Page 146 of Knotted By my Pack
That hits differently. I nod slowly. “Yeah. They’ve got my back.”
Julian’s face softens just a little. “And we’ve got yours.”
It sticks with me. Later, after we’ve locked up, after the lights are off and the night creeps into the edges of the town, I think about that.
About how I never meant to lead anyone. Never wanted to be more than a man with tools and a decent reputation. But now, I’ve got a pack. A mate. A campaign. And a town that finally sees me.
Let’s see Lockwood try to stop us.
The week leadingup to the election runs me ragged. We’re up before dawn and back home after midnight, feet blistered, palms worn from too many handshakes, voices hoarse from convincing people that change is possible.
Every time I look at Elias, he’s got a map rolled out, his finger tracing routes and neighborhoods, organizing the canvassers like a general before a siege. Julian is quieter, calculating, always two steps ahead.
His phone never leaves his hand. Cora has turned Whisked into our unofficial campaign headquarters, every surface stacked with pamphlets and donuts, volunteers spilling into the alley with clipboards and lists.
The tension in town is thick. Lockwood’s face is everywhere—billboards, benches, window signs—but there’s a stiffness to itnow. His people look uneasy. Tired. Too clean in a town that knows how to smell bullshit.
You can feel the shift, the cracking of something old and untouchable. We’re getting through. Little by little, door by door, story by story.
Fishermen with salt-rough hands nod at me across the docks. Mothers in grocery aisles squeeze my arm and say thank you.
The younger crowd calls me “Mr. Noah” already, half-joking but not really. There’s hope clawing its way into the open.
By the time the polls open, I can barely breathe.
We walk together that morning. Me, Cora, Julian, Elias. No big speech. No campaign parade. Just us. Quiet and steady. When I mark my name on that ballot, something in my chest clenches.
The hours crawl.
We wait in the bakery. Volunteers pour in and out, dropping updates, numbers from districts. It’s tight. Closer than any of us wanted.
There’s food on the tables that no one touches. Coffee cups scattered and cold. Cora doesn’t sit once.
Julian keeps flipping a pen through his fingers, gaze distant. Elias stares out the window like he’s willing the town to behave.
When the sun starts to dip, we head to the community center for the official count. It’s packed. Reporters. Residents. Opponents.
Lockwood’s over in the corner with his little entourage, stiff-backed and stone-faced, but even he can’t pretend this isn’t real anymore.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I catch Cora’s hand in mine, rub my thumb over her knuckles. She looks at me like she already knows.
That’s when Grace’s name lights up my phone. I step aside to answer.
“Everything okay?”
Her voice stumbles. “I tried calling Cora, but her phone is switched off.”
“Is everything okay?”
“There’s been a fire.”
Something sinks through me. I go still. “Where?”
She hesitates. “Noah. Your workshop. Elias’s cabin, too. The ridge is lit up. They’re sending the team out now.”
I close my eyes. Try to think, but everything swirls too fast.
