Page 148 of Knotted By my Pack

Then a car pulls up. Doors slam. Footsteps on gravel.

Jake walks into the clearing with a solemn look and a bottle of whiskey clutched like an olive branch.

“I heard the news,” he says. His eyes flick from the blackened wreckage to me, then to Cora and my packmates, then back. “I’m sorry it comes on a day like this, but I came to say it in person.”

He walks up and extends a hand. “Congratulations. You earned it. Every vote that put you here? You earned it with grit and a shovel.”

I shake his hand. It feels surreal. My palm is still smudged with soot. My nails are blackened. I haven’t even processed the win. It doesn’t feel like one.

“I appreciate you coming out,” I say.

Jake looks around again. His mouth flattens. “Hell of a thing,” he murmurs. “I saw the workshop on the way up. Someone’s scared of what you represent.”

“That’s not new,” Julian mutters.

Jake turns to him. “Don’t do anything reckless, Julian. People here still view you as an outsider, and although Noah won fair and square, I am sure Lockwood and his cronies are less than thrilled by how everything went down. We’re not handing them excuses or a reason to reinstate the bastard.”

“No,” I say. “We’re not.”

Jake nods once. Then, almost gently, he places the whiskey on a half-burned log. “For when the smoke clears. I’ll cover the press statement. You focus on rebuilding.”

I nod, jaw tight. He gives me one more look—some blend of pride and warning—and then heads back toward his car, disappearing like the smoke curling into the trees.

The victory tastes like ashes in my mouth.

40

ELIAS

We’re standing among the ashes when Julian steps toward me, jaw tight, eyes darting between the twisted mess that used to be my cabin and the last curls of smoke still bleeding into the trees.

Rusty leans into my side, soot streaked across his fur, his body vibrating with leftover adrenaline. I keep a hand on his scruff. It’s the only thing tethering me right now.

Thank god he’s alive.

“I need to say something,” Julian says.

His voice is flat, but there’s a break in it that makes me glance up.

“I know Lockwood’s got his hands all over this, but…” He exhales hard. “I think my father did it. Damien’s been hanging around the working site, asking questions. He hasn’t reached out to me. Hasn’t even looked at me.”

My chest pulls tight. Not just from the loss. From the betrayal layered into the air around us like smoke. Rusty whines low.

“I’m sorry,” Julian says. “If it was him, if he was part of it, I’ll handle it. I should’ve warned you. I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

Noah looks ready to rip something apart, but before he can speak, Cora cuts through the tension.

Her voice is soft but decisive. “We need to take Rusty to the vet. He’s limping. Once we know he’s okay, we’ll go home. We won. That matters. The rest can come after.”

I nod, jaw clenched. Home doesn’t mean much when the one you built is a smoking ruin, but her voice wraps around something aching and raw inside me. Rusty presses his nose to my hand. He’s alive. That’s enough for now.

We ride in silence again. The vet says minor burns. Smoke inhalation. He’ll be fine.

I hold him still while they patch him up, my head down so they don’t see whatever’s clawing its way across my face.

He was the only one inside when it started.

We don’t talk about that.