{"id":265025,"date":"2026-07-15T02:36:06","date_gmt":"2026-07-14T23:36:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/knot-in-my-wildest-dreams-violet-dawn\/"},"modified":"2026-07-15T02:36:06","modified_gmt":"2026-07-14T23:36:06","slug":"knot-in-my-wildest-dreams-violet-dawn","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/knot-in-my-wildest-dreams-violet-dawn\/","title":{"rendered":"Knot In My Wildest Dreams – Violet Dawn"},"content":{"rendered":"
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This is bad. This is really bad. A soft knock at the door makes me turn. \u201cLuna?\u201d Beau\u2019s voice, careful and concerned. \u201cAre you awake?\u201d \u201cYeah.\u201d \u201cCan I come in? I need to check your temperature.\u201d I hesitate, then unlock the door and step back. Beau enters carrying a medical bag, his expression professionally neutral even though I can smell the tension in his scent. He\u2019s changed into comfortable clothes\u2014worn jeans and a thick sweater that makes him look softer, more approachable.<\/p>\n

More dangerous to my defenses. \u201cHow are you feeling?\u201d he asks, setting down the bag. \u201cBetter. The soup helped.\u201d \u201cGood. Rowan made it. He\u2019s been cooking all afternoon\u2014nervous energy.\u201d Beau pulls out a thermometer. \u201cOpen.\u201d I comply, letting him check my temperature while his scent\u2014pine and lemon balm\u2014wraps around me like a blanket.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne hundred point two,\u201d he announces, relief clear in his voice. \u201cThat\u2019s better. Still elevated, but better.\u201d \u201cThe storm looks bad.\u201d His expression tightens. \u201cIt is. Weather service is calling it a historic blizzard. They\u2019re recommending everyone stay inside until it passes.\u201d \u201cHow long?\u201d \u201cAt least through tomorrow. Maybe longer.\u201d He meets my eyes. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I know this isn\u2019t ideal\u2014being stuck here during your heat.<\/p>\n

But leaving isn\u2019t an option right now. The roads are already impassable.\u201d A different kind of panic flutters in my chest. Stuck here. With them. For days. \u201cHey.\u201d Beau\u2019s voice gentles. \u201cIt\u2019s okay. We\u2019ll manage. You have your space. We have ours. The house is big enough that you don\u2019t have to see us if you don\u2019t want to.\u201d \u201cWhat about\u2014\u201d I gesture vaguely. \u201cWhat about my scent? Won\u2019t it\u2014\u201d \u201cDrive us crazy?\u201d<\/p>\n

He offers a wry smile. \u201cProbably. But we\u2019re grown men, Luna. We can handle our instincts. You don\u2019t need to worry about us.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s not\u2014I don\u2019t want to make this harder for you.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re not making anything hard. Well\u2014\u201d He stops himself, clearing his throat. \u201cPoor choice of words.<\/p>\n

\n

The bus rumbles to a stop at the edge of a town that looks like it\u2019s been dipped in sugar and starlight. I press my forehead against the cold window, watching snowflakes drift past streetlamps wrapped in evergreen garlands. The town sign creaks on its wooden post, wearing a crooked Santa hat someone must have nailed there as a joke.<\/p>\n

WELCOME TO SWEETBAY HOLLOW WHERE WINTER STAYS A LITTLE LONGER. Beneath the main lettering, someone has scribbled a smaller addition in red marker: AND THE COCOA IS ALWAYS HOT. A weak laugh escapes me. Cute. Wholesome. Exactly the opposite of everything I\u2019ve known for the past three years. Sweetbay Hollow sprawls before me like a scene from a holiday card\u2014 shop windows glowing amber, wreaths hung on every door, twinkle lights strung between lampposts in swooping arcs that make the whole street shimmer.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never seen anything like it. My old pack\u2019s territory was all glass towers and concrete, sharp edges and sharper voices. No one hung lights there. No one baked gingerbread or hummed carols in the grocery store. Christmas was another obligation, another performance, another reminder that I was decorative at best\u2014useful when my scent was needed to soothe tempers or smooth over pack politics, forgotten the moment I wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

I swallow hard and pull my threadbare coat tighter. That\u2019s over now. You left. You\u2019re safe. The bus door hisses open, and I step down into the snow with my single duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Cold air bites sharply at my cheeks, carrying the scent of pine sap and woodsmoke.<\/p>\n

Somewhere nearby, a bakery is baking something cinnamon-sweet. My stomach twists with hunger and nerves. The bus pulls away, leaving me alone on the corner of Main Street. For a moment, I just stand here, breathing in the quiet. No honking horns. No crowded sidewalks. No voices shouting my name, demanding I come here, go there, smile prettier, scent softer. Just snow falling gently onto my dark curls and the distant sound of bells chiming from the town square. I exhale slowly, watching my breath fog in the air.<\/p>\n

This is it. A fresh start. The Cozy Book Nook bookshop sits three buildings down, its green- painted door framed by a string of golden lights. The windows display stacks of novels surrounded by tiny ceramic reindeer and frosted pine branches. A hand-lettered sign in the window reads: Cozy reads for cold nights. We brew tea. My heart squeezes. I found the job listing online two weeks ago, posted by an elderly Beta named Betty, who needs help during the holiday rush.<\/p>\n

The pay is modest, but it comes with a small apartment upstairs\u2014exactly what I need. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away. Somewhere no one knows what I am. I make my way down the snowy sidewalk, boots crunching softly. A couple pass me holding mittened hands, their laughter warm and easy.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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