Page 40 of Knotted By my Pack

He shifts in his seat, starting the engine. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been working in a hot kitchen all day. Nothing a cold shower won’t fix.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, his sharp gaze never leaving my face. “You sure? You’re looking a little—” He stops, catching himself. “Never mind.”

I know he doesn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t believe myself. But I don’t want to talk about it, not with him.

I give him my pin location, and he starts driving. The roads are flooded, the water sloshing against the tires as he carefully navigates through the mess. That’s when it happens.

A truck barrels around a corner, swerving toward us with oblivious to where we’re standing.

I barely have time to gasp before Julian’s hand is on my chest, pushing me back against the seat.

His grip is firm, but not harsh, and the sudden pressure of his touch on me sends an electric shock through my body.

The truck passes, its tires skimming dangerously close to the car. My heart races—not from fear, but from the way his hand is still on me, branded into my skin like a hot iron.

When the danger’s over, Julian pulls his hand away, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed. I glance at him, breathless, my pulse still pounding in my throat.

The tension between us is thick, but I can’t quite place it. He doesn’t seem fazed, but I swear I saw something flicker in his eyes—something dark.

I swallow hard, trying to force my mind back under control.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

I nod, but my thoughts are scattered. “Yeah. Fine,” I say. The words don’t feel like they belong to me.

The rest of the drive is a blur. The rain pours down harder, and I focus on the steady sound of the windshield wipers, the rhythmic thud of the tires against the flooded roads.

We’re almost home when I break the silence. “I didn’t mean to intrude. With you and Elias, I mean,” I say, my voice softer now.

Julian glances over at me, his expression unreadable. “That was a family feud. You didn’t intrude. I shouldn’t have been rude to you, either.”

I nod, biting my lip. “I just didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You didn’t,” he says, his voice low.

The truck slows as we approach my house, and I feel a pang of disappointment I don’t want to acknowledge.

I tell myself it’s just because I’m tired, but there’s something else, something I don’t want to admit.

When the truck comes to a stop, I turn to him, about to say thanks, but his eyes are on me, and I freeze.

He reaches over, extending his hand to me. “Truce?” he asks, his gaze steady.

I take his hand, and when our fingers touch, there’s a jolt of electricity. His eyes lock with mine. I can see the pull, the tension, that invisible thread connecting us.

Before I can think, he leans in slightly, his eyes flickering down to my lips. My breath catches, suspended in the silence between us.

I should pull away. I should. But I don’t.

His breath is warm against my cheek, heavy with bourbon and cedar—intoxicating. The scent of him floods my senses, and suddenly he’s no longer the man I’ve argued with nearly every day since he got here. He’s something else—something dangerous, something I want.

Just as our lips are about to meet, he stops. Pulls back. And presses a soft kiss to my cheek.

“Goodnight, Cora,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel and sin.

I nod, dazed. But he doesn’t move away. His hand stays on my jaw, fingers sliding down, grazing my throat, stopping just above my collarbone.