Page 113 of Knot Her Beta

He stares back with certainty, unafraid, and the last of the fear I had arrived at the cabin with this morning dissipates.

I kiss him again, slow and thorough, my mouth moving with his. He holds me there, one hand on the back of my neck, the other spanning my spine, until my body yields around him, the grip easing until he slips free.

Carefully, I shift down to draw his right knee into my lap and work my thumbs into the joint with slow, careful pressure, checking for new stiffness. The muscle yields under my hands, and Grady lets out a soft sound of relief that tells me I’ve found the right spot.

When his stomach rumbles again, louder this time, we both laugh.

“Food,” I say.

“Food,” he agrees, covering my hand on his knee and squeezing once. “Afterward, we’ll take a nap together.”

My lips part to protest. It’s Monday, and there’s work to do.

“Please, Alpha?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to expose his throat, and my mouth closes.

What my Beta wants, my Beta gets.

Chapter Thirty-One

Grady

Aknock on the office door pulls me out of my thoughts, and I raise my head to find Dominic standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, I knocked twice, but you didn’t answer.”

His black hair is tied back in a French braid, the fade sharp along his temple. He wears a light gray sweater under a suit jacket and matching black slacks, and he carries a portfolio under one arm as if he just came from a meeting.

I rub my tired eyes. “Sorry about that. I was caught up in work.”

He takes in the mess on my desk, and his eyebrow lifts. “So I see. What’s all this?”

“I’ve decided to start writing for myself again.” I give him a hard stare. “And it’s not monster smut.”

He smirks. “No, leave that for my mate to handle.” He tilts his head to the side. “This isn’t the desk you were checking out in the showroom.”

“No, Emily surprised me with it.” I run my hand along the beveled edge. “Custom built for my needs.”

“She does good work.” He holds up the portfolio. “Do you have a moment?”

I cap my pen and set it down. My knee protests as I shift in the chair, the joint stiff from not moving from my position all morning. I move a stack of paper aside and motion to the clear spot.

He sets the portfolio on the desk and flips the leather cover back to reveal legal documents. “I looked into your trust, as promised.”

I pull the first document toward me, skimming the dense paragraphs.

“The relevant clause states that ‘Any amendment to the terms of this trust must be approved in writing by the designated trustee, with notarized consent from all named beneficiaries.’” He points to the paragraph in question.

My stomach sinks. “Which is my father. He has absolute veto power on anything we propose.”

“The release conditions are wrapped up even tighter,” he says. “As you know, there are age and marriage thresholds. But there are also residency requirements and documented proof of financial need, which must be verified by a third-party auditor selected by the designated trustee.”

I turn to the last page of the unsigned amendment my grandmother drafted before her death. Her name is typeset above the blank signature line. Margaret Elizabeth Finch.

She had been a supporter of the arts and always encouraged me to spread my wings beyond my father’s ambitions with his company. She had planned to remove my father’s control over my share of the trust, but a heart attack ended her life before she could execute the changes. The original terms remained in force.

“I’m sorry,” Dominic says. “We looked for any loophole, but we can’t find one. And to be honest, if your dad’s as big of a dick as he sounds, I don’t think he planned to give you access to this money even when you turned thirty or got married. Guys like that will clutch tight to the purse strings to control you until their dying breath.”

He closes the portfolio but leaves it sitting on the desk.