off her?”

The man lets go so fast his chair squeaks. “Whoa, hey.” He’s got both palms up now, laughing nervously, glancing at his friends for backup that has abruptly evaporated. “No harm meant. Pretty girl here: we were just having fun.”

“She’s staff.” Grayson’s voice hasn’t risen at all. He closes one big hand over mine and draws me into his side, and I go, gladly. “And my Omega.” His gaze settles on the man as if he’s already forgotten anyone else is in the room. “You’ve got one chance to pretend you knew better.”

Silence stretches as the man shuffles his seat farther from me, while I’m still glowing at hearing him call me his Omega.

“Are we clear?” Grayson snarls.

“Crystal clear, man, we’re sorry.”

Ethan suddenly appears at the table. “Right, gents, next round’s on the house. What are we drinking? Let me sort you out.”

In one smooth move, Grayson peels me away from the table, a reassuring hand on my lower back. “Go on through to the back, little bird. I’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” I breathe, removing my apron, which he takes, and cross the room. I slip into the private room and quietly close the door behind me.

Wolf and Roman are lounging around the round table, soft music low from the stereo in the corner, beers in hand, working through a honey bread loaf drowned in butter, Grandma’s own recipe. Both their heads lift as I stroll inside, and they’re on their feet in an instant, beers down.

“Look who’s finally joined us,” Wolf says.

I’m barely into the room before Roman’s pulling out the chair on his right for me. Then he drops back down next to me. He nudges the bread toward me. “Eat. You’ve had a wild day.”