Page 32 of Knotted By my Pack
I keep going, imagining Damien’s smug face, Elias’s fist connecting with my jaw, Cora’s soft voice asking if I’m okay like I’m some kind of wounded stray.
I punch harder. Faster. My breath comes in sharp bursts. Sweat drips from my temple down my cheek. I block it all out and hit the bag until my arms go numb.
Eventually, I let my hands fall to my sides, chest rising and falling, skin flushed and slick.
I stand there in silence, staring at nothing, the rage still smoldering. It won’t leave me alone. Not while I’m in this place. Not while everything reminds me that I don’t belong.
I take another breath, slower this time. My hand tightens around the chain holding the bag in place.
This town thinks it can outlast me.
It’s wrong.
When Brielle gets that crew here, and the docks come down, they’ll all see what happens when I stop playing nice.
I head back upstairs to make dinner. The fridge might as well be a barren cave. I slam it shut, irritated by its emptiness, and reach for the bottle of whiskey on the counter instead.
No glass at first. Just a long swig straight from the neck, letting the burn trail down my throat, heavy and unkind.
Eventually, I pour a glass, set it down, and grab the steak I picked up earlier from the shitty market downtown. It’s thin, sad-looking.
I throw it in the pan, drizzle some oil over it, and stand there with my arms crossed as it hisses and pops. I watch the edges curl and blacken. Too much heat, not enough patience. Typical.
I’ve never been good at this—domestic things, cooking, shopping, being normal. At the penthouse, everything came to me.
Meals prepped, coffee steaming by the time I walked into the kitchen, shirts ironed and folded by someone I barely spoke to.
It’s the kind of convenience you forget you need until it’s gone. Maybe I’ll have the staff sent here. At least my chef. Atleast someone who can cook a steak without making it taste like charcoal.
I scrape the burnt meat onto a plate and carry it to the table. Cut into it. Chew. Barely swallow. It’s dry, rubbery, nearly inedible. I sit there for a moment, chewing like it’s my pennance.
Then I think about those croissants. Of course I do. The ones she brought earlier, probably still warm when she carried them over, because Cora never half-asses anything she bakes.
She’d stood in my office like she wasn’t the same woman who’d iced me out every time we crossed paths.
I glance at the steak. One more bite—that’s all I manage before I push the plate away in disgust and toss the rest into the trash.
The whiskey’s easier. I throw it back, letting the heat settle in my chest. It doesn’t soothe anything, but it gives the illusion of calm, and that’s good enough for now.
The bathroom is too clean. I watch myself in the mirror for a long moment. Deep violet blotches bloom over bone and muscle.
They’ll fade in a few days, but for now, they ache with every breath. My eyes look darker than usual, hollowed out from a day I want to erase.
There’s dried blood under one fingernail. My jaw clicks when I flex it. Elias didn’t hold back, and neither did I.
I step into the shower, and the water hits like needles. My skin’s raw, my nerves sharper than they should be. I close my eyes, lean forward against the tile, and try to drown everything out.
But she’s there. Not physically. In my head. In the scent of her, still clinging to my shirt somewhere on the floor. In the way her gaze cut through my temper like she knew exactly where the bruise beneath it lived. Cora.
I grit my teeth and tilt my face up toward the water, but it’s no use. I’m not even trying to block her out anymore. She’s lodged in too deep.
I think about calling Brielle. She’s been hinting she’d be happy to relocate here if I needed help. Technically, I do.
The office is chaos, and I need someone reliable. Someone who’ll say yes when I tell them to do something. She knows how to get things done. Knows how to take orders. Knows how to take cock, too. That’s never been an issue with her.
But I know exactly what would happen. Brielle would come in, all polished perfection and empty eagerness.
She’d bend over my desk with that smug little smile she wears when she thinks she’s in control of me, but even if I closed my eyes and grabbed her hips, it wouldn’t scratch this thing inside me.
