Page 74 of Knotted By my Pack
“What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice is rough, detached.
I swallow. “I brought dinner.”
His gaze drags down to the casserole. No reaction. No smile. No hint of warmth.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. “I wanted to apologize. For how I left that morning. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Cora.” His tone slices clean through my sentence. “Just because I fucked you doesn’t mean you get to show up like this.”
The casserole nearly slips from my hands.
It’s not the words, exactly. It’s the way he says them. Like they mean nothing. LikeImean nothing.
My mouth opens, then closes. I step inside anyway, needing to ground myself with something, anything, before I snap.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound is final.
On the counter, spread across the granite like some twisted reminder, are the architectural renderings of the hotel. Elevation lines. Pool schematics. A mock-up of the rooftop bar.
“You’re really doing it,” I say quietly. My voice doesn’t shake, but it tastes bitter.
Julian doesn’t look at me. “It’s business.”
“Right. Just business,” I echo, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and failing miserably.
He finally looks at me then, and something sharp flickers behind his eyes. “Whatever’s happening in that pretty little head of yours, cut it out. You said it yourself—this thing between us wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
“Yeah, well,” I snap, setting the casserole down so hard the dish clinks against the counter, “congratulations. You got what you wanted. You’ll never touch me again. And this is the last time we ever have to speak.”
I don’t wait for his response. I spin on my heel and walk out, chest tight, breath uneven.
The air outside hits harder this time. Cold. Biting. I can’t even make it to the sidewalk before the tears blur everything.
I dig for my phone, hands clumsy and numb. “Noah,” I manage when he picks up. “Can you come get me?”
He’s there ten minutes later. I don’t even have the energy to wave.
When the door swings open, Noah sees me and stills.
“Get in the car.” His voice is low, clipped. There’s something dangerous simmering underneath it.
I slide into the seat, silent. My cheeks are wet. I don’t even bother wiping them. Noah closes the door with more force than necessary. Then he turns. Marches back toward Julian’s place like he owns the goddamn world.
I sit there, back stiff against the leather, hands in my lap. My heart doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Whatever’s about to happen behind that door is not going to be pretty. And I have no idea how to stop any of it.
22
NOAH
The second I see Cora sitting there—eyes red, makeup ruined, her shoulders tucked in like she’s trying to disappear—I stop thinking. Just stop.
My chest burns with a slow kind of rage that doesn’t shout. It simmers. Simmering is worse.
I shut the car door harder than necessary, my stride eating up the distance to Julian’s door in seconds. No knock. I twist the handle and push in.
He’s standing there barefoot, shirt off, like he has every right to be comfortable while she’s outside, broken.
