Page 107 of Knotted By my Pack
Her voice lowers slightly. “I’ll be home in an hour if you want to come over.”
I swear my chest tightens. “Yeah. Okay.”
We hang up, and I stand there like a fucking teenager, giddy at the idea of seeing her. But ten minutes later, she calls back.
“Actually… would you mind if Elias and Noah came too? I wanted to talk to all of you.”
Her voice is measured, but something about it makes me pay attention.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there.”
I down the rest of my whiskey and check my watch. I debate pouring another but decide against it.
No fog tonight. I need clarity. I shower, throw on a white button-down and blazer, slick my hair back, and bring the bottle of whiskey anyway. Not for nerves. Not really.
By the time I pull up to her house, I already know they’re here. Their scents linger like territory marks, braided with hers.
My jaw ticks once, but I school myself before I knock. I came here to listen. To indulge whatever she wants to say.
She opens the door, and the first thing I notice is that she’s barefoot. Then her dress, thin enough to show the outline of her nipples.
Her hair is loose, skin flushed in places I don’t think are from the sun. She looks kissed and wrecked and beautiful.
“Hey,” I say.
She throws her arms around me, hugging like she means it. I breathe her in. She smells like sex.
I wrap one arm around her waist, press my face into her neck for one second longer than necessary, then step inside.
Noah is at the stove, flipping fish with a metal spatula, like this is his kitchen. Elias is planted on the sofa with a bottle of beer in his hand.
I give him a nod. He nods back. Polite, sharp. We’re not friends. Not even close. But for her, we pretend.
She takes the whiskey from me and raises a brow. “Beer or this?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
She smiles, but it’s tight. She’s nervous. I take off my blazer and undo the first two buttons of my shirt before sinking onto the far end of the couch.
The bottle of beer Elias was nursing lands on the coffee table with a soft clink. No one says anything.
Cora glances between us, her hands twitching at her sides. Then she mutters something about the silence being too weird and crosses the room to turn on music.
Soft jazz filters through the speakers. Her hips sway a little on the way back. Even now, she doesn’t realize how much power she has.
I can tell she’s trying to fill the air with something other than nerves.
She sits on the edge of the couch, directly across from me, knees tucked up, dress riding high.
Her thigh glows in the lamplight. My gaze drifts up to the marks on her shoulder. Noah’s work. Maybe Elias’s, too. I inhale through my nose and settle.
I lean back and stretch my arm along the top of the cushion. “So. What’s up?”
“Can we eat first?” she asks, voice light, eyes scanning all of us. “Then we’ll talk.”
I nod once. “Sure.”
Noah finishes plating. The food smells incredible. Lemon. Butter. Garlic. He sets the plates down like this is routine. Like we do this every Sunday.
