Page 36 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

The cables hum.

Five years of careful choreography, undone by a hotel with one service elevator, and the two of us ride it down through the Salt & Honey's old bones in a silence with a pulse.

He's holding his scent.

That's the first thing I understand in the small air of this box, that the cedar-and-rain of him reaching me is leakage, not language, the trace amount no Alpha can fully sheathe, and everything else is being held back by main force.

I know what it costs…

I'm doing the same thing from the other corner with chemical assistance, and he's doing it bare, jaw set, breathing shallow and even like a man carrying a pane of glass up a hill, and the effort is so visible it's almost louder than scent would have been.

Don't. Don't find that considerate.

Consideration is his second language now, apparently.

Everyone learns the language after the war.

"Ms. Whitlock." He says it to the floor indicator. "You'll have the access packet. Gate codes rotate on Fridays. If your team needs the freight entrance for equipment, Rena will schedule it."

"The packet was thorough." Ninety seconds. I can do ninety seconds of vendor voice in my sleep. "Ms. Whitlock is unnecessary, by the way. Every florist and rental company on this coast calls me Amber. It's on the website."

A pause, one floor long.

"I'd rather not," he says, quiet, "without permission," and there's nothing to say to that which fits in an elevator, so the rest of the ride is cable sounds and my own held breath.

There’s so much to say, so much to remember, and I dare recall how we’d shared an elevator so similar in appearance but the tension was far different:

He crowds me up against steel, the cold bite of the elevator wall beneath my shoulders, and when he kisses me it's like we're racing a timer only we know is ticking. It's messy, edge-of-desperate.

Hot, bated breaths crashing together, his mouth finding mine over and over until even the air around us feels flushed. My scent winds through the small space, curling around us like a velvet cord, catching on every exhale, every groan he lets loose.

Beck isn't quiet about any of it—not his hunger or the way he wants the world to know. The echo of it fills the metal box,unapologetic and fierce, and somewhere in the back of my mind, it flickers; there might be cameras watching, but I don't care.

The best part is he doesn't either.

My heart hammers, each beat fluttery and fast. Wetness soaks through lace, the thin barrier useless, and every movement just smears the need sharper. I catch him drinking it in, his praise low and rough:

“I’d fuck you right now.”

That sends laughter bubbling, breathless, off my lips.

“Don’t promise me a good time if you can’t hold down the fort,” I throw back. And his grin, that wolfish tilt to it, dares to promise sinful things.

Beck just leans past me, slaps the stop button with quick certainty before the elevator can get close to letting us out.

I arch a brow, heart still thudding, and remind him there’s only one elevator in this building. He just smirks, edges so close I count each word as he murmurs against my mouth.

“And now it’s out of service, Sweet Apricot.”

The words land like a match on dry tinder.

Sweet Apricot.

No one else has ever called me that.

It’s so easy to be pulled into the memories of the past, especially at the recollection of a nickname that hits deeper than the kiss, stirring memories of lazy mornings in his workshop, sunlight striping his bare shoulders while I perched on his workbench feeding him apricot tarts between hammer strikes.

This elevator ride dares to feel like a thousand years than a few short seconds, and how I dare to recall what happened after those tempting words: