Page 35 of Knotted By my Pack

His words echo in my head as I look at him, the intensity in his eyes almost too much.

“You’d drive back if I called?”

“Cora, I would break every single traffic rule if you wanted me here. You know that.”

Fuck!I can’t help myself. The urge to kiss him rises up like a wave, and I have to fight it back, pushing the impulse down, locking it away.

His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, and for a moment, I think he’s going to do something about it.

But then he pulls away, leaving me aching for something I can’t quite name.

He’s quiet again, until we reach my driveway.

“Let me get you inside,” he says, his voice rougher than before. “It’s cold out here.”

I nod, reluctant to let go of his hand, but I do, allowing him to open the door for me. But as I step out, something inside me twists.

“Can you come in for coffee?” I ask, the words tasting like desperation even though I don’t know why.

He hesitates, glancing at the time before shaking his head. “It’s late. I’ve got to pack.”

“Okay,” I say, though it feels like a part of me is crumbling. I don’t want him to go. Not yet. Not when the space between us feels like it’s filled with something more than just friendship.

“Cora?”

I want to look up, but I cannot manage it. I simply whisper, “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Then he pulls me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me like he’s anchoring me to something solid.

His scent surrounds me, the familiar musk of wood and leather, and I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in.

He holds me for longer than I expect, and I don’t want it to end. When he finally pulls away, he brushes my cheek, his touch so gentle that it makes my chest ache in a way I can’t explain.

“I’ll be back,” he says again, with that finality that tells me I have to let him go.

I watch as he walks back to his truck, the familiar sound of his boots crunching on the gravel filling the silence.

He climbs into the cab, and before he drives off, he looks at me one last time.

I watch him drive away, the sadness creeping in, and I can’t stop the tears that threaten to spill.

It’s just a few days, I remind myself. Just a few days. But somehow, that doesn’t make it feel any easier.

11

ELIAS

Iwake up in a sweat, the remnants of a dream still clinging to me. It’s Cora, of course. She’s there, in the dream, her body close to mine, her breath warm against my skin.

And then, the dream shifts into flickering images of us—tangled sheets, soft moans, and me reaching for her, desperate to keep her close. But then, reality snaps me out of it.

Instead of Cora’s warm skin, I find the rough, wet tongue of my dog slapping my face.

“Goddamn it, Rusty,” I mutter, pushing the dog off me. His big brown eyes are wide, expectant. I rub my face with both hands, trying to rid myself of the dream that lingers.

“Alright, alright, I’m up.”