Page 73 of Knotted By my Pack
She reaches across and wraps her fingers around mine. Her hand is warm and sure.
“It takes more strength to admit you want something. Or need something. Especially touch. And safety. That’s not a weakness. That’s the truth.”
I swallow, voice low. “Dr. Avery said I’m making it worse by trying to control it. That this is just how my body works.”
“She’s right. But needing something doesn’t make you powerless. You’re not helpless just because your heat is strong. If anything, you hold every card. You get to decide who enters your space. Who earns your trust. Who helps you through it.”
I stare at the bouquet of lavender on the counter. The petals look soft and wide open. It’s too easy to imagine my own skin like that.
“It doesn’t feel like control. It feels like drowning.”
“Then take the reins. Decide what this looks like. Stop pretending you can ride it out alone. You don’t have to keep burning like this. You could have Alphas who help. Ones you choose. Ones who follow your rules. Who give you relief instead of making it worse.”
The ache low in my belly pulses, stubborn and heavy.
She leans back, watching me with that quiet certainty she always carries. “That bakery you built? It’s a gift. A safe space for others. But who’s making sure you’re safe?”
My throat tightens again. “No one.”
“Then maybe it’s time to let someone try.”
I press the mug to my lips, but the tea has already cooled. Grace doesn’t push. Just lets the silence sit between us.
I want all three of them. But how could I ever ask for something like that? How could I expect them to want the same? Grace’s situation was different.
I close my eyes. Julian’s name dances just beneath the surface. His mouth. His hands. The way his scent hits me like a drug.
Even with all the logic I try to use, my body has already decided what it wants.
But this doesn’t have to be a surrender. I can take it back. Define it on my terms.
And maybe then, heat won’t be something I fight. Maybe it can be something I use.
Something I command.
The casserole iswarm in my hands, the foil crinkling as I hold it tighter than necessary. “Do you need help with that?” the taxi driver asks, eyes flicking to the dish as I shift it against my wool-covered hip.
“No,” I say, voice low but even. “I’ve got it.”
Outside the cab, the cold slices through the knitted warmth of my sweater dress, the hem brushing just above my knees.
My boots crunch against the gravel as I shut the door behind me. He doesn’t know I’m coming. I didn’t call. I didn’t text.
But after everything—after the way I walked out—I owe him at least this. A proper apology.
Closure, if nothing else.
Julian’s front door looms ahead, dark wood and wrought iron, too elegant for the man who lives behind it. My fingers curl tighter around the dish.
I inhale once, slow and deep, and knock.
A few beats pass. Then the door creaks open.
He’s shirtless.
And not in a just-out-of-bed way. His skin glistens faintly, chest rising with breath that hasn’t quite steadied yet.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that makes my stomach twist with memory.
