Page 106 of Knotted By my Pack

I brush his hair from his forehead and kiss him again, slow and deep. His hands smooth down my spine as he kisses me back.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“We wait,” he says. “Until this part passes. Then we clean up. We walk back. We figure it out one step at a time. That’s all we can do.”

I nod, pulling him closer. The knot still holds us, but I don’t want to move anyway. I want to stay like this, where the world is small and warm and honest.

He presses another kiss to my collarbone, then my jaw.

“Next time,” he says, “we’ll bring a blanket.”

I laugh softly, the sound echoing through the trees. His knot pulses again, and I shiver, clenching around him.

“Stop that,” he warns, half-laughing, half-strained. “You’re going to keep me in here forever.”

“Maybe I’d like that.”

His smile presses into my shoulder.

We stay like that, tangled, exposed to the wild, claimed and claiming, until the sun slides lower through the canopy and we finally, slowly, begin to move.

31

JULIAN

I’ve been pacing since morning, every thought spiraling into the next.

I pull up spreadsheets, property evaluations, alternative market reports. Nothing feels good enough.

Nothing I pitch has my father’s name written all over it, and I know the only thing that will satisfy him is what I refuse to give him—this town. This project. Her.

I scrub a hand through my hair and stare down the hallway like answers might be waiting there. They aren’t. What’s waiting is a confrontation I’ve spent my life avoiding. Fuck.

I grab my phone and dial Brielle’s number.

“Book me a flight back to the city. First thing tomorrow,” I say.

A pause. “You sure?”

I’m not. “Yeah.”

I end the call before I can think twice. I pour a generous two fingers of whiskey, not for the taste.

The glass is cool in my palm. I watch the amber swirl before tipping it back. I need to stall the project, convince him I’m taking initiative elsewhere, but for now, I need a moment of quiet. I need her.

My thumb hovers over her name before I hit call.

She picks up within seconds. Laughter trails through the speaker like she’s standing in a sunbeam. My mouth tilts, soft and automatic.

“What’s funny?” I ask.

“Rusty,” she says, still laughing. “He just dragged one of my bras out of the house.”

I chuckle, easing into her warmth even over the line. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.”

“You’re not,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

“Wanted to talk to you.”