Page 83 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

She lays it out flat because Florence has never once softened a thing in her life. Sawyer named me his Omega and named the other three as our coordinated unit, in the record, on camera. The department can now accept a five-person unit for preliminary review. But it will accept nothing on a drawl. All four men have to sign sworn temporary-pack declarations. I have to confirm the relationship in writing, under penalty of professional fraud.

Any pack already attached to Sawyer's registration must consent, formally release him, or appear in person — before the deadline.

Every head in the room turns to Sawyer.

For the first time since he walked into my office, his composure slips. Just at the edges.

Just enough.

I haven't been with them in five years.

Florence sets four blank forms on the desk and squares them with two fingers.

"You have until 8:17 tomorrow morning."

I'm still holding Sawyer's hand.

I feel the exact moment he understands what I've already understood — that our clever, improvised, career-saving little miracle has just reached across a locked door of his own and dragged his missing pack straight into my fire.

Apparently, my knight in shining armor came with three runaway grooms, an estranged pack, and paperwork due before breakfast.

CHAPTER 14

The Measure Of A Man

~SAWYER~

In my line of work, you learn a man's whole character in the ten seconds after something breaks.

Anybody can be charming when the champagne's cold and the quartet's in tune.

I've watched a thousand men be gracious at a party. It tells me nothing. Show me who a man becomes when the tent catches fire,the bride is crying, and the caterer's just quit — that's the only version of him that was ever real.

Everything before the fire is marketing.

So I already know most of what I need to know about the three Alphas trailing us down the hill.

None of it flatters them.

They love her.

That part's been obvious since the lobby, when three scents went off like struck matches the second I put my hand near hers. What interests me is the shape of the love.It's careful. It's apologetic. It keeps a respectful two feet of distance and calls the distance manners.

In my professional opinion, it's the love of three men who have already failed the fire test once and have organized their whole lives around never being asked to take it again.

I've had all day to sort them into their boxes, because sorting people is the job.

The big one, Beckett, is the fixer.

He reads a room for exits and load-bearing walls and whether anyone's had enough water. He thinks protection is a thing you do with your hands and your silence, and he has never once considered that a woman might want to be told the truth more than she wants to be shielded from it.

The blond, August, is the watcher. He sees everything and says a third of it, and he has spent years mistaking that restraint for kindness.

Cade —well, Cade is me, or a version of me I outgrew the hard way. Charm as a fire exit. A joke loaded and ready for the second a feeling gets too close.

Amber's hand is still in mine.

She hasn't pulled it back.