Page 125 of Knotted By my Pack
In my pocket, my phone vibrates. A message from Cora.
I miss you. Need you.
I close my eyes. Just for a second.
I need to get out of here.
My hand scrapes over the back of my neck as I head for the elevator, the echo of Damien’s accusations still ringing in my ears.
I can feel eyes tracking me through the halls, junior associates too afraid to meet my gaze directly but desperate to eavesdrop.
My jaw stays tight, my back straight, but there’s a sharpness inside me, like I’m walking around with barbed wire coiled beneath my skin.
The Uber driver asks if I want to go home. I tell him no.
The bar I end up in is a dim corner of a members-only club downtown. Discretion is baked into the walls.
There are no paparazzi here, no judgmental board members, no father waiting to hand out ultimatums. Just silence, low lighting, and expensive liquor that goes down like oil. I order something neat. Then another.
By the third, my scent’s starting to dull beneath the heat of whiskey and the slow bleed of anger I’ve kept bottled too long.
I press my fingers to the pulse point at my throat, count to ten, then ten again. It’s a basic regulation technique. Pressure to ground myself.
A soft drag of scent control balm behind each ear. It doesn’t erase the bond, but it mutes the ache.
Not enough.
So I drink more, ordering whatever they can pour fast. I keep to a booth in the corner, loose tie, open shirt, no fucking mask. Just me. Just this spiraling thing I’m trying not to name.
The air shifts before I see him. I should’ve known he’d show up.
Damien walks in like he owns the place, dragging chaos in behind him. And clinging to his side is Brielle. Tipsy, eyes glassy, mouth slick and parted.
She’s wearing something tight and practically falling off her shoulder. Her lipstick’s smudged. Her hand’s on his chest like she forgot who she actually works for.
“You really know how to fall apart, don’t you?” Damien calls, voice slicing through the low hum of the room as he drags Brielle over to my table. “Hiding out. Boozing. Classic Julian.”
“Fuck off.” I lean back, barely sparing him a glance. I swirl the dregs of my drink in the glass, then toss them back.
Brielle giggles. “You look so different when you’re angry,” she murmurs, leaning against me now. Her fingers trail down my arm. “You used to look at me like you wanted me.”
“Brielle, go home.”
“Not before you take me there,” she purrs.
Damien scoffs. “You’re pathetic. Both of you.” He yanks her away from me, but not before she sways and almost spills a glass from the next table. “You think you’re the only one who can close a deal? You tank this resort and I’ll step in. Handle it like a true man. Like a Vance. Maybe I can also fly down into town and find myself a nice little cunt like you did.”
I’m already on my feet before I realize it.
My fist connects with his face so fast the bartender doesn’t even react until Damien stumbles backward, holding his jaw. A sharp, satisfying jolt spreads up my arm.
“You’re a fucking scumbag,” I breathe.
He straightens slowly, lips bloody, eyes full of smugness even now. “And you’re going to lose everything because you want to play house with a town girl.”
I walk away before I throw another punch.
Brielle follows me, mumbling and drunk. I get her a cab. She stumbles, still trying to crawl into my space, still whining that I’ve changed. I shut the door before she can lean in again. The cab drives off.
