Page 127 of Knotted By my Pack

ELIAS

Rusty’s tongue drags across my cheek with the persistence of a dog who doesn’t care if I was out dancing until two in the morning or if my body still aches from it.

I groan, not ready to open my eyes yet, but the mutt doesn’t stop. Instead, he gets more enthusiastic, front paws braced on the mattress.

“Alright, alright,” I grumble, voice rough and sleep-clogged as I shove the blanket off and sit up.

The cabin smells like pinewood and leftover whiskey. My shirt’s still on from last night, crumpled and half unbuttoned, jeans around my ankles because I never bothered taking them all the way off before passing out.

Cora had pressed her mouth to my ear before she slipped out, whispering something about pastries and opening shop early.

I’d just nodded, too tired to protest, my hands still tingling from the way her body moved against mine all night.

I drag myself into the kitchen, Rusty trotting ahead like he’s proud of himself. Sunlight streams in through the tall windows.

The lake outside is still misty. I’m blinking at the coffee maker, trying to remember if I set it last night, when a knockcomes at the door. Not sharp. Not rushed. Just steady enough to be fucking annoying.

I open the door and nearly laugh.

Julian Vance looks like he spent the night in a ditch. His shirt’s wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. He hasn’t shaved.

His usually perfect hair is falling into his eyes, and there’s a bruise on his cheekbone that tells me he got into a fight.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “You get hit by a car or your conscience?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink.

“I need to talk to you.”

I stare at him for a beat, then step aside.

He walks in like he’s never been in a place built of real wood before, glancing around like the exposed beams might attack him. Rusty circles his legs, sniffing, then decides he isn’t worth it and flops near the fire.

I pour us both coffee, hand his over, then lean against the counter.

“Alright,” I say. “You look like shit. What the hell happened?”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, both hands wrapped around the mug like he needs the warmth to stay upright.

Then he tells me everything.

How he bribed Lockwood to speed up permits, how he used legal loopholes to get zoning pushed through when it should’ve been blocked.

How his father ordered the vandalism at Cora’s bakery to scare her off. He looks away when he says that part, his jaw tight, voice low.

“And now,” he says, eyes finding mine again, “if I walk away, Damien takes over the project. He’ll burn this town down to build his name.”

I exhale hard, setting my mug down with more force than I mean to. “I hate that man.”

Julian’s eyes flicker. “Yeah. I get it now.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

Then he says, “I’m sorry.”

Two words, stiff and hard-won. But honest.

I stare at him, part of me still wanting to throw the coffee in his face.