Page 36 of Knot Her Beta

We’re not the only ones who miss you.

Emily

Stop texting and go back to doing the laundry.

Warmth spindles through me at being let into this casual domesticity of their life, and I wonder why I didn’t make a group chat with them before now.

Grady

Just pulled up to the gate. Enjoy your lasagna tonight and give Mixie a scratch behind the ears.

Before I can tuck my phone away, another picture comes in, this one of Jared holding a disgruntled Mixie up to the camera for a selfie with Emily in the background. The female Alpha appears as disgruntled as her cat, but she lifts her hand in a wave.

I save it to my photo folder as the cabin pressure releases with a hiss, and a hundred seatbelts click open around me.

Another message comes in, this one from Chloe, who sent a photo of Quinn perched on the Homestead porch railing, both arms raised toward the camera, mouth open in what must be a shout.

Chloe

SHE ASKED WHERE UNCLE GRADY WENT FOUR TIMES WHEN SHE GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL TODAY. HURRY HOME, OR I’M SENDING HER TO YOUR PARENTS’ HOUSE INSTEAD.

Grady

Stop shouting at me, woman. It doesn’t make me miss you more.

Chloe

AHHHHHHHHHH

Miss you. Come home soon.

A pang of guilt goes through me.

Grady

Miss you, too.

I disembark with the rest of the first-class passengers and follow the flood of bodies toward baggage claim, my cane held close to my body to keep strangers from jostling it.

Bright terminal lights reflect off polished floors as the bite of industrial cleaner competes with the lingering tang of jet fuel. Overhead, a speaker crackles with a gate change announcement. Around me, strangers collect suitcases, hug relatives, and move on with their Fridays as if it’s any other night.

It’s six o’clock here, but my body thinks it’s only three, with hours yet before dinner time.

I find my baggage pickup location and search for the family driver, or someone holding a sign with my name on it, but don’t find anyone waiting for me.

Sure, my family doesn't want me seen flying coach, but they can't be bothered to send a car to pick me up.

Coming to a stop beside the unmoving belt, I pull out my phone and book a black car for myself. My mother would faint if I pulled up to the house in a taxi.

The app sends back an instant approval and directs me to the executive pickup area outside arrivals.

My bad knee throbs after the seven-hour flight, even with the added room the first-class ticket afforded me. The joint is stiff and angry, the metal pins a dull ache beneath the skin. Every time I shift, I wince as pain spikes up and down my leg.

The carousel groans to life, and luggage begins its slow parade. I spot my hard shell case with the dragon sticker on the side and heave it off the belt.

Outside, the March air carries a bite that Pinecrest’s coastal chill never quite manages. It’s a dry cold, the kind that finds the gaps in a wool coat and settles into your bones.

I don't have to wait long at the executive pickup area before a black sedan pulls up. The driver jumps out to take my bag before I can lift it. I limp to the back and slide in.