Page 152 of Knotted By my Pack
Noah takes my place without hesitation. He slides in easy, deep. His mouth finds hers, and when he knots, she cries out, shuddering around him. Julian doesn’t wait long after.
When Noah slips free, Julian takes her from behind, one arm wrapped tight across her chest. He knots fast, voice a low growl as he spills into her.
When it’s over, she lies between us, boneless, flushed, radiant.
We hold her like we’ll never let go. And we won’t.
The bond pulses through the room. Complete. Unbreakable.
41
JULIAN
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and coffee.
Noah’s at the stove flipping pancakes, Elias stands barefoot beside the fridge pouring orange juice, and Cora sits at the counter in one of Noah’s old shirts, bare-legged, cheeks flushed, trying to braid her hair with fingers that keep tangling.
We’re all sore, still aching from last night in that heady way that stays in your bones. There’s no awkwardness. No regret. Just this strange, quiet peace that wasn’t here before.
“We should start looking for a house,” she says as she reaches for her coffee.
Elias pauses, looks at her over the rim of his glass. “Today?”
“Why wait? If we’re bonded, we should have a place that’s ours,” she says. “Not a borrowed bedroom. Not somewhere temporary.”
“You’re right,” Noah says, flipping a pancake with too much flair. “No reason to wait.”
“I’ve got some calls to make,” I say as I glance at the clock. “Can’t stay long. But I’ll meet you after.”
Cora gets up, steps around the counter. Her arms go around my waist as I slide my phone into my pocket. She leans in,presses her mouth to mine. I kiss her slowly, one hand cradling the back of her neck.
This mouth is going to ruin me. Has already started.
“You okay?” she asks, voice low.
“I will be.”
It’s a lie I’ve told for years, but it tastes different when I say it to her. I kiss her again. Then I leave.
The sun’s brutal for how early it is. I park at the harbor and walk down toward the skeletal frame of steel and concrete rising out of the earth like a grave marker.
Beckett stands near the edge of the dock, clipboard in hand, barking something to a pair of men in hard hats. The scent of salt, fresh-cut lumber, and drying paint saturates the air.
Every board, every beam, is one more nail in the coffin of the town we knew.
“Beckett,” I call out.
He turns, face already tight with wariness. “I thought you weren’t allowed here.”
“Who said so?”
He doesn’t reply. We both know it has to be my brother pulling strings.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, stepping closer. “This thing is a cancer. It doesn’t belong here.”
“We’re months in,” he says. “Materials ordered, contracts signed. This isn’t some fantasy build you can shut down with a tantrum.”
“Do you really want to go through with it?”
