Page 129 of Knotted By my Pack

Inside, we sit at the table. I explain what Julian told me, piece by piece. Bribes. Forged permits.

That spineless bastard. And the vandalism—orders coming straight from Alec Vance like it’s just another line item in a quarterly plan.

Noah’s jaw clenches. He pushes his palms into the wood of the table, knuckles whitening.

“That bastard was at the bakery yesterday,” he mutters. “I should’ve punched his teeth in.”

I glance toward the hall, listening for any movement from Julian. Still out cold.

“We can’t let this stand,” I say. “We need to pull him out. Root and stem.”

“Lockwood?”

“Yeah. He’s in Alec’s pocket. Always has been. That permit went through too clean, too fast. But we can’t trust the council either. They’re half-paid off or too scared to cross the Vances.”

Julian comes out halfway through, still looking like shit but upright. His voice is low when he speaks. “We oust him. You take his place.”

Noah raises a brow. “Me?”

“You’re the only one people trust,” I say. “You’ve been part of this town since you could walk. Your name means something. If there’s anyone who can rally the council, the voters, it’s you.”

Noah looks between us, tension thick behind his eyes. “You think they’ll follow me into something like this?”

“I do,” Julian says. “But we need to start building it now. Letters. Testimonies. Get Cora. Get everyone who’s been brushed off or ignored.”

“We should make it to council first,” I say. “Small steps.”

Julian shakes his head. “Too slow. We need to cut the head off. The assistant mayor’s office gives you veto power over all the development going on in this town. Budget oversight. Everything.”

Noah leans back. “Fuck. I didn’t sign up for politics.”

Julian stands. “None of us did. But we don’t get to sit out just because it’s messy. Plus, I’m pretty sure that if we went to the mayor with this, he would give you his full support.”

That hits. Because he’s not wrong.

This town isn’t just buildings and streets. It’s Cora’s bakery. It’s Noah’s carpentry. It’s the old women at the farmer’s market and the little girls who dance on the docks every summer.

The old docks may be gone, but if we let Alec Vance have his way, he’ll bleed Driftwood Cove dry and build over the corpse.

Silence settles. Not awkward. Just heavy. Measured.

“We tell her,” Julian says finally, voice raw. “Today.”

“I’ll be there,” Noah says.

Julian shakes his head. “No. I should be the one to tell her just how badly I screwed everything up.”

“No,” Noah repeats. “We do this together.”

I nod, a slow weight in my chest easing as I realize this is what it means to stand with someone. For the first time in years, I’m not just watching from the margins. This is a pack. Broken, battered, unlikely as hell, but it’s real.

We pile into Noah’s truck and head down toward the harbor. The damage hits me like a punch when we round the curve. Piles of torn-up boardwalk scattered across the ground.

Heavy machinery parked too close to the shoreline. Broken glass glittering like someone’s idea of confetti.

Julian gets out first. Contractors pause when they see him, unsure. Beckett, the lead, walks up, clipboard in hand.

“Mr. Vance? We’re on schedule for?—”