Page 3 of Knotted By my Pack
Partner with a golf designer to build something that draws corporate retreats. Host seasonal festivals, yacht regattas. Make it exclusive but accessible. We turn this forgotten little town into the Hamptons of the Pacific Northwest.”
Silence follows.
Until—
“For the first time in a long time,” my father says slowly, “you’re not wasting my time.”
I freeze.
That’s it. That’s the flicker I’ve been chasing for years. Thealmostapproval. The ghost of pride.
It should feel like a win.
But I’ve been fed scraps for so long, even this feels like hunger.
Still, I nod once, tuck it away. “I’ll head there tomorrow. See it myself.”
He gives a slight tilt of his head. Not a yes. Not a no. Just permission to try to prove myself.
As I gather my things, movement in the corner of the room catches my eye.
Brielle is silent, but she meets my gaze with that same smirk from before. The one that hints that she’s in on something.
She’s not.
She’s a distraction I allow. A convenient outlet. Nothing more.
I brush past her without a word.
Because in the end, it’s not her I’ll remember.
It’s that flicker in my father’s eyes.
And the town I’m about to make mine.
Driftwood Cove.
1
CORA
Something isn’t right.
I know it the moment I wake up, my skin warm, the air in my bedroom thick like it’s pressing in from all sides. The clock on my nightstand glows 4:57 a.m.
Too early. Too late. Doesn’t matter. My head aches. My skin hums, but lying here makes it worse. The fever has started again, as it always does.
I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I drag myself, muscles sluggish, sweat cooling against my skin, into the bathroom.
The cold water does nothing to chase away the heat curling beneath my ribs, but I let it run over me anyway, standing under the spray until my fingertips prune.
It doesn’t help. The heat lingers beneath my skin, stubborn, clinging like it has no intention of leaving.
By the time I’m downstairs, the coffee maker gurgles its final notes. The scent is familiar, grounding. I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, and take a slow sip. The first swallow soothes my throat, but the rest settles uneasily in my stomach.
It’s fine. This happens every other month, like clockwork. Dr. Avery has me on suppressants. I’ve taken them religiously since I was thirteen, since the day I made the decision that heat was one complication I didn’t need.
With no family history, no way of knowing what genetic mess I might be carrying, it wasn’t a risk worth taking. So I stopped it before it could start. That, paired with the birth control pills I take regularly, means I never have to worry. No heat. No surprises. No stress.
