Page 14 of Knotted By my Pack

I lean back in the chair and sigh, wishing I could shut my mind off. I try to focus on the TV, but the images on the screen blur as thoughts of Cora slip into every corner of my mind.

She’s not my type.

I don’t have a type.

I was never supposed to get involved with anyone again. I was supposed to stay out of the mess. But now, every time I close my eyes, I see her standing in front of Julian, standing up for what she believes in. And it shakes something inside me.

My phone buzzes, breaking into my thoughts. I grab it, hoping it’s something to pull me out of this, but it’s just a message from an old friend. I ignore it.

My thoughts drift back to the town hall, to Cora’s fierce words. I should let it go, should focus on my quiet life here. But something tells me I won’t be able to.

I finish my steak, but it feels hollow in my stomach. It’s just food. I’m not hungry for it. I’m hungry for something else.

I grab a book from the shelf, trying to distract myself. But the letters blur as I stare at the page, mind lost in thoughts of a petite redhead who has no idea how much she’s already gotten under my skin.

I don’t need anyone. I made sure of that.

But Cora...

Fuck. Cora makes me question everything I’ve built here. And this time, I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing.

5

CORA

The smell of vanilla and cinnamon hangs heavy in the air as I wipe down the counter for the third time this morning.

The ovens hum in the back, cradling the muffins and pastries that are just about ready, and the front of the shop glows golden from the morning light slanting through the windows.

The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up without thinking, fully expecting Mrs. Harrow with her endless questions about gluten.

It’s not Mrs. Harrow.

It’shim.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. That Alpha who lives out past the pines in the cabin near the ridge. I’ve seen him once, maybe twice, from a distance—at town meetings mostly, never close enough to catch more than a silhouette.

But now, with the sun catching in his tousled dark hair and those sharp silver-gray eyes scanning the room, I suddenly forget what I was doing.

He’s dressed in a dark green thermal shirt stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath it, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms.

Fitted black jeans hang low on his hips, and he’s got on work boots, scuffed and real, not the kind worn for style. He carries the scent of cedar and the forest after rain.

And now he’s walking straight to the counter.

My knees tighten as I straighten. I should speak, but his voice finds me first.

“Hey, Cora.”

The way he says my name isn’t casual. It slides over my skin, deep and smooth, warm enough to reach the spot low in my belly. I smile before I can stop myself.

“Hey.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “What can I get for you?”

His eyes sweep the pastry case—empty at the moment—and then meet mine. He leans a little closer, and there’s that scent again, so good it’s dizzying.

“What do you have?” he asks.

“Right now? Some muffins. Banana walnut, blueberry, and a few cinnamon swirl scones. But they’re all still in the oven.”