Page 71 of Knotted By my Pack
I watch as they start drilling. The sound is sharp, rhythmic, grounding. I need the distraction. I need to remember who I am and what I came here for.
This isn’t about an Omega with soft eyes and a smart mouth. It’s about legacy. Profit. Control.
Everything else is noise.
Except she’s not fading like she should.
That bakery—quiet, dark—sits like a loose tooth I keep tonguing. Every morning when I pass it on the way to the site, I expect it to be open.
I expect her to be behind the counter, flour on her cheek, pretending she doesn’t see me. Instead, it’s just empty glass and silence.
She ran.
Maybe I scared her. Maybe she’s avoiding what happened. Or maybe she’s trying to convince herself that I didn’t mean anything either.
Too late.
There was a moment—half a second—when I sank my teeth into her neck and she gasped my name like it meant something.
I saw it. Heard it. Felt the way she pressed closer, like she wanted more, even though we both knew we shouldn’t.
And now she’s hiding.
I exhale through my nose and glance back at Beckett. “I want the tower frame up by November. No delays. No excuses.”
He nods. “If you want the penthouse ready for those big donors, you’d better tell the design team to get their shit together.”
“I’ll handle them.”
“Good. Because once we pour, there’s no turning back.”
My phone buzzes again, vibrating hard against my pocket. I dig it out, expecting another update from Damien or maybe something from Lockwood, but it’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Bakery is still closed. She okay?
I stare at the screen.
No name. Just the message.
I delete it.
The only thing that matters now is finishing this project and getting out clean. I didn’t come to Driftwood Cove to get tangled up in anyone’s life, especially not hers.
She was just a mistake.
A sweet, aching, addictive mistake I’m still tasting every time I close my eyes.
21
CORA
The cold of the exam table seeps through my jeans, even though I’ve been sitting here for almost twenty minutes.
My thighs stick to the paper sheet no matter how many times I shift, and the silence in the room grows heavier with every second Dr. Avery stays gone.
The clock ticks too loudly. The sharp scent of antiseptic stings the back of my throat.
When the door finally creaks open, she walks in with her tablet tucked against her hip, her expression pulled tight in thought. She doesn’t look surprised. That tells me everything.
