Page 67 of Knot By Design
She’s right.
She’s always right.
But wanting something and surviving it are two different battles.
Wren presses her forehead to mine. “Whatever happens with him, whatever you choose… I’ve got you.”
I let my eyes fall shut, letting myself sink fully into the comfort she’s giving without asking anything in return.
“I know,” I whisper.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jude
“I don’t knowhow we’re gonna do this.” The words come out before I can pull them back, low enough that only Ryker hears me over the soft morning chatter of the TV.
He doesn’t get rattled. Not by storms, not by broken piers, not by chaos. He just leans on the counter and gives me that small, steadying half-smile he saves for when I’m about to spiral.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, reaching for another piece of bacon like we’re talking about grocery lists and not the heaviness sitting under my ribs.
I glance over at Maisie. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked up under her, Rufus pressed against her hip like her personal fuzzy bodyguard.
She hums under her breath, eyes glued to the cartoon on the screen. Her stuffed rabbit sits on her lap like she’s supervising the whole thing.
She looks fine. Happy, even. And somehow that makes the pressure in my chest worse.
“You sure you’re okay heading to the site alone?” I ask Ryker, keeping my voice low.
He nods, chewing. “Yeah. I wanna check for any damage from the Halloween event anyway. Then I’ll meet up with Mayor Brighton. I’ll keep you updated.”
The way he says it—calm, easy, like this whole situation isn’t a ticking bomb—makes something inside me loosen.
Not much. But enough to keep breathing.
“See you later,” he says. Then he crouches by the couch. “Bye, bug.”
Maisie lifts her hand without looking away from the screen. “Bye, Ryker.”
He ruffles Rufus’s ears, earning a tail-wag thump against the sofa, then he’s grabbing his jacket and stepping out into the bright, freezing morning.
The second the door clicks shut, something in my spine goes stiff.
I pace. One end of the kitchen to the other, boots thumping against the floor, hands shoved into the pockets of my sweatpants like I can hold myself together that way.
I thought it’d be easy. I thought I could wrap this into a neat kid-friendly package.
But this is different. This is her mom.
This is a lie I can’t afford to screw up.
I glance at the clock. Almost eleven. I need to do this before she starts asking questions.
I stop pacing and wipe my palms on my shirt. “Hey, bug?”
She finally looks up at me, curls bouncing, Frida squished in her small hands.
“Yeah?”
