Page 17 of Knotted By my Pack

His smile deepens as he tucks the wallet away. “Bye, Cora.”

The way he says my name. The gravel in his voice. The weight of it in the air sends a shiver down my spine.

I watch him walk out, tall and calm, boots heavy against the old wooden floor. As soon as the door closes behind him, I press my hands to the counter, trying to focus, trying not to moan.

My nipples are peaked under my bra, tight against the soft fabric. There’s an ache low in my belly, a quiet, hungry throb that makes me want to close the shop and drag him back in here. I bite the inside of my cheek and turn toward the espresso machine instead.

I need to get laid. Soon. Or this town’s Alphas are going to drive me completely insane.

The rest of the morning flows like it always does. Locals trickle in, tourists ask for croissants, and I sneak bites of the still-warm scones while pretending to be professional. I even manage to laugh with Mrs. Harwood, who tells me her cat has learned to open the fridge.

Everything’s fine. Untilhewalks in.

I spot him the second the bell rings.

He’s tall, maybe six feet, with black hair combed back neatly, the kind of face that makes women forget how to speak. He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit, tailored so perfectly it’s like it was sewn onto him. No one should look that good in a blazer, and yet here he is, moving across my bakery like he belongs here.

Julian fucking Vance.

He’s carrying a handful of rolled posters under one arm. My stomach turns before he even opens his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says with an easy smile. Even his voice is smooth—low and confident, the kind that’s meant to persuade. “Mind if I leave a few of these here?”

I cross my arms. “Actually, yes. I do mind.”

He stops in front of the counter, that smile dipping into something more curious. “You haven’t even seen what they are.”

“I don’t need to. I know what this is about.”

Julian sets the posters down and peels one open. A sleek image of modern condos and smiling families beams up from the glossy paper. “The development will bring jobs, increase tourism, give the town a needed boost?—”

“Save it.” I reach for the poster and slide it back toward him. “I already made my thoughts clear. I’m not interested.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you so against this?”

His scent reaches me as he leans closer—woodsmoke, layered with something richer, like aged bourbon and crushed violets. It’s sin in cologne form, and it pisses me off.

I grip the edge of the counter harder. “Because it’s not about the town. It’s about profit. You and your partners want to come in, build a bunch of luxury hotels no one here can afford, and then pat yourselves on the back for helping the ‘community.’ You’ll destroy what makes this place worth living in.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to. I know your type. Rich, out-of-town investors who think this town is just another blank space on a map to fill with overpriced shops and artificial charm.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the other one resting flat on the counter. “You should try being a little more... unbiased.”

“I’m a baker, not a reporter.”

“Still,” he murmurs, “a little open-mindedness wouldn’t hurt.”

I scoff. “Not interested.”

He leans in just a breath more, gaze intent. “I’ll be in town for a while, so I will be seeing more of you.”

“I doubt it.”

His mouth lifts into a half-smile, not amused, not quite playful. “We’ll see.”

And then he turns and walks out, posters under his arm, scent lingering in the air like temptation.