Page 48 of Knotted By my Pack
The cold sink water does nothing. I splash my face anyway, grip the porcelain like it can anchor me.
Then I reach for the bottle in the cabinet. Heat suppressants. I pop two more into my mouth and swallow, chasing them with a few gulps of sink water.
It’s not supposed to be like this. I’ve been stable for years. Balanced. I’d figured out how to exist in a town crawling with Alphas without losing control. And now?
I’m one dream away from calling all three of them just to let them take turns wrecking me.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, hair a mess, lips parted like I’ve been kissing for hours. I look like a woman in heat. No matter what the pills say.
Maybe it’s time I stop pretending I can hold it together. Maybe I need to get laid. Properly.
Just enough to ease the ache so I can think again. But not by Elias. Or Julian. Or Noah.
No. I know better.
I prefer Betas. They’re safe. Calm. Not the type to trigger instincts that have no business being this sharp.
Betas don’t scent-mark you with their eyes. They don’t speak with their hands or look at you like they’d fuck you in the middle of a public street just to prove a point.
Betas are manageable.
I know a few. Soft-spoken, steady types who don’t rile me up just by saying my name.
Maybe I should call one. Maybe it’s time I actually go through with what I’ve told myself a dozen times.
I deserve something simple. Something easy. Not possessive hands in my hair or slick tongues between my thighs while another man watches.
I press a towel to my face and exhale against the fabric. I still taste the dream. Still feel their hands on my body. Still ache.
If I don’t do something soon, I’m going to combust with need. Or worse—let an Alpha scent me until I’m too far gone to remember my own name.
I pad back to the bedroom and crawl into the cool sheets. My skin is still flushed. Still tight with want. But I close my eyes and try to count backward from one hundred.
The next time I wake up, I’ll be in control again.
I have to be.
15
JULIAN
The last two days have blurred together in a mess of dust, heavy equipment, and steel-toed boots. The crew from the city arrived early Wednesday, and Ron Beckett, the foreman, wasted no time.
By noon, the old dock was already a pile of splinters and rusted bolts. Beckett works fast, and more importantly, he works clean. Says what he means. Doesn’t ask stupid questions.
I haven’t stepped foot in the office since I drove Cora home, and that’s deliberate. I needed distance, space, and time to get my head clear.
An Omega isn’t about to ruin the control I’ve spent years building. Not when I’ve kept my instincts locked down tight since I was sixteen.
Beckett gives me updates by the hour. He walks the site with a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other, barking orders with that gravel-scratched voice that makes grown men snap to attention.
I nod when he talks. Tell him good job. He seems to appreciate that. Today, just before sunset, he claps me on the back.
“Heading into town for a beer. You should come. We’ll talk about the hotel project.”
I pause. Consider saying no. But then I think about her—how she looked in my truck, flushed and dazed and strung out on scent and need—and I know if I stay home, I’ll think about her more. So I say, sure.
The local bar is half-full when we arrive. Small-town place with worn leather booths, dull lighting, and a jukebox that only plays country or sad rock ballads.
