Page 66 of Knotted By my Pack
Three Alphas. All of them. My first time. With them. With anyone like them. I drop the water bottle on the counter and cover my mouth.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I race upstairs, every step a reminder of what I let them do, of how badly I wanted it, how much I still do.
The second I hit the bathroom, I grab the bottle from the cabinet and shake out a heat suppressant. My fingers fumble with the cap. I down two pills and sag against the sink.
I can’t do this again. Not without understanding what the hell it means.
My reflection stares back at me. Hair tangled. Skin flushed. Lips still swollen. I look—different. Marked. Used. Wanted.
And it was so much better than anything I’ve had with a Beta. More intense. Raw. It didn’t even compare. With Betas, it’s soft, quick, predictable. Like checking a box. But with them?
Every second was instinct. Every sound I made dragged something deeper out of them. My body lit up in ways I didn’t think possible.
I splash cold water on my face and press a towel to my skin. It doesn’t help. None of it does.
I’ll set up a meeting with my doctor tomorrow. I’ll figure out what happens next. For now, I climb into bed still wearing Noah’s shirt and shut my eyes.
I’m too tired to cry. Too full to feel empty. And maybe that’s what scares me most.
The sunlight stabsat my eyelids before I even open them. My body aches in quiet reminders, dull and stretched in places that were claimed far too thoroughly.
The sheets are twisted around my legs. Noah’s shirt is still on me, wrinkled and thin, barely covering anything.
I push myself up slowly and take in the mess of my room—the sweatshirt tossed over a chair, the water bottle half-drunk on my nightstand.
Every inch of me smells like sex and Alphas. I need a shower.
Steam clouds the mirror while I scrub my skin until it’s pink. I wash my hair twice.
Even after I rinse off, I stand under the water longer than I need to, eyes shut, hands braced against the tile. When I finally drag myself out, I wrap a towel around myself and head to my closet.
I pull on a black ribbed tank, something soft and snug that stops just above my navel. My sleep shorts are cotton, light gray with a frayed waistband, barely reaching mid-thigh.
I tug the tank down self-consciously, even though no one’s here. Or so I think.
The knock comes just as I’m tying my hair into a loose bun. Three soft taps. Not urgent, not casual. Just… sure.
I head down and open the door, and he’s there. Noah. He’s in a hoodie, hair a mess, eyes too focused on me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“No,” I say immediately, stepping back. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”
His gaze lingers on my bare legs, then snaps back to my face. Without warning, he walks in and pulls me close.
My breath catches as he carries me and then sinks onto the couch, bringing me with him. I end up straddling his lap, both hands planted on his chest.
“Cora,” he murmurs, looking up at me. “You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known.”
My heart jumps. I want to argue. Instead, I press my lips together. His hand slides up my thigh slowly, stopping just below the hem of my shorts.
“You were mine before last night,” he says. “Last night just proved it.”
